Work Text:
“Would you say you have a type, Susato-san?”
She thought of Haori, and the way she’d thrown that murderous reporter across the room during her own trial, back in Japan.
She thought of Gina, and how she used to point that stolen smoke gun at anyone who called her or her words into question.
Susato thought of Nikolina (though she remembered this a little less fondly) lashing out and shoving someone, to protect her own secret.
And she thought of how gentle, how tender they all were with her in contrast.
“No,” She shook her head. “I guess I don’t.”