Chapter Text
Awashima taxes all the monitors straggled on Fushimi's desk with her steel gaze. As usual, they display variously angled shots of one Yataragasu Misaki of Homra doing flips on his skateboard as he roams the city streets.
It irks her still, such blatant disregard for a work code, however she allows it, seeing as Fushimi contributes more to Scepter4 than any other ten men under her command combined, and while Awashima has been called many things, petty-minded is not one of them.
A glint of LED light refracts in Fushimi's glasses as he cocks his head up to catch her gaze. There is nothing timid in his stance when he does that; there never is.
“You have something to say, say it.”
“Just that--”
A girl walks by the Red King's clansman on the screens and he promptly lands head-first in a municipal waste container.
“I never pegged you for a slapstick comedy fan,” is all Awashima says, no humor or infliction in her clear voice. She walks off, casual as you please, and Fushimi thinks there never will be a time when he would see this woman as anything other than what she truly is: the Blue King's sword.