"It's my job." She resumed walking. The distance between us expanded with every step. From behind, Misato Ayame looked exactly like what she'd always been to me: my coach, my captain, the person keeping me alive through pure competence and relentless standards.
Black compression gear hugged the athletic curve of her back and defined muscle of her shoulders. Her waist tapered to hips that moved with compact power.
She was a walking weapon system, someone who could split into six copies of herself and overwhelm any threat through numbers and violence.
She rounded the corner of Building C and disappeared from sight.
I stood on the path for a moment, replaying the conversation and trying to figure out why it felt like I'd missed something important. Misato had been insistent. Almost aggressive about coming along tonight. The security argument made sense on paper, but Misato was a tactician.
