So this is how she dies? Holding a plate of crab rangoon. XIII glances down, but even in the reflection of the brass those violet eyes follow her.

Her skin tingles. No, her entire body is throbbing, or buzzing, or who the fuck knows? It's like standing on the edge of a roof in the middle of a storm, waiting to see if Zeus will strike before she makes the choice to step off the edge and take the plunge into the chaos down below. Every breath is tinged with lightning. Her ears ring with the power of those rapid, rambling thoughts. And her hands are busy holding a meal cooked, expertly at that, for a joke she doesn't understand. 

XIII plucks a dumpling off the platter and brings it to her mouth. She sniffs it in hesitation, as though expecting it to unfold and explode into a new galaxy to crush the old one underneath it. Stupid. It's just fried dough. She crunches down on it in a burst of sudden violence. It explodes after all, but into some sort of hyper-sweet cream wrapped around bits of something even her tongue isn't certain if it's crab or some cobbled together imitation. Flakes of dough grind into her teeth with every bite, which keeps it from being nothing but mush and goop. No, not fancy, not in the slightest. But it's surprisingly nice, even set against the mastery of the Azura. She chews slowly, eyes never leaving Beautiful. The look on her face says she could be contemplating murder or hugs with equal probability.

"I... y-yeah. Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm glad too. I haven't... oh fuck it, forget it. I hate explaining things to you, it feels like wasting both of our time at once."

She snarls and pivots on her feet to tuck the rest of breakfast away in a plastic container and then bursts forward on powerful, prowling legs to keep pace with Beautiful. So she doesn't have to walk backwards anymore to keep her focus. Two dumplings are sacrificed to her mouth as taxes for the labor spent before she makes it. She frowns, but her tail flicks with obvious, stupid happiness. 

"Listen. If Beljani gives you any shit," she shakes her head and lets another thought drop to the ground unfinished, where she stomps on it with her heel, "Doesn't matter. Just tell me what you need. I'll... make your plan work. Whatever it is. I promise."

It's a confusing feeling, all these bands across her chest. Some are coming loose, and it's only in the absence of their pressure that she notices how much they'd been crushing her all this time. And as they pop free, new ones start squeezing her without her understanding why. All of this pressure. All of this relief. She'd commit treason for a glass of wine right now, if she didn't need her full focus for the mission. 

...She's about to break a promise to somebody. The thought forms a lump in her throat like a bit of that sweet cream that just won't swallow. Somebody, and she doesn't know who. No. She mustn't. She'll simply have to work harder, is all. Her life, her dreams, her... e-everything depends on her being perfect.

For once. Please.