"That's right," if she thinks that a scathing summary of exactly what sets him apart from the rest is going to humble him, she's dead wrong. "And if I'm all that, and you can keep up, what's that make you?"

She can be angry, all she wants. Bakugo's there with her, one ticking bomb to the next, and the two of them only seem to rile one another up. Asuka gets under his skin in ways he doesn't want to reflect on or unpack, the way he doesn't want to unpack the deaths among the hosts, the number of them who had fallen silent and deathly still. As Asuka picks up the tool, he moves to her side and pushes his hand down onto it, to slowly pin it back to the table. It's a ploy to catch her attention, as furious and hateful as it is.

"Don't kid yourself," he snaps, "for all this business about being in one another's minds, we sure as hell didn't see any of that coming." The murder-suicide. The hosts who fell. "We're not given foresight, Asuka. We can't rely on the symbiote's connection to tell us when someone's limping." He thinks of Gildor, in that moment. He thinks of Shiro. Of Rust. Then, finally. Of Asuka. " -- I don't like you, but I've got your back regardless."