Knowing exactly what the ’modest present’ he’d received before his battle against the Fusion spy signified, what Shun thought in immediate reaction wasn’t hard to summarize: That Akaba could take his so-called 'concerns’ and shove them up his ass.
He was just about to point out how hypocritical and uncalled for his 'assessment’ was when he was handed a document and it was clear Akaba had no intention to stop running his mouth anytime soon.
With every word to pass his lips, Shun’s expression darkened, bile rising in his throat at the sheer disgust he felt, and by the time Akaba finally closed his mouth for good, his hands had balled into white-knuckled fists. He had spent years on the battlefield, wrestling victories from the enemy’s grip in a losing war one by one, none of which would’ve even been remotely possible, had he not mastered the ability to keep his body from failing no matter what. And Akaba had the nerve to paint him as a liability and practically claim ownership over him?!
Had his anger been in control of his actions, he would’ve lashed out, driven his fist into Akaba’s gut and gloated at the sight of the contents of his stomach spilling all over his oh-so pristine attire. However, Kurosaki Shun was anything but an instinct-driven animal, and no matter how it flared and rampaged within him, it was Shun who had honed and sharpened it into the deadliest of weapon, one he’d never lose his grip on.
Slowly, he rose from his chair, his movements those of a hunter as he circled the table and stepped behind Akaba’s chair.
“What about you, Akaba? Are your reflexes sharp enough? Do you have enough stamina to last through battles outside your comfort zone? Your body is toned, sure. But did you build up those muscles for that sake alone or can you actually fight and survive with them? Don’t even bother trying to distract from the fact that it’s your skills that aren’t up to par for a war.”
He’d defeated enough of Akaba’s lackeys to know how pathetically low his standards were, that he was too sheltered to know that a war couldn’t be won with pretty theories alone when at times, only a single additional factor was enough to render them useless in their entirety.
Leaning forward and taking a firm hold of Akaba’s shoulders, he hissed, enunciating each and every syllable, “I never agreed to become your subordinate, Akaba. You don’t order me around. You don’t decide on my behalf. And most importantly, you don’t treat me as your property. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
"Treating you as property?” Reiji frowns, refusing to be intimidated by Kurosaki’s hold on his shoulders. They’re surrounded by guards after all, Kurosaki couldn’t get far. “That’s not what this is, Kurosaki Shun. This is the proper response to someone who’s been unable to take proper care of their body for a long stretch of time. Would you erase what happened and say that it was nothing? All those battles you speak of?”
To Reiji, these are more or less the same, but if he has to pretty it up to get Shun to do what he wants, he’ll do it. It’s not the first time he’s had to do that, soothe egos for the best interest of all their worlds. “You can work with the doctor to plan your own regimen if you want to, but I thought you would rather not bother with it.”
Reiji thinks, frankly, that Kurosaki’s attitude is insulting, even if he does make a point about the preparedness of Standard for an out-and-out war, but there’s only so much he can do about it so quickly. He makes a mental note to begin Kurosaki on team training with the other potential Lancers. Perhaps he’ll eventually make a friend or two, which would be good for morale and getting Kurosaki to stop protesting so hard. Reiji isn’t comfortable having so little to leverage with him. He does admit that Kurosaki is right when he says he has almost nothing left.
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