Roxie moves forward, reaching to cup Azula's chin between her fingers, twisting the girl's face to look into her eyes. Roxie's expression is dry and unreadable, ready to crack like old parchment at the slightest breeze. But there's something casually controlling about her—between her fingers she's holding Azula's head firmly enough to almost bruise, and something about her suggests that that's only the casual leading edge of what she can manage.

"...she is certainly an outlier," Roxie murmurs.