Shepard wasn't Jack, didn't have that propensity for sheer spectacle, and nor was she Thane, or even Garrus, both of whom could turn oddly poetic in the moment, when emotion or necessity called for it. Usually, it was a rare pleasure, to watch a skilled assassin at work; a weapon that could be turned to justice, or honor, when wielded for a noble purpose. But, that wasn't Shepard's skill.

"...Aziraphale, you've mentioned them a couple times, now," Shepard settled back in, now a sour lump rather than leonine in her acceptance. Her mind was churning, "Friend of yours? And don't think I haven't noticed you not giving your name."

What it was with her was, she was efficient. A weapon of war, which had only the purpose of ending as many lives as was needed, achieving her purposes as quickly and unceremoniously as was possible.

It had given her many successes. But she had thought she was finally done with all of that.