Shepard can dance. Maybe it's stiff at first, all left feet and no coordination. She's never had the opportunity to just let loose, be free. There's always someone watching. She dances when she fights, the feel of a rifle beneath her fingers is the heaven she can't find on the dance floor, and she loses herself in it. She aims for the head, the vital organs, aims to incapacitate or kill. She slows her breathing, places a shot with adrenaline rushing through her veins.

Sex is almost the same to her, but it's not right. There are constraints to it, another pair of eyes watching. It's why she makes her way down to Jack in the dark, pretends she can count her tattoos when her eyes are closed, doesn't care about the tears in her skin or the bites on her neck. Chakwas is the only one to bring attention to it. It reminds Shepard of the mother she didn't have, that stern disapproval. Maybe it's why she's attracted to her too, but she doesn't say anything. She knows she's being watched either by her crew or the for now benevolent eyes of EDI. She remembers how Morinth made her feel before she sacrificed her, the deciding variable in who lived or died. She dreamt about it, watched the life drain from Samara's eyes, watched Morinth die by her mother's hand. Was it so wrong to want something? To need something at the bereft of all else?

Maybe. All she knew how to do was shoot, and so that was what she did.