The language of blood is one she knows well.
Crimson, blue, purple, orange, black, white, the whole fucking rainbow; she knows the colors and who bleeds what and where to shoot to really get the colors flowing. The vitals, the soft spots, the chinks in the armor, both figurative and literal: she knows them all. Her kills are macabre painting, a poem in the language of blood, colored by all the people who should have known better than to get in her way.
She knows the language of blood and its various scrawls across her hard suit. She knows the small drops from the mid range kills, and the larger drops from the idiots who got too close to her shot gun. She knows the blood that soaks her helmet and her front from the biotic charges that all but implode her targets. She knows the occasional slickness in her own suit, the way it slips from her seals. Those rare times when her blood screams out to tell her she's reaching her limits. But that's not the worst. The worst are the imprints. The blood that tells of another person held tight to her, sometimes the outline of a body over her shoulder or one her back, a hand on her front. The blood that speaks of a friend, a squad mate that could die on her watch. A close call of a team member later saved under Chakwas's care. Purple for Tali and Liara, red for Kaidan, Javik, and James, Blue for Garrus, black oil for EDI. Those are the hardest to wash off, the hardest to detach from. Those are the times she knows she's failed.
She knows the language of blood and how it speaks inside her. She knows heart pounding adrenaline, the feeling of being so real, so alive in the midst of an intense firefight. She knows the flush of skin in dim light; the feeling of her lover's fingers brushing against her, the feeling of being complete, of being one, of being at peace. And she knows the rush of cold, the feeling like her blood has stopped moving altogether. The heart-stopping, shame-soaked terror that comes when she's back there again. When she's hiding from slavers on Mindoir. When she's trying not to be eaten by thresher maws on Akuze. When she's suffocating over Alchera. The way her blood freezes when she remembers how for two years it didn't flow. And how easy it could stop again.
The language of blood is one she knows well.