Scene: 2183. Aria muses on Nyreen's recent departure from Omega.
Nyreen wanted to be like Aria. That much had been obvious. But she couldn't. The turian didn't have it in her, whatever "it" was—she did have a strong moral center, and that was enough for Omega to reject her, in time. The young little thing had brought (and relentlessly kept) that obnoxious sense of right and wrong with her from those wasted years in the military—and if Aria had to guess, from her childhood as well. She'd always been such an insufferable, bleeding heart for the downtrodden and disenfranchised. Still is, wherever she's disappeared to now.
Goddess knows how Nyreen tried though, to walk like Aria, to talk like Aria, to think like Aria. It was a role she'd have been ill-suited for in spite of the personal training (and grooming) she had received from the queen herself. The persona Aria would see her sometimes adopt in front of an audience—head cocked back, eyes haughty, those talons curling and uncurling in mock-perpetual threat—was attractive (imitation's the sincerest form of flattery, after all), but fit her like a misshapen coat: like trying on asari clothing on a turian form. Which had been exactly what she was doing. The attempts were endearing, but laughable.
"What do you see in me?" Nyreen had once asked.
They were having a rare, quiet night in, and she wasn't in the mood for heavy conversation so in response, Aria had pushed her against the kitchen counter, flipping Nyreen's tunic over to slide her hands up those thighs she liked so much. "My fingers," Aria had said matter-of-factly, and that shut the other woman up for a while. Perhaps her question had contained another meaning she didn't bother parsing or addressing.
"Just you, Nyreen," Aria would answer now, "That's all I've ever seen."