Shepard really didn't mind Traynor forgetting their lunch outing. It didn't surprise her to find Traynor had entered a game tournament to kill time, nor did it surprise her to hear that Traynor lasted longer than expected. Traynor often sold herself short, and lacked confidence. Shepard continued to look for ways to work on that. "Hey, if this is your thing, there's no better time than now—"

"Samantha," a sweet, condescending voice cut across (or, Shepard thought sourly, oozed across) her encouragement.

"Polgara," Traynor growled, glaring over Shepard's shoulder.

"Would you like to just give me your frigates now? I always take them, sooner or later," Polgara asked with a poisoned sweetness that made Shepard irrationally want to turn around and come out swinging.

"Old friends, I take it?" Shepard asked dryly, resisting the urge to curl her lip.

"Polgara T'Suzsa," Traynor answered sourly, giving her back to the owner of that name. She looked mutinous, as if she would like to punch someone. Shepard had to smile.

Still, the name rang a rather distant bell. T'Suza. T'Suza? Shepard felt sure, as she watched an unusually curvy asari slither up to them, she'd heard the name before. She just wasn't sure where…

T'Suza. That was the surname of the Rachni Queen's interpreter. If they were relations—assuming T'Suza wasn't the asari version of Smith—then it seemed all the niceness, to say nothing of courtesy and good manners, went into one branch of the family tree.

Polgara crossed her arms, fingers coming to rest delicately, her expression one of arch superiority, which started to get under Shepard's skin.

"She's knocked me out of four tournaments," Traynor grumbled, glumness starting to set in.

Well, time to put a stop to that. It wouldn't help, and this smacked of being Traynor's own private war. "And now you manage intel for a galactic war," Shepard noted firmly. "That's like mental gymnastics—months of it. Reach and flex together." She resisted the urge to smile at this, knowing the origins of the comment. "A real recipe for victory; works every time."

She could imagine Garrus sitting at one of the tables and giving her a fist pump no one would understand. Or maybe he'd signal that she was crazy. One of the two. She was sure he wouldn't approve of Polgara's bad attitude.

"You're right," Traynor took a deep if shaky breath and let it out again. "I've gotten a lot better since I came to the Normandy. Yeah." She took another deep breath and let it out again, less shakily.

"Hey," Shepard put a hand on Traynor's shoulder, giving her a gentle shake. "Don't let her psych you out. She's not really better than anyone else."

The last words carried, as intended, to Polgara, who pouted as if having her efforts exposed for what they were disappointed her. Knowing it was childish in the extreme (and knowing that most asari older than a human's lifespan thought of humans as children) Shepard waved her fingers at Polgara over Traynor's shoulder. Well, the woman wasn't better than anyone else, and Shepard didn't just mean it in the context of this game.

Traynor giggled, glancing at Polgara's dung-under-her-nose expression. "You're so bad," she whispered.

Shepard hoped Traynor's amusement at Polgara's expense found its mark. She doubted much would unsettle this asari, but prideful, rude people tended to be easy pickings for cheap digs, and she did not find herself above delivering them.

"I know. I'm awful," Shepard grinned. "Alright. Go get her, Specialist Traynor. And remember, the Normandy's a frigate so…don't lose the homeworld, I guess." Shepard shrugged, then crossed her arms and buttoned her lip.

The silence she assumed for the sake of propriety didn't stop her from grinning ingratiatingly at Polgara over Traynor's shoulder. Shepard was accustomed to people who wanted to get under her skin. They rarely saw the degree of success Polara currently enjoyed, which was one reason she hoped Traynor mopped the floor with the stupid woman. It would do everyone a big, fat favor. A little lesson in humility for the antagonist, a little gratification for her, and a confidence boost for Traynor.

And she felt sure Traynor could pull a win…if Tryanor could ignore Polgara's petty tactics. Thankfully, while she might be silent now, Shepard was under no obligation to remain that way. If Traynor couldn't psych Polgara back she, Shepard, would have to step in and do it for her.

Traynor nodded sharply, clamping her 'marine hat' firmly in place. "Roger that, Captain." She didn't salute, but there was a pause as if she meant to before she sat down at the table and both antagonists cued the program. Homeworlds and ships appeared over the playing table like constellations of stars—a vintage appearance for a vintage venue, Shepard thought idly. She rather liked the arcade on the Silver Sun Strip; it even had that nostalgic smell.

Shepard had to grin at Traynor's words. Traynor had taken to shipside life like a fish to water, whatever doubts about Traynor might have entertained. It had been good for her soul to watch the other woman's progress.

Not thirty seconds in, Traynor lost her first ship and gave a yelp of discomfort.

"Whoa!" Shepard jumped back from the table as, unexpectedly, Traynor's control panel popped and fizzled.

Shepard knew she was jumpy around the unexpected, that it was just combat nerves, something that wouldn't go away anytime soon. She even had her arm up to cue her omnitool as Traynor swore, indicating the shocks were expected.

Polgara, seeing Shepard's violent reaction, gave her a condescending look. "Neural feedback, Captain—nothing to be afraid of. It simply disincentivizes sacrificing pieces casually," the asari said sweetly.

Traynor winced, looking abashed as she took in Shepard's ready posture and the sheer speed of the reaction. "I'm sorry, Shepard—I forgot you wouldn't know."

"It's okay," Shepard shrugged, resuming her easy stance. And it was okay, though Traynor's expression suggested she didn't agree.