Shepard pauses in all the eyes of storms.
But she is obligated to keep moving. She’s a product, bought and paid for. There is no real choice but to ultimately serve a rival’s purpose.
She steals moments, though, stopping before she is told to, when she doesn’t need to, where only one sees, in an envelope of safety and quiet.
She stands in front of reproduced and never-real images, reflections of many terrible worlds. Minor moments of abstraction in a well of perfectly ordered disorder.
The images are tucked away in private residences vacated by disaster and terror, flickering projections on quiet stations, advertisements like hostile suns over the dark alleys of the Citadel's wards.
She stands in front of them like mirrors, the last one who can observe. She is still and is watched, implacable, a lone moment with all choices laid bare; they sum each other up. They look back from the end of the galaxy.