"You're sulking," Shepard replies, and for herself simply hefts the deadweight that is her arm up onto the table. Chlank. It's nicely glazed with a delicate craquelure that would make it both appealing and fancy if it were, for example, a teapot, or a dinnerplate, and not an unsettlingly realistic dolls arm, "I'm doing fine."

Of course it's a threat, the way she says it. Sarcasm can be hostile, but this is a step farther than that, even. She doesn't want to talk about loss, but Sam's been convincing her to be a better person or some such bullshit, so here she is. On purpose. By choice.

Doesn't mean she likes it, just the same.

"I had a boyfriend. This bullshit, with people dying, coming back... kind of messes with you. Y'know?"