She almost moves to step off, headed rapidly in— well in some direction. As bad as the situation is, it's almost like having a mission again. She isn't made for all this enforced inaction. But there's nowhere to go, as far as she's able, and he asks her to sit. Shepard can't say that it's not a sensible thing to offer, under the circumstances.

"...Sure." So she... sits. It takes a minute, awkwardly hesitating over what would be, in her world, a punishingly expensive antique, and then over the idea of carbon-ceramics plating and polished wood, but... It's not real wood. And it's not as if he couldn't fix it, after, if it even mattered, "I won't lie, it's pretty bad. They've got us cornered in a locked room, and there's seawater leaking in. They've killed anyone who didn't get out, and if it goes on for too much longer we'll be drowned. There's water, but not much food. And..."

There is a moment, an odd flicker. For a blink, just the space between one heartbeat and the next, Shepard changes. The immaculate, carefully-maintained facade of sleek armor and clean expression is replaced with something more haggard; a cut along the hairline, sallow-cheeked with starvation, bruises around her eyes deeper, more hollow. The armor seems to briefly hesitate over whether it wants to be the ragged remains of a Free Cities military uniform, before reverting. Shepard grimaces, not truly aware of the lapse, and continues speaking with barely a hesitation.

"...I honestly wasn't sure that the Horizon would work at all. But there are search parties coming. What kind of numbers are we talking?"