"'War' is pretty generous," Shepard sneers, watching him hunch in and feeling some sense of tenuous safety out of that. Stupid, of course, but hands in pockets was an explicit lack of threat— she can't help being human, "Maybe my standards are a little off, but I wouldn't call a few decades of border bandits and one covert bombing a war."

Wars have battles, and bloodshed. Wars have timelines and supply lines and lines drawn in the sand. Wars mean the destruction of cities and displacement of civilians— if they survive at all. Whatever bullshit is happening between these three stupid nations on this godforsaken planet in the back end of this nowhere part of the galaxy...

...A war ain't it.

"They're so full of shit," Shepard mutters watching a cluster of men, natives in the Free Cities uniform, go jogging by on their run. There is a conspicuous lack of eye contact, "Glad I'm not the only who threw a punch. But they'll feed and house you, at least— for a while. Could be worse."