"Not the first time I've seen something like this," Shepard replies, by way of comfort. She's not going to judge him, one way or another; nor does she venture an opinion. It's brutal, likely pointless, or if it isn't then it's to some point neither of them would likely choose, and in any case: there's no changing it, "I keep hoping it'll be the last."

Rain beating against the glass, blue shadows, grey light. The chair— the memory of Bucky scream muted around the mouthguard again. Shepard breathes, deliberately slow. He's not the only one who'd like to move on.

"I'm gonna make a guess here. Some kind of... human weapons project, right?"