"Nobody with sense wants a Reaper-level threat to arrive, and none of the people here are really ready to face that kind of persistent opposition," Shepard replies, rising to meet the idea with pleasure now that she's gotten started. He's alright, this Goro guy, he doesn't pretend that just because something isn't kind, it isn't possible. Or maybe it's that they both prefer to deal in actualities, not wishful thinking, "But just the threat, might be enough. It's easy to say, let's get rid of something, or let's not touch it, until you think it might be the difference between whether or not you get to see your next birthday."
She takes a long drink, then swirls her cup thoughtfully. It burns, and it's too sweet, and it's both at once— like the ugly, alcoholic aunt of pineapple. Shepard doesn't hate it, even if it's not really her usual style.
"Saying Thorne or Free Cities or Solvunn want anything as a whole is stupid. Regular people want what they're told to, and what everybody wants; they wanna sleep safe in their beds, they wanna see their kids grow up, they wanna eat, and know they get to keep all that going for as long as they live. The people in charge, as usual, are the problem," she takes another swig, smirking, and tips her head in the direction of Sam Wilson, who is currently speaking to someone in jovial tones, nodding and smiling, "...Politics. The head turns and the body follows. But if you can find the neck, and squeeze, you can turn things any direction you want."
There is a beat. Shepard frowns, vaguely, and regards the perpetually half-empty plastic cup. The Horizon is a hell of a drug, and not in the pleasant, literal sense.
"Turns out I retained more of that supply lines lecture from the academy than I thought. huh. ...Look, my point is that there's more of us than they can reasonably handle. And they are not ready for us to decide that we're done with them, full stop. Now if that's Captain Wilson's actual plan, that's interesting. But then again, he seems like too nice a guy to start burning churches and holding politicians at gunpoint."
no subject
She takes a long drink, then swirls her cup thoughtfully. It burns, and it's too sweet, and it's both at once— like the ugly, alcoholic aunt of pineapple. Shepard doesn't hate it, even if it's not really her usual style.
"Saying Thorne or Free Cities or Solvunn want anything as a whole is stupid. Regular people want what they're told to, and what everybody wants; they wanna sleep safe in their beds, they wanna see their kids grow up, they wanna eat, and know they get to keep all that going for as long as they live. The people in charge, as usual, are the problem," she takes another swig, smirking, and tips her head in the direction of Sam Wilson, who is currently speaking to someone in jovial tones, nodding and smiling, "...Politics. The head turns and the body follows. But if you can find the neck, and squeeze, you can turn things any direction you want."
There is a beat. Shepard frowns, vaguely, and regards the perpetually half-empty plastic cup. The Horizon is a hell of a drug, and not in the pleasant, literal sense.
"Turns out I retained more of that supply lines lecture from the academy than I thought. huh. ...Look, my point is that there's more of us than they can reasonably handle. And they are not ready for us to decide that we're done with them, full stop. Now if that's Captain Wilson's actual plan, that's interesting. But then again, he seems like too nice a guy to start burning churches and holding politicians at gunpoint."