At this, Shepard stares, and then smirks, a chuckle living silent in the back of her throat.

"Don't project your insecurities on me," She says, letting Lexa pull away, stepping back herself with hands spread. A gesture of helplessness in the face of circumstance. A placation, "I don't have a problem with killing people. I certainly don't have a problem with doing it from behind, or on purpose."

How many had died, because she had ordered it? Few enough. But how many had she killed? More than she could count in a lifetime. More dead by Shepard's hand than she'd ever seen alive.

"You wanna know about the lives I've taken? The way I fight? Because I'm not keeping any secrets here. I'm the fucking Butcher of Torfan," Her smirk is a smile with teeth and the taste of blood. Shepard's mind is not open, but her shields are dark waters, swirling deep with ink and other things, "That thing in your hand? It's easy to use. Children kill with it. By accident, as much as on purpose. Maybe I'm just trying to be sure that when you blow someone's head off, it's deliberate."