Shepard might like an apology, but she doesn't need one. If the entire galaxy can stomp her down and then ask for help in the next breath, then why should any individual apologize? It's not like anyone ever did before.

Shepard sighs, eyes closed, and runs a hand through the hair at the back of her head. Her amp port is itchy, and she's tired. She's always tired. Suck it up, princess.

"It really isn't that complicated, from here. Just practice. Figure out how the weapon feels, the way it aims. Get the strength in your wrists, not that you'll need much work there," she flaps a hand in the direction of Lexa's more traditional weaponry, "You want advice, shoot it and keep shooting, let it overheat once, so you know the warning signs. Come back tomorrow, practice some more."

Inspiration struck; what would feel good, right now, what would feel really very good, is to blow something completely apart. Shepard looked toward the weapons locker, a speculative glance, and then cocked her head the other way, decision made.

"Tell you what, I'm gonna set up a rifle, do some long-range practice. You see about making consistent hits on the target, I'll show you how to clean that pistol, and we'll call it a day. Deal?"