[Shepard's eyebrows go up and in and the furrow between them only deepens as Rogue continues-- a useless gesture, given the relative invisibility of her face. Of both their faces.]

Stop.

[One hand, palm outward. Stop. Please stop.]

It's fine, I'm not mad. I get pre-judged a lot, and I snapped; it's not your fault. So don't worry about it.

[She knows it doesn't have any relevance to Rogue's situation, but all she can think of is the urban POW camps, all those desperate people penned up in stadiums and apartment blocks, awaiting Reaper processing. Awaiting their deaths.]

I know what it's like to be on the losing side of a war.