"Maybe. I only heard about it once from my superiors, though. Guess by round two, there were bigger fish to fry than some supposedly dead ex-Spectre," The label pulls free, tearing off in a long, narrow strip around the top, curling like an orange-peel, "Same bullshit as here, though. Just a bigger audience. Then came Aratoht, and... well, you know the rest."

And, she suddenly realized, that he did. Joel knew. Joel had been there, last year, when they'd put up her worst crimes against sentient life for everyone to see. Joel had been the one to not care, to show up and offer her a coffee and a shoulder to stand beside. Shepard's smile wasn't for the impromptu taper in her hands; she dropped it, and it lit like a flare when it hit the forcefield, floating away on its own convection currents, fizzling, too light even to bounce.

"Sorry. About the bottle. It's not exactly my proudest... year."