Shepard stood at rest, easy in her formality, and breathed in the satisfying air of purpose that lingered among the nervous rebels. The energy was electric, subdued panic mixed with stubborn dread, and there was no denying that it was warranted. Just the same, this was a familiar feeling; the eve of battle, the precipice of a suicide mission.

It felt good. Like being alive again.

Her arms were crossed, knees straight, feet firm and spread wide. Her eyes were dry and clear under the bizarre dazzle-camo she'd sat still for. Shepard found she was grateful for the war-paint, practical concerns aside, the ritual of it had settled her own nerves. Now she was calm, regarding her team, such as it was, with clear vision and a firm, solemn countenance.

When her little section of the group, her impromptu strike team, had gathered around, she shifted her weight and cleared her throat. Showtime.

"This is it," it rang with confidence, and the easy assumption of command. She was born to do this, "I'm not going to make a big speech about honor or sacrifice; this is going to be rough, and some of us might not make it. But I promise you, if you remember your roles, and stick together, you can do this. We can. And together, we can all make a difference here. Any questions?"