OK. Yeah. Sure, Shepard wound up teaching her a few things. When she still thought the time for learning had been shot in the back of the head and kicked out the airlock. Because lessons had one hell of a different meaning back then.
But here are just a few of the things Shepard didn’t have to teach her.
How to turn her fingers into fists.
How to grin harder than a punch.
How to bare her teeth like a dog. How to bark like a bitch.
And, somewhere between the scars, a way to change the meaning of being naked into wearing her own skin.
She doesn’t have any damn heroes. She’s got flesh, muscle. Blood, bones, biotics—and ink.
And a loose belt buckle. And a place to hook her thumbs. And the shape of her skull under the hard, buzzed back of her head. Brains. Boots. She’s full of hot pride and no promises and a fuckton of piss.
Not to mention this idea, pure and stained as it is. Teach a different way. Don’t fuck up a bunch of fucking kids. Back a few tough shits into corners not ‘cause you’re looking to pump up your own shadow. Nah. It’s ‘cause you’re looking to teach them how and when to fucking kick.