[There's an internal squeeze as they mention another undoubtably terrible—for lack of a better term—dead end. Why they should have had to endure countless tragedies, in so many different and ridiculous shapes and forms, is frankly maddening. For a moment, there is an irresistible urge to reach out, ruffle Chara's hair—something, anything to show them that she's thinking of them, empathizing, reaching out to connect—but the touch would be for her benefit, not theirs.
But, if what Chara was saying before was true (and why wouldn't it be?), perhaps there was another way.
Shepard settles back into the cushions, closes her eyes—and thinks loudly. In shades of sky-blue empathy, warm orange care, a ring of peach-tinted protection, laced with something unnameable. Something that was, when drawn, heart-shaped.
It said, "You've really been through the wringer. I know what that's like. I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again."
It said, "You didn't deserve it then, and you don't deserve anything more now. You deserve every kindness."
It said, "I'll look out for you, as long as I'm alive to do so."
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But, if what Chara was saying before was true (and why wouldn't it be?), perhaps there was another way.
Shepard settles back into the cushions, closes her eyes—and thinks loudly. In shades of sky-blue empathy, warm orange care, a ring of peach-tinted protection, laced with something unnameable. Something that was, when drawn, heart-shaped.
It said, "You've really been through the wringer. I know what that's like. I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again."
It said, "You didn't deserve it then, and you don't deserve anything more now. You deserve every kindness."
It said, "I'll look out for you, as long as I'm alive to do so."
Something that was, when spoken, love.]