Shepard lurches forward, flopping gracelessly from the comfort of her bed, leaving her legs tangled in the sheets and her upper half intimate with the carpet.

"That does it," she mutters into the cold fibers.

"Dswht?" Replies a sleepy voice, completely unhindered by the harsh movement of the ship.

"EDI's fired." Shepard props herself upright and stares jealously at the figure of the pilot, completely cushioned from the impact by a nest of stolen pillows and comforters.

One large green eye pops open to study her, but the rest of him remains facedown and motionless amidst the bliss. "Frwht?"

She gestures toward the display case at the other end of her cabin. "For crashing my fleet. Again."

He snorts.

"I'm tired of picking through shipwrecks." She bemoans, crawling back into bed and nuzzling her chin against his neck. "If she does it again, you're back to your pod."

"You go sleep in a pod. I have needs."

"You have needs? I need a pilot that actually pilots. You know, that part where you sit at the helm and steer the ship without the AI doing all the work for you..."

He's silent for a moment, considering - or asleep; she can't tell. "I'll work on it."

"Good."

...

In the morning, she studies her messages at her private terminal and cups her thin hands around a steaming mug of coffee. She stares up, idly, at her display case and a frown creases her eyebrows.

A yellow post-it simply states "problem solved." All of her models have been redecorated with tiny stick-figure pilots at their respective helms.

She really can't say she's all that surprised.