abraxaslogs | First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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First Count The Cost ★ Closed

Who: Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian
When: July/August
Where: Free Cities Badlands
What: Free Cities Quest: Restoring Foundations
Warnings: foul language, violence

She wasn't much given to jingoistic sentiment, these days.

Oh, as a child, she'd been as xenophobic as anyone, and well into her time in the Alliance that attitude has persevered. Shepard had been a reliable vote for the Terra Firma party right up until— Ha, it was funny to think of it now, but it hadn't been until she'd met Garrus. Not the first time she'd met him, of course; the second time. Coming up the stairs out from a shoot-out in a medical clinic, still smelling of Eezo and with a Turian's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head, she'd seen them campaigning in the commons and reevaluated a few things. Never let it be said she isn't a fast learner, nor willing to change her mind, when she's wrong.

Just like that day, those bought men waving guns at doctors, Shepard is on this day forced to admit that really it's her own damn species that's at the root of most of her problems.

"Bandits," Shepard sighs, trudging along. The sun is a high and heavy weight on her shoulders, not unlike the pack on her back; it's N-1 all over again, right down to the forced marches and rationing. Except she hadn't had to wear a stupid straw hat to keep off the heat stroke, during basic, "It's always bandits. And mercs. And slavers. You think they ever get tired of making people hate them for a living?"

Hate might be a strong word, for the mercs. At least they could argue to be offering an honest service, outside of council space. Sort of. Murder was still illegal, even on Noveria... Right?

"Garrus, you still with me?"

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"Always."

It's hot out here, but not as hot as a summer day where he grew up. The heat feels great on his scales. He's not wearing the same protection she is. He doesn't need it. Honestly, he'd be practically basking if it weren't for the mission. Instead, he's right behind her.

"You forgot pirates," he adds, with more cheer than she probably feels after a march through the Badlands. It's kind of funny - the role reversal. She probably sounds like he does every time they have to slog through any amount of snow or chill. Then, he shakes his head. "No matter the gang, they don't give a damn about anyone but themselves."

Another beat, as he negotiates a rocky bit of the path. "And profit."

"And profit," She agrees with a grunt. The path is stony and steep, alternately too-open, in others surrounded by gullies and boulders; Shepard has no doubt that if it rained, it'd be worse.

Not that it rains much, in the badlands.

"You have to wonder what the point is, though," She says. There's sweat in her eyes, itching, and she pauses to wipe it out, "You can't start a life like that; raise a family, build anything that'll last. This isn't the Terminus, you can't just run off to Omega and pretend you're legit just because Aria doesn't give a damn."

Unless there's some kind of miniature Omega out here in the desert somewhere. It didn't really seem possible, there weren't even a million people in all of the Free Cities combined. Sure, there were money-launderers and pawnbrokers and the rest of the trash of the underworld, always would be. But... still. Was that a society worth having?

"...Not that I can talk."

"I don't think there's a point beyond 'get as rich as possible'," he admits. "And as powerful as possible, so nobody then takes your stuff."

That's how it usually works. There's not much point otherwise. The merc bands, pirates, gangs, none of them really looked beyond their next score. Beyond being the biggest, baddest guy in the area. That's what mattered to them. Not anything lasting. Not a family.

"From what I've seen, they don't care about the same kind of things most people do." And, based on what he's seen, he's going to enjoy flexing some of these new "biotic" skills against this particular garbage. He tilts his head, though, watching her for a second.

"What do you mean? Not that you can talk? You don't mean... when you were a kid, right?"

That doesn't make sense to him.

He sounds so genuinely puzzled, that she has to turn and squint back at him for a minute, to see if he's joking or not. She's been trying not to look at him, really— he's so obviously not struggling with the sun, and the heat, and the terrain... This place could mitigate the least convenient aspects of Turian biology, but evidently did nothing about the radiation resistance. Jealousy was unbecoming.

Still, Garrus is so honestly confused that she takes one look and laughs.

"You know, I forget sometimes," A pause for breath, and to put her hands on her hips. Shepard hefts the weight of her pack into a more acceptable position, to cover for the pause, "...That we're coming at this so different."

He was, by her standards, a rich boy and the son of the same, born into a family with property and propriety both. High-placed enough that daddy could get him a job he clearly wasn't fit for, and a family name that could smooth over any number of otherwise firing offenses.

"Turians got mandatory service, right? Humans are all volunteers. And people like me... I didn't care whether I lived or died, I just wanted to get off Tenth Street," She can't help the little wave of a hand, dismissive, teasing, as if to say well what do you expect? Shepard finds the whole thing funny, "Hell Garrus, as far as the official record is concerned, I went AWOL for two years, then turned up doing work for a terrorist organization, picking up career criminals and vigilante killers for a suicide mission. Anderson's good word is the only reason I didn't spent the time between Aratoht and coming here in some kind of Batarian gulag."

She shrugs, still grinning, and hefts the pack again, turning back to the dusty road. A pebble skitters away as she does, kicked by an unwary step. She kicks it again, further down the road, and it raises dust as it rolls. There's probably a metaphor in that.

"I'm really the last person who should be complaining about people being poor and stupid, and having no plan."

"But... you didn't turn into a pirate, a slaver. You didn't start robbing people and murdering anyone you ran into, just to get ahead."

That's the sticking point, far as he's concerned. Maybe he is too turian to really understand, for all his protests about being terrible at being one of his own kind. She could have kept up with the gang, could have stuck around with them. She didn't have to volunteer. That was the whole point of being a volunteer. Wasn't it?

Sure, she's smiling, she's... trying to tease. But he just doesn't get it. He takes a couple long strides to catch up, walking alongside now.

"You didn't do any of that for your own sake, Shepard. Not the Collectors, not picking up washed up vigilantes, not even Aratoht."

He says that with the same decisiveness he might have said he could take a shot. Or he hated the snow. Like it's an immutable fact. And maybe, in his perspective, it is. Shepard hasn't done one damn thing for herself. No pirate in their right mind would be as damn selfless as she ever was.

She turns to meet his eye when he comes abreast, and a dozen protests rise up in response. She'd done quite a bit of robbing people, in the last year, actually. Dead people and Cerberus, or worse, but that didn't make it not theft. And it wasn't as if it all was completely altruistic; she liked being in charge, enjoyed buying big guns and having expensive equipment. Normandy itself was a hell of a perk, and...

...And he was so damned sure, that she couldn't really say a thing against it. How many times in her life had she depended utterly on Garrus' confidence in her earpiece, no matter how absurd his called shot? The fondness is an expanding pressure, fierce and bright behind her sternum.

After a few steps of thoughtful, trudging silence, she says only, "I love you too."

His expression is very, very direct. Absolutely no hint of any kind of indecision, second thoughts. None. Shepard did what she had to. She sacrificed what she had to. The kind of people they were out here to stop didn't have those kinds of convictions. He wouldn't be following her, multiple times, into hell, if she were anything like those people.

Frankly, he's about to start up again, listing out more selfless acts. More times she'd gone above and beyond.

"... Uh." That sort of knocked the wind out of those sails. "You too?"

"C'mon, you're biased," She laughs, swerving to nudge him with an elbow. Keep up with her here, Vakarian, "You're not wrong, though. Most of it, the big stuff..."

Yeah, there wasn't exactly a way to spin Aratoht, or Ilos, or most of what she did as being about anything but the stated goal: complete the mission, save the colonists, the citadel, the galaxy. There were perks to being a hero, but as far as profit-motive went, it was a shitshow.

"...But I'm not perfect, Garrus. You do know that, right?"

"I am not biased. I'm objective."

It's muttered under his breath - much as a turian can. He kicks a rock with a flick of one taloned toe. Vengefully. Stupid rock. And he's right. Objective and correct, as far as he sees it.

"Of course I do." He makes a weaving motion with his head, a swagger without altering his steps on the path. "If you were perfect, you'd be a better dancer."

He does know what she means, though. And the dance comment is his tacit agreement - poking fun at something simple, something that doesn't actually affect anyone else but observers.

"Low blow," Shepard scoffs, without malice. She's used to people maligning her moves, "Notice you didn't have any complaints about being seen dancing with me in public before..."

She trails off, seeing two men step out from behind a boulder, just ahead. They've already got their swords in their hands, steel bared; it's difficult to see more of them, with the waning sunset at their backs. The scuff of boots pulls her to a stop, looking behind and— yep. They're surrounded.

"Contact," she says, grimly, "I miss combat ladar."

'Now, ain't this sweet, just a girl and her pet,' calls a voice from behind them. A bandit with a thick, ugly moustache stands there between a pair of men, dressed slightly finer than his friends, with a curved and well-notched blade, 'Put down the bags nice and slow, and step away, and then we'll kill you.'

"Don't you mean or?" Shepard's already in a sarcastic mood, even as she slides the pack down to the ground— slowly, yes, but not for the bandit's benefit. There's important stuff in there, and it's heavy as hell.

'Sure,' He says easily, which elicits a chorus of sniggers all around, 'We can let you live. For a while. It's more fun that way, I won't deny.'

"Charming."

This is just as funny, apparently, and the tightening ring of filthy, grinning men surrounding them seem to consider their lack of any particular fear to be a sign of weakness, rather than the opposite. Privately, Shepard concedes the argument about altruism and banditry to Garrus, and acknowledges his victory in the glance she throws him as she cracks her neck. Yeah, yeah, you're right; she's got absolutely nothing in common with these dregs of humanity. Time to go to work.

Pet, huh? Garrus will remember that.

He mimics Shepard readily enough. Slowly, steadily. He doesn't take his eye off one of the bandits in particular, catching the glance Shepard throws way with a quiet hum. It's not loud enough for their circling friends to hear, not something they'd be listening for, either.

The one nearest to him has what looks like a whip, rather than a blade. All right. That should work. The weird quasi-biotic barrier he's worked on should be good enough to hold off a strike with that. He doesn't see any ranged weapons in anyone's hands. And those things take longer than a firearm to set up and set off. He could probably take Whip out while he's carefully setting his pack down, crouching while he does it.

Grab the weapon when Whip goes down. Should be enough to put some distance between them and their new friends for a minute. Lots of loose rock and sand here too. Dirty fighting - throw it in their faces. He trusts Shepard to be able to Pull or Lift as she needs to. He's not quite there yet.

But he's got reach.

"Guess we're dancing," he drawls.

About half a second before his weight shifts forward, like he's setting the pack down all the way - and instead lashes out at Whip's kneecap with a savage kick. There's a wet crackle, the man screams, and his weapon falls from agonized fingers as he drops.

In vids, fights always involve the kind of flourishes and boasting that make things exciting to watch, but the violence Garrus deals out is much more practical. Not a wasted movement, not a breath of hesitation: he decides what's going to happen, and then he does it. It's satisfying, the brutal, efficient way he works.

His target goes down like a yelping dog.

Shepard punches the air, not in victory, but the proscribed motion of a neural mnemonic, and in answer a gravity-well abruptly yanks the blades out of the hands of the two bandits nearest her. They stumble forward, shifted from confidence to uncertainty, into the abrupt realization of danger right before it encounters them. One-two, rabbit-fast jabs, nothing like regulation boxing— they go down clutching their caved-in throats, choking in the dust and collapsed airways.

"And they say I can't dance," Shepard side-steps the mess, arms up in a guard. Three down, three to go, including the ringleader, "C'mon, tough guy. I'm not even breaking a sweat."

He's already swinging, and the blade catches on her barrier as Shepard raises her guard to counter, forearm wreathed in dark energy, a biotically-amplified punch turned to defense. Then they're in the thick of it, trading blocks, Shepard pushing him back, trusting Garrus to deal with the last of the goons while she tries to find an opening to put a period on this little duel.

He fights like he does everything. Quick, sharp. Maximum effect - plan the motion, execute, have a fall back plan. In this case, it's the whip. And the handful of grit he'd scooped up while he was down there. One turn, and he's flung it into the face of the next goon incoming.

With a little glitter of blue-black energy with it. It's not quite a shot, but with the added biotic boost, the shower of gravel goes right for the eyes. It allows him to focus on one goon, then. Striking first with the whip to tangle up the man's sword arm, then follow with his elbow to the sternum. It'd hurt on anyone. But the bony, plated elbow of a turian taller and heavier than the bandit?

Crunch.

He doesn't stop, either. The other bandit is still howling over the pebbles and grit in his eyes, while Garrus keeps going. Headbutt. One foot stomping down on each of the man's. And in a final insult to injury, a rake of talons across the face.

The blinded bandit ends up with his hand snapped behind his back, twisting hard against the way a human arm is supposed to bend. More bones crackle, popping. The man's weapon falls to the ground, and he drops, curling in on his useless arm, howling, whimpering. That's two down, and now he's armed with a blade.

Armed and stepping up to Shepard's back.

"Pet reporting for duty."

He steps up just in time for Shepard to find that opening with her fist, laying out the petty leader of this little group with a punch that snaps his head back theatrically. If he isn't concussed, then he might as well be: he isn't getting up again anytime soon; none of them are. Couldn't have planned it better if they'd tried.

"Good boy," She teases, flush with easy victory— or maybe that's just the heat of the day. She's lost her hat, in the melee, "Not to bad for a warm-up."

Shepard regards the field of groaning, pained bodies. It's unprofessional as hell, how badly she wants to kiss him right now. Definitely not the done thing. Tactically unwise, at the very least.

"What do you think, paid mercs, small timers with a bigger backing— what, just random idiots? Only one who's going to walk away from this alive is skippy over there—" She indicates the bandit with the fractured shoulder, still trying in vain to clear his vision, "You do good work, Ar— Garrus."

She winces, both at the stumble, and the way it spoils the moment. She still remembers when that name, teasing moniker that it had become between them, had been all she knew of his name. Archangel. She likes Omega's Archangel, unapologetically. Abraxas' Archangel is... a more complex memory.

He would preen if he weren't still standing on the battlefield (so to speak). Honestly, there's a fierce sort of pride, of warmth, when she says "good boy". Embarrassingly enough. Not that it's something that needs to be discussed until later. When everything is wrapped up. "This is what we have to do for a warm-up anymore... What's the world coming to?"

Right, moving on.

Hunkering down, he picks up the whip again, and steps over to the conscious bandit. The others won't be moving any time soon, but this one might. It's not the best option, but it's what they have. So ... he sets about tying the guy up with it.

And if his hands freeze when she trips over his name, this way, neither of them have to pay attention. Archangel. He'd have to be an idiot not to read between those lines. It would be so much easier to attribute the slip to Omega. To his poorly done stint as a hero. But he can't. Not anymore. He clears his throat, forcing his voice, the echoes of it, to stay calm.

"I say we ask our new pet," he says instead. Purposefully drawing out the last word. And then roughly jerking the man to his feet. "Think he'd be willing to chat?"

"Only one way to find out," She replies, falling back on old patterns, gratefully, "You want to do the honors? Y'know I don't have any patience for this game."

It's true: whenever someone tells her, swearing vehemently, that they'll never talk, she has a tendency to take them at their word. Why waste time arguing with a dead man anyways? She does understand why, intellectually, it's just... It really is just impatience, in the end. Shepard hates being given the runaround more than she hates almost anything that isn't a Reaper.

"I ever tell you about Elias Kelham? Kind of a scumbag, had some information Thane wanted. Beat him unconscious, told his lawyer he could file his complaints at the SPECTRE office," Which wasn't true, really; she'd simply blacked an eye, and pointed out her legal status. White collar criminals are easy to intimidate... but she isn't saying it to inform Garrus, of course. This is all for their audience's benefit, "Not my most impressive display."

Good cop, bad cop. Oldest trick in the book.

"I suppose..."

There's that drawl in his voice. That casual roll of his shoulders. Part of him wants to be mildly put out she gets to be the bad cop, here. He's so much better at that. As much as he's managed to rein in his impulsive streaks, it's still easier to threaten people. Especially when you've just broken their bones already!

But none of that shows. The man is already whimpering, looking at Shepard like she'll break his skull open if he breathes wrong. He shakes his head, sighing, like he regrets all this.

"Listen, what can it hurt to work with us? You saw what she can do. Imagine, then, if you really pissed her off..." The man gasps, eyes darting between them. Garrus drops a hand on the man's good shoulder. Talons right in eyeline. "I don't think your boss is making it out of here, to be honest with you."

A squeeze. "Come on now. Answer the Commander's questions."

Shepard, idly toeing the unconscious man, gives him a swift kick in response to Garrus' conjecture. He doesn't even groan, just flops over limply, well and truly out, and— well, if he hadn't been badly concussed before, he was now. The sound it makes is... illustrative.

"He isn't," she opines, bluntly, and with a relish that isn't wholly feigned, "So who do you work for?"

'N... nobody, we's just looking for easy money.'

"Oh come on, half a dozen guys, out in the badlands, just... waiting for somebody to come through? You're joking."

'No really, we—'

"Who's even coming through here, aside from soldiers and summoned? We're carrying medical resupply, not money."

The man stills, breathing faster, panic coming up in him in visible spurts of fear. Shepard steps closer, grit crunching under her boots.

"How about you try honesty, tough guy, or maybe we'll see how many bones you can break, before you die."

'I... I... w-we... You ain't soldiers. You're Summoned. You got them freaky magics.'

"Lucky you, we're both." The silence shut its jaws around the man's throat, and he swallowed, and panted, looking for any way out, "Talk, or we're done here."

'There's a camp! We got a camp, we... The Boss, she said we do this patrol, we get paid.'

Shepard considered this intelligence with due consideration, tipping her head towards Garrus in a mute question. Was he telling the truth? If so, the bandit problem was going to be worse than they'd hoped; a bunch of small groups of idiots were trouble enough. If they were coordinating...

Well, it'd be good enough to file a mission report, anyways.

"Hmm. What do you think, Garrus?"

"See? No one to hear you. Just us."

It's actually kind of funny, when she kicks the bandit. Watching him just flop over like that is comedic, no matter who you are. No matter the situation. But he holds it back. Bites his tongue, so to speak.

For every line she speaks, Garrus' grip tightens. His talons, left untrimmed anymore, dig slightly into the man's shoulder. He's not very good at the whole good cop thing, after all. And when the realization hits, he also can't help the little flicker of blue over his scales. He knows that's probably not the best idea - he's not as in control as someone like Shepard is. On the other hand, he's had the most experience so far with a general barrier.

And that's all the little flare is. Nothing more.

"I think... we'd be really satisfied if we heard a location." A roll of his shoulders as he says it. A flex of fingers. "That way, we'd know if he was really telling the truth."

It's not fool-proof. Without things like scanners here, getting exact directions might be the best they can do. If someone stammers out something, they're probably making it up as they go, as opposed to rattling off a location. And without radios, there's no way this guy could warn the rest of them.

"Better hurry. We're running out of patience."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure the two guys I put down earlier are done breathin'. Big guy back there's not going to be able to find his ass with both hands and a map, your friend bringing up the rear's got a compound fracture. He's bleeding to death as we speak, and you..."

The man's face was a mask of tears and blood, his eyes still swollen and phlegmy from Garrus' bioticaly-assisted projectiles. He blinked up at them fitfully, as if hoping by some miracle that they'd buy the look on his face for a glare, and his defiance for anything worth respecting. Garrus; talons tightened, and his eyes rolled, whites pinkly visible at the alarum when he sees the spark of blue. Shepard sees it too, but makes no indication— it takes a lot of discipline not to flare your corona when emotions run high, and even experienced biotics don't usually see the point in trying.

"...You're the last man standing," she says, folding her arms and stepping back. Ease off the pressure, let him enough rope to hang himself by, "Now you have a choice here. You can tell us how to get you home, or you can resign yourself to making a home right here in the dirt."

Shepard gestures expansively at the badlands vista, soil beaten stone-hard by the merciless sun, scrubby plants and the occasional cactus, each stone casting it's own miserly shadow. This was the final resting place for many an unwary traveler, no less because of this man and his compatriots than because of the elements, and the wildlife.

'North,' He blurts, suddenly, and Shepard frowns, 'North. You go north a day's walk, there's a old river-bed, all dried up, right? Got a rock like a bridge going over it, that's where we meet up, that's all.'

"Nearer the Singularity?"

'N-nobody goes that way. Less patrols, less to worry about," the man explains, leaning slightly forward against the pressure of Garrus' hands, in his eagerness to be believed, 'Don't need no town, just a meeting place.'

"Is that so?"

'I don't know nothin' more! I ain't in charge!'

Which was, undeniably, true. Shepard gave the confession a moment's thought, considered the horizon, and the Sun's height above it. They had a ways yet to go today, before they could make camp, and at this rate they'd still be on the march after dark. The last thing either of them needed was to have to post a watch in case this jackass or one of hid friends came sniffing around, looking for revenge.

"Alright, let's say I believe you. There's a secret outlaw meeting-spot a day's march north of here."

'Then... you're going to let me go?'

"You know what, I just might," She said, which was true. For about a hundred meters, at least.

"Bleeding to death might be an exaggeration."

It's not. But this guy doesn't need to know that. Bluffing is useful! Especially when you don't have human facial features to give you away. Even so, he doesn't loosen his hold. Not even a fraction, when the man pulls forward. He can feel the change in tension in the man's muscles.

From terror to eagerness.

He snorts, though, his mandibles flaring off his teeth. The man takes that moment to look up, and goes even paler at the sight of predatory fangs in an alien mouth. "That's risky," he says. "Doesn't the Singularity turn your kind to dust? Big risk, just to run around robbing random travelers."

"We're far enough away! It's just a good cover, s'all!"

Doubt is written all over his features - if the guy could read his face. Garrus doesn't answer, he just hikes their captive more or less to his feet.

And casts a look over to Shepard, as if in apology.

"We might need a guide part of the way." And this way, they can be sure the bandit won't let them wander off into the absolute wrong direction. If he thinks he has a chance, he'll cooperate. Not that Garrus thinks he'll really have that.

'What? I, uh...'

"Well, we wouldn't want to get lost, now, would we?" Shepard's face isn't nearly so inscrutable to the average human as a Turian's can be; but she's got a good poker face. He doesn't want them with him? Well then, only one answer to that, "After all, Singularity's not dangerous to us. We wouldn't even know what too close looks like."

The hopeful tension drained out of the outlaw a little further with every word, until he was, finally, a pale and subdued, beaten man. No more struggle, all done-with.

'Sure. Sure, that makes... makes sense.'

With significant effort, Shepard resists the urge to roll her eyes; every now and again you got idiots like this one, people who thought that setting her up for tacit loyalty and rapid betrayal would be the winning move. The only difference between a duplicitous Eclipse merc and this man was that he was going to see another couple of miles of badlands before he died.

"Alright, then," Spotting her dropped hat, Shepard bent to pick it up, shook out the dust, and then hefted her pack back up onto her shoulders. Was she concerned, during any of this, that the bandit might come at her, or try anything? Was she worried at all about the man's capability for violence? "Get walkin'. Daylight isn't gonna last forever."

No, she is not.

Garrus, meanwhile, is grinning like an idiot. If and when they actually get back to Citadel Space, he's going to have to school his expressions again. Re-learn how to do that. He's gotten way too lax here, where Shepard is the only one who can read him. To their new guide, it probably looks like he's making a threat display or something.

"I can't gauge the distance for crap," he says, playing along. Like hell a sharpshooter couldn't gauge distance. "I guess we'll know if you start panicking, right?"

That's all he says as he hauls the unfortunate bandit forward. Actually making him walk over his comrades is probably a bit much, but Garrus doesn't have any such sympathy. He kicks a leg as he walks. As they move up near Shepard, he inclines his head to her, still laughing silently.

"Mind grabbing my bag? Hate to let go of our pal here to pick it up... He might fall over."

Or get loose. He'll still carry the bag, of course, but he's loathe to let the bandit go to pick it up.

When he mentions the depth perception issue, she feels a momentary pang; he'd mentioned vision issues, was it still that bad? But this isn't the time.

"Yeah, I got it," Shepard hefts his pack in both hands, hauling along until she can stand watch while he straps it on, fixing their hostage with what she knows is a murderous look in her eyes. It's a good look, truly; she's seen it in the mirror, but he seems antsy, regardless, "Hey. Eyes on me."

The man looks up slowly, reluctant as a guilty child. She waits.

"You know Summoned have powers that you natives can't match, right? I can hit you at a hundred meters, easy. Don't get stupid: you can't outrun me, and I will kill you."

The bandit swallows, and goes back to studying the ground he's standing on. No, there won't be any escape today.

It's... definitely a good look. He pauses, just for a moment, to appreciate it. It's probably not too obvious to their new friend, but he absolutely gives Shepard a slow, appraising look once she gets that expression on her face. So sue him, she's damn attractive like that.

He only looks away when it comes to strapping his pack back into place. Shifting it slightly until it settles where it sits best on his unique anatomy. That done, his hand clamps back down on the bandit's shoulder.

"She's underestimating," he advises. Just a little too loud to be totally private. "I've seen her hit a moving target at four hundred meters." Okay, that was in the Mako. But, again, what this guy doesn't know won't hurt them.

Besides, he could probably hit something that far out, even if Shepard couldn't.

"Glad we all came to this understanding."

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