"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.
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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.