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.