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.