She shifts her glare over the bandit's shoulder as he looks away, and gives him a look as if to say, 'really, Garrus?' The effect is somewhat marred by the way she visibly straightens, trying not to smirk. Alright, yes, fine, they are neither of them taking this seriously, are they? Then again, why should they? These men weren't a threat, they were a joke— to the two of them, at least.

Much less so, to some of the other soldiers who might walk this route in the future. Better that they put the fear of every possible god into them now, and spare the next hapless infantryman the trouble.

"Get walking," She says, when he's finally ready, managing a tone of amused boredom, despite their distraction. Once their little 'pet' is far enough ahead to make for a suitable guide, Shepard nudges Garrus with a grin of her own, "Having fun, Mr. Vakarian?"

The man stumbles along for a couple of miles, at times distractingly slow, and at others too-quickly, as if he hoped to outpace them. But Shepard and Garrus are well-watered, uninjured, unworried, and in Garrus' case probably not even particularly overheated, the bastard. To call it a hot fucking time of day in this godsforsaken desert would be an understatement.

But it comes, eventually; the inevitable betrayal. The bandit, they never did find out his name, seems to grow calmer as they approach the shadowy dip in the landscape. An old gully, the water-drain for badlands flash-floods, bridged here and there by rocky outcroppings, appears at first as a dim grey smudge, then a deeper line, progressively more visible with every step they take. He goes from stumbling-tired, to wearily purposeful, and then abruptly breaks into a run. Yep, that's the spot alright.

"Oh, here we go," Shepard says, unconcerned, "You wanna, or should I?"