"Maybe they can process it into something readable, back at base..."
But then Dean is, despite his wisecracks, doing something practical. Shepard has never expected actual respectful behavior from her men, only the respect it was meant to signify, so she turns her back to Dean even as he gets work.
Multitask their flirting, was it? Could be worse.
"Roger that," She replies, and inhales long and slow. The room shifts, going from innocuously creepy to outright hostility in a single sharp moment. Ironically, she's more comfortable this way, all eyes on her, an objective in her hands. She'd like very much to charge into them, take the fight to the enemy but... she waits.
If they're attacking, they aren't creeping. And if they're attacking... they're fair game. Downright relaxing, that.
"Ready," She calls, and the whispers are a rising tide of spiders, pooling around them in every darkened corner. The spirit board under Dean's hands bucks like a live thing, and the wax figures lurch into an ungainly, limping charge. Shepard falls back on old training, "Contact!"
Darkness had made the room seem larger than it was. Biotic light, and the concussive sound that follows make sit seem smaller, and more full, than ought to have been physically possible. The first three wax figures meet Shepard's wrath only ten meters from Dean's position, and go to pieces at the first wave of force— a display case nearby shatters in a phenomenal spray of sparkling glass, with its own spirit board rattling within it like an eager dove.
"You said you always wanted to fight through an antique shop, right?," She asks Garrus, in the echoing wake, as she kicks aside the twitching arm of a dismembered wax body, its hand still grasping blindly as it goes spinning amongst the legs of its fellows, tripping them one over the other, so that they go down in a heap, "It's pretty close."
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But then Dean is, despite his wisecracks, doing something practical. Shepard has never expected actual respectful behavior from her men, only the respect it was meant to signify, so she turns her back to Dean even as he gets work.
Multitask their flirting, was it? Could be worse.
"Roger that," She replies, and inhales long and slow. The room shifts, going from innocuously creepy to outright hostility in a single sharp moment. Ironically, she's more comfortable this way, all eyes on her, an objective in her hands. She'd like very much to charge into them, take the fight to the enemy but... she waits.
If they're attacking, they aren't creeping. And if they're attacking... they're fair game. Downright relaxing, that.
"Ready," She calls, and the whispers are a rising tide of spiders, pooling around them in every darkened corner. The spirit board under Dean's hands bucks like a live thing, and the wax figures lurch into an ungainly, limping charge. Shepard falls back on old training, "Contact!"
Darkness had made the room seem larger than it was. Biotic light, and the concussive sound that follows make sit seem smaller, and more full, than ought to have been physically possible. The first three wax figures meet Shepard's wrath only ten meters from Dean's position, and go to pieces at the first wave of force— a display case nearby shatters in a phenomenal spray of sparkling glass, with its own spirit board rattling within it like an eager dove.
"You said you always wanted to fight through an antique shop, right?," She asks Garrus, in the echoing wake, as she kicks aside the twitching arm of a dismembered wax body, its hand still grasping blindly as it goes spinning amongst the legs of its fellows, tripping them one over the other, so that they go down in a heap, "It's pretty close."