He looks back, but her hand is already at her ear, notifying the medics of the known specifics, and indicating their intent to proceed with the same smooth terseness that Garrus was showing. This was what she was made for, after all; job to do, and a meaningful one, for which she was trained and ready.
Bad as the situation was, it really was just so damned good to be back on the job.
"Medics are on their way," she reported, shook out her wrists and at Garrus' ready, inhales once, sharply, and—
In biotic training, for humans at least, one learns by rote what for other species is often instinctive. You found what you could do, and then trained to a physical mnemonic, a reminder to your nervous system's so-called muscle memory for what to do, what neural pathways to activate, to spark the eezo nodules inside you. To generate in miniature the same mass effect fields that threw spacecraft across the galaxy and made faster-than-light travel possible. It had been a long time since brain school.
Shepard lit with blue fire, flickering brilliant in white off-run and the strange warping blackness where gravity seized the course of ambient light and twisted it out of alignment. For a few seconds she was that eerie torch, every line of her picked out in starfire and shadow, and then the mass effect envelope snapped 'round the rubble with a magnetic alacrity, and it began to lift. Only a few feet, nothing more, but Shepard was grimacing, trying to force it higher, trying not to waver, and sweating under the strain.
"Go!" she ordered, too blind to anything but the effort to know if he'd already done it or not. Any loss of lift would send the entire weight crashing down again, crushing the impromptu supports along with anything else in the ruin of a cellar; all she had to do then was to hold it.
And all he had to do, was to get in, do what needed doing, and get out again.
no subject
Bad as the situation was, it really was just so damned good to be back on the job.
"Medics are on their way," she reported, shook out her wrists and at Garrus' ready, inhales once, sharply, and—
In biotic training, for humans at least, one learns by rote what for other species is often instinctive. You found what you could do, and then trained to a physical mnemonic, a reminder to your nervous system's so-called muscle memory for what to do, what neural pathways to activate, to spark the eezo nodules inside you. To generate in miniature the same mass effect fields that threw spacecraft across the galaxy and made faster-than-light travel possible. It had been a long time since brain school.
Shepard lit with blue fire, flickering brilliant in white off-run and the strange warping blackness where gravity seized the course of ambient light and twisted it out of alignment. For a few seconds she was that eerie torch, every line of her picked out in starfire and shadow, and then the mass effect envelope snapped 'round the rubble with a magnetic alacrity, and it began to lift. Only a few feet, nothing more, but Shepard was grimacing, trying to force it higher, trying not to waver, and sweating under the strain.
"Go!" she ordered, too blind to anything but the effort to know if he'd already done it or not. Any loss of lift would send the entire weight crashing down again, crushing the impromptu supports along with anything else in the ruin of a cellar; all she had to do then was to hold it.
And all he had to do, was to get in, do what needed doing, and get out again.