It is the duty of every commanding officer to spend her men's lives well, and not to waste them. Shepard is very aware of that. She's also aware of how irreplaceable someone like Garrus truly is; if she trusts him, it's to take care of himself as much as to get the job done.

And he, of all people, knows best how she feels about the mission.

Go!

She goes, and the entire slab of wood, stone, and mortar rises into the air, a tumbling, dust-shedding constellation of loose bits. Almost immediately, Shepard can feel that it's too much, too fragmented— it's going to drop. With a colossal effort, she wrenches both arms to one side, and the whole load wrenches with her, scattering in a tumbling, crackling heap into the alleyway.

She goes to one knee, vision swimming with black spots, but forces herself back up with a sniff. Down in the hole, now exposed to sunlight, sits a pair of children. The older cradling the younger, barely more than an infant, stares up at Garrus with a frightened, tear-streaked face. Beside them, well and truly pinned beneath the portion of the house that had collapsed fully, is a man— most likely their father. His face is bloodless, pale and pretty, and his hair is long and dark, and unless humans on this planet have found a new way to achieve a two-dimensional profile, he is very, very dead.