It's a lot more people than he'd been able to save, before. Every living survivor is one more mark on a mental tally sheet. Something to hold up, to see, when his thoughts turned back to the Palaven rubble. To bedsheets on Omega. The latter didn't rear its head as much these days, but when it did... it was always good to have proof to beat it back into memory where it belonged.

He's more concerned about Shepard, the longer they go. They've only got so much juice in the literal tank. Only so much a human biotic can push themselves before something goes wrong.

Thankfully, mercifully, their shift ends. Part of him wants to keep pushing, keep his head down and keep digging, just in case. Just in case there was one more. But the dog needs to go home, Shepard needs a break. He stays on his feet a while longer, scanning the rubble in an almost mechanical reflex.

At length, he pulls himself away, and drops to sit beside her. It's not juice, but he passes his own water supply over, shaking his head. His talons are cracked, scales on his hands pitted and flaking... but its as superficial as some scrapes and scratches.

"Turians don't lose as much hydration," he says by way of explanation. No sweat glands to speak of. "Take it."