Of course she can't. Shepard can only hear her own too-rapid breathing, gasping for oxygen in the rapidly-thinning cold, ice forming in her eyelashes as the pressure hits a critical tipping point. The Normandy blooms with fire, hit astride and split open, the orange flash-ignition of the sub-light fuel felt as much as seen. On the floor in front of Garrus, he's spared none of it, seeing in bright daylight what only the inside of her helmet had borne witness to in life; the death of Commander Shepard.

And then, mercifully, as it had done in the past, it all faded away and Shepard came back to herself in a hideous rush. She sucks air like a drowning victim, the gasp rattles down into he chest and comes back in a cough, her eyes gone wild, hands grasping for anything to steady her.

But she doesn't need steadied, she's flat on her back, and Garrus is right there. She grips him back, like a lifeline.

"What the fuck?" Shepard is appalled at her own voice; a panicked, hollow croak. She swallows, gets a bit more oxygen down her, and tries to find some semblance of sense in the world. Alright. Alright, so it had been... some kind of flashback, then. Worse than usual, possibly worse than she'd ever had, outside the Prothean Beacon itself. What the hell had set it off?

"I'm okay," She tells him, more in the hope of forcing it to be true, than any real spirit of honesty, "...Hell of a flashback. But I'm fine."