[If he has anything left to add, he keeps it to himself; words are unnecessary where actions can more than easily drive the point home.
Garrus waits for a break in the fire to mouth off the countdown, signals it with a raised talon that's just shy of twitching with anticipation, ready as it is to snap down around the trigger to compensate for the milliseconds spent starting their competition.
...3...2...1...go
And then he's up and level, arms braced across the battered top of the crate in front of him, scope fixed on the target he'd been tracking from cover. The shot lands at the dead center of the unfortunate bastard's head even as return fire streaks past Garrus's face in a livid, blazing white line.]
One down. Nervous yet?
[Of course he's not. But a little bragging never hurt anyone. Much.]
[ He pops the heat sink and switches out for the next one in a smooth practiced motion, doesn't glance over at Garrus. His concentration is fixed on the next target, the next head between the lines of his scope. ]
I would not count on me being nervous.
[ There is a fine line between the nerves that enhance perception and those that make hands shake, and his perception tends to do well enough without them. It is very rare for him to be nervous, especially these days. ]
[Same methods, different means. Where Garrus waits for the thrill, Thane is about as composed as Councilor Tevos in the middle of a four-hour session. Some days he wonders if his drell companion even has a sense of humor, or if his dry, perfectly timed remarks are all byproducts of good luck.
[ They are not good luck, but neither are they necessarily a result of him having a sense of humor so much as being aware of what others find humorous.
He finds it strange, though, to be engaged in a conversation during a firefight. It's happened before going out with Shepard and Garrus and others, and each time it surprises him a little. Killing for him was always a solitary affair - him and his hands or the rifle and the soul he was cutting loose from it's body. To have companionship during it was foreign to him, unsettling almost if he allowed to be.
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Garrus waits for a break in the fire to mouth off the countdown, signals it with a raised talon that's just shy of twitching with anticipation, ready as it is to snap down around the trigger to compensate for the milliseconds spent starting their competition.
...3...2...1...go
And then he's up and level, arms braced across the battered top of the crate in front of him, scope fixed on the target he'd been tracking from cover. The shot lands at the dead center of the unfortunate bastard's head even as return fire streaks past Garrus's face in a livid, blazing white line.]
One down. Nervous yet?
[Of course he's not. But a little bragging never hurt anyone. Much.]
no subject
I would not count on me being nervous.
[ There is a fine line between the nerves that enhance perception and those that make hands shake, and his perception tends to do well enough without them. It is very rare for him to be nervous, especially these days. ]
no subject
And then days like this come along.]
Never? What about Antibaar?
no subject
He finds it strange, though, to be engaged in a conversation during a firefight. It's happened before going out with Shepard and Garrus and others, and each time it surprises him a little. Killing for him was always a solitary affair - him and his hands or the rifle and the soul he was cutting loose from it's body. To have companionship during it was foreign to him, unsettling almost if he allowed to be.
He never did. ] Pleasantly solitary.