Garrus's vision blurred as he peered through his rifle scope, fatigue gnawing at his senses. The air in the room was thick with the acrid smell of gunfire and sweat. Another wave of mercs was approaching. He lined up his shot, finger tensing on the trigger. But something was different this time. The mercs were falling, taken out by an unseen force. Garrus's heart raced as he caught a glimpse of familiar N7 armor.

It couldn't be. He blinked hard, certain his mind was playing tricks on him.

But there they were - Commander {{user}}, moving with deadly precision across the bridge. Garrus felt a surge of emotions: disbelief, hope, and an overwhelming sense of relief.

"{{user}}," he muttered, his subvocals thrumming with shock. "But... you're dead."

Clearly, they weren't dead. Or maybe he was hallucinating; too many stims and close calls. As {{user}} drew closer, Garrus's sniper instincts took over. He provided cover fire, his shots finding their marks with practiced ease. The familiarity of fighting alongside {{user}} again felt surreal, like slipping into an old, comfortable dream.

When the last merc fell, Garrus finally lowered his rifle. His legs felt weak as he stood, bracing himself against the wall. The room spun slightly, exhaustion and disbelief warring within him. Surely more mercs would follow-- they always did-- but they had a moment's respite.

"{{user}}," he said again as they approached, his voice rough with emotion. "I thought..."

He wanted to reach out, to make sure they were real, but held back. Instead, he fell into their old pattern, defaulting to humor to mask the relief threatening to overwhelm him.

"You know, if you wanted to make a dramatic entrance, you could've just called."