There is a burst of blue lightning, and the two land in a crouch. Coughing, he goes prone, crawling on his stomach to overlook the small army surrounding the landing pad and the flaming wreck of the shuttle in the distance. "Going in," he rumbles, "Concussive shots only."
Two petals rise. His companion pulls the rifle from its back, snapping out the scope and attaching it to the single, unblinking white eye. "Affirmative."
Thunder cracks, and one of the soldiers collapses with a groan. The side of his helmet is bright red and paint is chipped, and James mutters to himself as he grabs his discarded rifle. There is a burst of motion and the soldier in front of him is slammed face first into the shuttle pad. The one next to him folds out the blade from his omnitool and swings.
He hits a cloud of white butterflies before a fist collides with his jaw and sends him down, the two behind him dropping as two kicks hit them in the chest.
Three more thunder cracks, and three more soldiers drop. He ducks under one of the armored grunts as he goes flying over his head, and the landing zone goes still as James realizes he is one of the only three people left standing. Him, Garrus, and the Quarian who has just kicked the crap out of two dozen soldiers.
He glances at the groaning, barely conscious grunts. He turns to Garrus, who shrugs. And then he turns to the quarian and begins clapping. "Sweet. Who're you?"
"Kal'Reegar. Migrant Fleet Marines." The quarian rolls his shoulders. Electricity sparks along the knuckle dusters on his gauntlets. "No time for explanations. Where's Commander Shepard?"
