Garrus Vakarian never uses a targeting laser.
It’s amateur. It warns your target that you’re coming. Gives them opportunity to get into cover. Sure, he appreciates the intimidation value of it when they’re cornered and you’re trying to get information from them, but he still considers it amateur. If you can blow off someone’s head at a hundred metres without one, it means that you’re good.
Garrus knows he’s good.
He’d nearly turned Omega on its head, gained a reputation as Archangel (a human thing, he’d researched it), united three rival gangs against him, he’s taken down Reapers and geth and husks and God only knows what else without flinching, without freezing. Just scope and drop. But this…
This has him frozen. And that is embarrassing.
Vega should really stick to the shuttle bay and trying to catch the Commander’s attention. He stands awkwardly in the door, sniper rifle in hand, ready to pull it apart and calibrate it a bit, improve the time between pulling the trigger and releasing the bullet. After that, he planned to give the Normandy’s guns a look over.
Only to find that Vega is already here, and he’s…
“Vega?” he ventures, mandibles flaring, hoping that there’s an explanation for this. His question is greeted by persistent thumping. Vega takes a break from kicking the gun and turns to him, taking in the rifle in his hand, grinning.
“Scars,” he greets cheerfully. Again Garrus’ mandibles flare. He draws in a deep breath through his nose.
“The Commander is in Starboard Observation with Alenko,” he says carefully. Vega cocks an eyebrow.
“I know where Lola is, Scars,” he says. Garrus draws in a second deep breath. Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him…
“Ask her if you need to kick something. Though I’m sure Alenko would send you flying for daring to interrupt their precious time.” Vega has the gall to kick the gun bay once more the sniper rifle snaps to Garrus’ shoulder. “Stop it!” he snaps sharply. “Explain yourself.”
“Relax, Scars. This is for your good.” Garrus’ mandibles flare again, and his eye goes to the scope. The leg, he thinks, aiming slowly, trying to find where it will hurt most. Stop him kicking anything ever again.
“That geth said you couldn’t calibrate this thing properly. You weren’t here. I’m helping you.” The scope moves up. His brain; he won’t miss anything.
“And you thought kicking it would help… how?” Garrus isn’t drawling now. He’s deadly serious.
“Worked on Rannoch,” Vega shrugs.
“You were shutting a gun down on Rannoch.”
“And I’m helping you fix this one.” Vega’s grin is unapologetic. Garrus breathes deeply. Don’t do anything rash…
“Vega. Step away.” The sniper rifle helpfully indicates where he ought to go. Shrugging, Vega does so and Garrus takes the opportunity to examine the gun. No visible damage, but still…
“Just so you know, the geth said that you couldn’t get more than a .32 increase in efficiency.” Vega leaves the gun battery and Garrus is caught between astonishment that Vega remembered the number and the urge to shoot him. He puts the gun aside and runs to the battery, carefully checking the casing. It’s undamaged. Vega’s lucky. The calibrations are off, though.
“Legion,” he says, tapping his communicator. “I can so calibrate this thing beyond .32 per cent capability.”
“We do not concur.” He could have sworn the geth was mocking him. He bends over the control and starts tapping at it, mandibles clicking together in concentration. He’ll prove the damned machine wrong if it’s the last thing he does.