Garrus had never known Shepard to be a neat freak, but she didn't like messes, either. Sure, she cleaned her armor and shotgun after every mission. She made her bed each morning before breakfast. She folded her shirts crisply, wore matching socks, and never left dirty dishes in her room after a long night of writing up mission reports. She refused to keep anything more sentimental than the tags around her neck. These were typical habits of a soldier, drilled into her since basic.

Which is why Garrus was so shocked to find her quarters in its current state.

What the hell happened in here? The glass that had once encased her collection of model ships had been violently shattered into thousands of pieces that now covered every visible surface of the room. Her ship models had been blown out of their case and were piled haphazardly on Shepard's unmade bed, still intact but a little worse for wear; the Destiny Ascension in particular had taken quite a beating. Every drawer in the room was open and had been ransacked and emptied of their contents. Garrus noticed the door to her bathroom had a large dent and looked like it had been kicked partially in. In all the chaos that surrounded him, it took him a few moments to find Shepard.

She was standing at the bottom of the steps, wearing full armor and looking exceedingly unfriendly. Her hair was tied up—or, it was supposed to be; several sections were escaping their confines and curled softly around the sharp lines of her face. She had a half-zipped duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

The worst part, though, was that Shepard was pointing a pistol unwaveringly at the space between his eyes.

This was not how he'd expected his day to go.

Garrus blinked and shuffled his feet, clearing his throat. Glass crunched beneath his boots. "Commander, are you—"

"I need you to leave," she hissed. Her icy tone shocked him for a moment, but Garrus knew Shepard's voice well enough to catch the edge of desperation beneath her words. She was pleading, begging for him to turn around and forget everything he saw. And Commander Shepard didn't beg.

Something was wrong. The turian part of his brain told him to drop everything and follow her orders, but he knew he couldn't turn around and leave Shepard to her own devices (whatever they happened to be). He couldn't. Not when she was acting like this. Everything screamed wrongness to him: the tense line of her shoulders, her disheveled appearance, the fact that she was pointed a damned gun at him. He had to get her under control before her fluctuating biotics blew out a bulkhead or something—Joker would be super pissed.

Garrus had never been on the receiving end of Shepard's gun and he was slowly discovering that it was not an enjoyable place to be. (No wonder she was good at making full-grown mercenaries cry—she was terrifying.) Tentatively, Garrus shifted the Kodiak's box underneath his arm and slowly bent down to place it on the floor at his feet. He tried to look as unthreatening as possible as he did so. Her pistol followed him as he straightened back up and he suppressed a shudder at the way she was scrutinizing him. Like he was just an obstacle she had to get past one way or another.

Like he was disposable. Like he was the enemy.

Slowly, he raised his hands. Shepard's steely grey eyes narrowed dangerously, and he saw her index finger shift toward the trigger at the movement, but she wasn't close enough to touch it. He knew she could put him down in half a second, regardless of where her finger was, but he knew she was giving him the benefit of the doubt. The thought did little to comfort him.

"Shepard," Garrus said, taking a hesitant step forward. He stopped moving when her fingers tightened over the grip of the pistol. "Come on, you're going to shoot me?"

"Concussive rounds," she bit out. "But that all depends on you."

"I'm not letting you leave without an explanation."

"Then I don't have a choice."

"You have plenty of choices. Most of them involve dropping the goddamn pistol so we can have a nice, long chat over a bottle of wine."

"Not going to happen."

"Which part? The part where you drop your gun or the part where we drink wine? It doesn't have to be wine, you know."

"I'm being serious, Garrus."

"So am I," Garrus shot back. "Spirits, Shepard. You're looking at me like I'm a total stranger." He didn't bother to hide the hurt in his subvocals. Not even ten hours had passed since he'd last seen her; she'd laughed quietly at something stupid Joker told her over breakfast in the mess hall. He remembered seeing her eyes crinkle around the edges the way he liked so much.

Now, she was acting like a cornered varren.

"We're not doing this, Garrus," Shepard insisted, clenching her jaw. Blue sparks were jumping across the plates of her armor and the grey of her eyes was beginning to glow ever so slightly. Recognizing the flare in her temper, he froze in place and tried a different approach. He wasn't sure her cabin could withstand another surge from her biotics and didn't want to test that theory.

"I need you to breathe," he instructed gently, taking another hesitant step forward. "I don't know what's going on, but you're not thinking straight, Commander."

"Stand down, Vakarian," she ordered through gritted teeth. "I mean it."

"Talk to me," Garrus pleaded, softening his subvocals. "Tell me what's going on."

A flash of pain crossed her face, so brief he almost missed it. She wanted to talk to him. But something was holding her back. Garrus had never seen Shepard take more than ten seconds to deliberate on anything; from ordering take-out to blowing up massive space stations, she was never torn over a decision. For the first time since he'd known her, Shepard looked completely uncertain.

The moment passed, however, and Shepard's face hardened once again. She shook her head stiffly and more tendrils of hair fell loosely around her face as she said, "I can't. You're just going to have to trust me, okay?"

"It's a little hard to trust you when you're pointing a gun at me, Shepard."

"I don't want to use it," she shot back fervently. She exhaled deeply and her eyelids drifted shut, screwing up her face in pain as she finished quietly, "Just…get out of the way, all right? Forget you saw me here and move."

"Is that an order?"

Garrus felt a pang of regret the second he said the words, but he knew they were necessary. He remembered a conversation they'd had a few weeks after he joined her on the SR-2 in the dim lighting of the main battery, just the two of them.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing the Cerberus logo," Garrus remarked, tapping away at the Thanix cannon's main console. Shepard was sitting on the floor next to the entrance to the battery, scrolling through a datapad that held more dossiers from the Illusive Man. The door was locked behind them both. A little peace and quiet, she'd told him. That was all she needed.

Shepard hummed quietly and continued scrolling through the information listlessly. Without looking up, she murmured, "Tell me about it. I'd give my left arm to have my Alliance uniform back."

"I don't think Miranda would be happy that. She went to all that trouble to build that left arm, you know."

"You say that like I'm supposed to care what she thinks. This damned uniform isn't even machine washable, Garrus. And white has never been my color. Or yellow, for that matter."

"You're more of a black and red person, if I recall."

"You recall correctly."

Shepard sighed and dimmed the display on her datapad, setting it off to the side. When she drew her knees up to her chest, Garrus spared her a glance—she looked troubled about something. Feeling bold, he asked, "Something on your mind, Commander?"

Her eyebrows drew in close and the corners of her mouth turned down, stretching the glowing orange scars that marred the smooth skin of her face. "If I ask you something, will you answer honestly?"

"As if I'm capable of lying to my own commanding officer. I'm a bad turian, Shepard, but I'm not that bad."

When she didn't immediately reply with some kind of sharp retort or even a soft chuckle, Garrus stopped typing. He turned around to look at Shepard. She was scowling, staring off at some invisible point at the other end of the main battery.

"Is everything all right?" he asked. Worry prickled at the back of his mind.

"Have I ever given you any bad orders before?"

Garrus blinked. Part of him wanted to say no, of course not. Another part of him wanted to answer honestly because she was his friend. His only friend. He decided to go with honesty.

Garrus rubbed the back of his neck and admitted, "I wouldn't call them bad orders, but I don't always agree with every single one of your decisions. You always prove me wrong in the end, though."

"Can you give me an example?"

"Uh…" Garrus wracked his brain. "The rachni queen on Noveria, I guess. I don't think you should have released her, but we haven't heard from the rachni since then. Like I said, you always end up being right. It's a little scary, actu—"

"Do you think you'd be able to tell if I gave you a bad order?"

She said it so directly that it caught him off guard. She was looking at him, her grey eyes shining with an emotion Garrus didn't fully recognize. Warily, Garrus regarded her and asked, "Shepard, you're starting to worry me. What's this about?"

She exhaled through her teeth and leaned her head back against the wall, exposing the smooth, pale column of her neck. He could see glowing circuitry through her skin and tried not to stare. After a few moments of silence, Shepard finally murmured, "I keep thinking about Kaidan. On Horizon, I mean."

Suddenly, Garrus felt very uncomfortable. He knew the commander's history with the lieutenant and their encounter with Alenko on Horizon had been…awkward and infuriating. For everyone involved, he knew, but especially for Shepard. She pretended she was fine afterwards, insisting that they focus on the mission and picking up more people for the cause, but he knew she was still reeling from Kaidan's harsh words. Garrus just didn't know how to help without reopening the half-closed wound.

Garrus knew that Shepard never talked about her personal feelings about anyone. Not even her platonic affections for Garrus, although she'd let it slip a little bit after the whole rocket-to-the-face incident down on Omega. Shepard showed her attachment in different ways: through stupid jokes, half-smiles, and her conversations with each of her crewmembers after a mission. She cared about all of them more than she let on—she just never talked about it so plainly. Which is why Garrus was struggling to find words.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot and coughed awkwardly. "Uh, well—I'm not exactly in a position to comment on your relationship with Alenko, but—"

Shepard waved him off, shaking her head. "It has nothing to do with that."

"Oh." Garrus fought back the urge to sigh with relief. "Which part are you talking about, then?"

Shepard entwined her fingers and bit the inside of her cheek, frowning. She avoided his eyes. "I guess I'm having doubts. About myself, I mean. My ability to make clear-headed decisions."

Oh. Now he knew what was bothering her. "You're worried the reconstruction changed you somehow."

She flinched at his words, but managed a nod. "Maybe Kaidan was right. How can I possibly know if I'm making my own decisions of if Cerberus is making them for me? What if I'm just an obscenely expensive puppet for the Illusive Man?"

"I would know."

"Would you?" Shepard shot back, meeting his gaze with ferocity. "Would you really?"

"Absolutely," he said with conviction. "I know you, Shepard."

She scoffed, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Everyone thinks that until they realize they don't know me at all. Miranda might have my inseam memorized down to a tenth of a centimeter, but I guarantee she doesn't know what my favorite color is."

"Orange," Garrus remarked flatly.

Shepard's head snapped up and she looked at him with raised eyebrows, clearly surprised. "How the hell did you know that?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, I know you, Shepard. And I would be able to recognize if you weren't…well, you. The second I saw you on Omega, I had no doubts. You fight the same way as before and you're still stubborn as hell when you know you're right about something. You even pop your knuckles the same way you used to. And let me tell you, that's one habit I wish they hadn't let you keep."

"You and everybody else," she muttered, lifting a hand up. She cracked her index finger obnoxiously and smirked up at him.

Garrus shot her a withering look. "Disgusting."

"Old habits—"

"Die hard," he finished, smirking. "Yeah, I know. You always told me that back on the SR-1 every time I complained about your noisy fingers. I know you remember." He paused, nudging one of her feet with his boot and finishing, "Look, if you weren't acting like the Commander Shepard I knew two years ago, do you really think I'd be here?"

Shepard's smile melted away, replaced with an unreadable expression. She regarded him intently. Garrus tried not to fidget under her scrutiny—Shepard's direct attention was practically a force of nature with her sharp, almost predatory gaze. She searched his face for anything he was holding back, anything at all. Finding nothing, Shepard nodded slowly and the corners of her mouth quirked up slightly. "That…makes me feel a lot better, actually. Thanks."

"Any time, Shepard."

Slowly, she clambered to her feet and snatched her datapad off the floor. She still had that unreadable expression on her face—Garrus would have to do some research on that one—but she seemed much happier than before. More comfortable, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Garrus was glad he was capable of making her feel better. It was the least he could do for her, after all. She'd saved his ass more times than he could count, and if this is how he could say thank you, he'd give her pep talks a thousand times over. She probably needed them more than anybody else.

As Shepard reached for the lock on the door, she paused. Turning around, she met his eyes with determination. "I have a new assignment for you, Vakarian."

"Yes, ma'am." He straightened up at her militant tone. It was a far cry from the warmth she'd exuded earlier, but it wasn't unfriendly by any means.

"You've got a permanent place on my ground squad from here on out. If you ever see me make a bad call or do anything out of the ordinary, you have my full permission to call me on my bullshit. Understood?"

Garrus was stunned. He knew how much Shepard liked to rotate her squad—they needed to practice their teamwork and stay sharp, she'd told him—so it was extremely strange to be a permanent fixture in the group. Still, he couldn't say no to her. No one knew her fighting style like he did, and they balanced each other's strengths and weaknesses well. Exceedingly well. "Understood."

"Be ready at 0800. We're picking up an assassin and an asari justicar on Illium." She turned to leave.

"Will do. And Shepard?" She paused as the door unlocked and slid open, glancing back over her shoulder at Garrus. She raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I'll watch your six."

Garrus' words still hung in the air between them. He knew Shepard was remembering the same conversation he was—and how he had permission to ignore direct orders if she wasn't thinking clearly. She stared at him, her expression stricken.

Her gun wavered ever so slightly and she stumbled over her words. "I—no. No, it's not an order. I'm asking you as…as a friend. Please, Garrus."

He exhaled, regarding Shepard closely. He knew he couldn't let her leave without an explanation, but he really didn't feel like getting in a fistfight with his C.O. and almost-girlfriend, either. He didn't know what was going on with Shepard, but he knew it had to be bad if she was acting so…psychotic? Unbalanced? Maybe that wasn't the best word to use, but he couldn't think of anything better under the circumstances.

Garrus squared his shoulders and pressed his mandibles close to his face, staring Shepard down as best he could. "Sorry, but you're not leaving until you either shoot me or explain what the hell is going on. The entire crew is scouring the Citadel for you and Tali is working her way up here as we speak. Either you talk to me now or you can talk to everyone else when they eventually track you down." He paused. "It's your call, Shepard."

She froze and her eyes sharpened, flashing with rage that would have sent anyone else running for the hills; Garrus didn't budge, though. He glared right back at her. He had no idea what was going on or why she was pointing a pistol at his face, but he didn't care at that point.

Shepard versus Vakarian. Clash of the titans.

(He secretly hoped that Shepard hadn't cut EDI's feeds to her cabin; this would make an awesome vid, providing she didn't straight-up murder him on the spot.)

They stood across from each other, knees bent and unflinching as they waited for the other person to make a move. He noticed that Shepard's finger was still resting just shy of the trigger—she still didn't want to shoot him, regardless of what she was saying. He could try to disarm her...but the last person who'd tried that ended up having their legs blown off with a missile launcher.

Still, it was the only option he had. All he had to do was wait for the right moment to strike.

He didn't have to wait very long. Uncharacteristically, Shepard's eyes darted toward the box next to his feet. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion when she saw what it was, but by the time she looked back up at Garrus to ask about it, he was already in motion.

Sorry, Shepard, he thought grimly.

His talons closed around her wrist and jerked it at a sharp angle until he heard her hiss through her teeth in pain. The pistol clattered to the floor below both of them and Garrus kicked it across the room and out of reach of both of them. He only had a millisecond to feel good about himself (He'd just disarmed the savior of the galaxy—take that, Blasto!) before he heard her duffel bag drop to the floor and she snarled something his translator didn't pick up.

"Okay," he said breathlessly, feeling significantly more relaxed now that Shepard couldn't shoot him. "How about we—"

Her elbow cracked against his chin and his head snapped back so hard that his vision swam with he felt her arm slide up behind his and she began to pull in an attempt to dislocate his shoulder, he desperately yanked on Shepard's wrist to dislodge her hold. He managed to pull her off balance long enough to deal a powerful right hook that landed directly on one of her sharp cheekbones. Garrus heard her cry out and her arm was ripped from his grasp abruptly as she slammed into the glass of her fish tank and crumpled to the floor.

Garrus kept his guard up, not entirely trusting her to hop up and stab him with a shard of glass, but slowly uncoiled when he noticed that she wasn't moving. Crap. Had he really hit her that hard? He knew humans were soft, but Shepard wasn't exactly a typical human; she should have been able to withstand a solid punch like that. Dread crept up his spine and he crouched low to check on her. She was breathing, he noticed with relief. Carefully, he moved the curtain of hair that was hanging limply over her eyes—her gaze wasn't directed at Garrus, though. Instead, her eyes were as wide as saucers and trained on the small box sitting two feet away from them—the model Kodiak. Blood was dripping from the split skin over her cheekbone but she didn't seem to care. Her expression was indecipherable.

Several beats of silence passed them by before Shepard snapped out of it. She turned and leaned her head back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut as if in pain (which she probably was). "Shit."

"Are you okay?" Garrus asked softly. He reached for her duffel bag and pulled out one of her t-shirts, pressing it gently against the trail of garish red blood that was slowly dripping down her cheek. "I didn't want to hit you, but it looked like my only option.

She shrugged, slumping her shoulders. She suddenly looked very tired. "If I really wanted to, I could've dodged it."

"I know. But you didn't,"

"No," she agreed, sighing. "I didn't."

They sat in silence for a few moments as Garrus held the shirt to her swollen cheek. He placed a talon underneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look at her properly and check for a concussion in case she'd hit her head on the way down. Her pupils dilated normally, thank the Spirits.

All of the anger had drained out of her eyes, leaving an exhausted, empty shell of Shepard that Garrus wasn't sure what to do with. He'd seen her angry, disturbed, frustrated, blindingly happy—but he'd never seen Shepard look so lost before. His stomach knotted with guilt over hitting her, but he was also glad that he had done it. With one simple punch, she was back to normal.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her grey eyes were the color of dark storm clouds now, not razor-sharp steel like before. Her eyebrows furrowed and she actually looked ashamed for once. "Jesus, I am so sorry. I lost my mind back there."

"A little," Garrus admitted. "You had me worried for a bit. I've never been on the other end of your gun before."

"I wasn't going to shoot you," she murmured, leaning into the blood-stained shirt he held. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Shepard, it's okay," he assured her, flaring his mandibles in a small smile. "Besides, I just won a fistfight against the great Commander Shepard. I'll be bragging about that one until the day I die."

"You know I could kick your ass if I wanted to, right?"

"Shh," he chastised lightly, placing a talon over her lips. "Let me have this one."

She rolled her eyes and the corners of her mouth quirked up in that way Garrus liked so much. He was glad Shepard was acting more like herself again (read: not murderous), but he still had a lot of unanswered questions for her. Why was her cabin in ruins? Why was she packed up and ready to jump ship? Why had she threatened to shoot him?

Garrus didn't want to push her too hard since the subject seemed to be so sensitive and raw, but he couldn't let this slip by unexplained. The emotional walls that always seemed to follow her were temporarily dismantled—fractured enough for him to glimpse what lay beyond through the hairline cracks. But Garrus knew that one wrong move could send them back to square one. He had to tread lightly.

Once the bleeding stopped, Garrus brushed away some of the jagged glass shards on the floor and sat next to her, leaning his back against the wall below the fish tank and bumping her gently with his shoulder. She nudged him in return and didn't pull away, choosing instead to lean heavily against him.

"Is that for me?" Shepard asked quietly, pointing at the box for the Kodiak model.

Garrus chuckled and reached over to grab it. "Yes, actually. I think it's the only one you're missing." He held it out to her.

"I looked for this one for months," she breathed, taking the box from him. She turned it over in her hands, staring at the image on the front. "I don't want to think about how much it cost you. But, after what just happened…I feel like I don't really deserve it."

"It's over and that's what matters."

"I forgot how hard you hit when you're not pulling your punches," she remarked wryly, setting the Kodiak off to the side. She reached up and massaged her jaw. "Damn. I think you knocked one of my teeth loose."

"You tried to dislocate my shoulder," Garrus said flatly. "And your face isn't exactly as squishy as it looks. Let's call it even."

"Fair enough." Shepard shrugged. A look of remorse darkened her face suddenly and she elbowed him softly. "I really am sorry, you know."

"You could make it up to me," Garrus suggested, attempting to sound casual. Come on, take the bait.

Shepard sighed and ran an armored hand through her hair, which had long since come loose (her fingers immediately got tangled in the forest of wavy tendrils and she grimaced as she tried to pull them free). "You want to know why I blew up my cabin and tried to kill you."

It wasn't a question. For once, Garrus was glad that Shepard could practically read his mind. It made the difficult conversations so much easier. He nodded slowly, massaging his bruised knuckles, and murmured, "I've never seen you like that, Shepard. Scared the hell out of me."

Shepard stiffened next to him and remained carefully silent, the only sound in the room emanating from the fish tank behind them. He could tell she was conflicted, but her eyes were completely unreadable. He could see her turning her words over and over again in her head, trying to figure out what to say.

When she didn't say anything else, he nudged her shoulder with his. "Are you still in there somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking," she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek. "I, uh. I haven't ever said this stuff out loud to anyone, so I'm trying to organize my thoughts."

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."

"It's…personal."

In every conversation they'd ever had, Shepard had only mentioned her personal life a handful of times, and even then she used terms that he'd only realized were vague after the conversation had moved on. She was clever at disguising her words like that. Garrus knew that she'd grown up on Earth and ran with some kind of small-time gang in a large city before enlisting at eighteen—that was all in her file—but that was the full extent of Garrus' knowledge on the subject of Shepard's past. She never talked about herself like that. If someone brought it up, she deflected and changed the subject. Keeping secrets came as naturally as breathing for her.

Garrus didn't know about her family, her home life, or her childhood; he knew what kind of pistol she preferred and how she took her coffee. That was good enough for him.

Or, it had been good enough for him. Now that Garrus cared about her (really, really cared about her), he found himself longing to know the more intimate details of her life. Garrus would never ask her directly, though. They were her secrets and it was her prerogative to share or keep everything to herself, like she always did. He knew it. The crew knew it. So nobody ever pushed.

With a sharp intake of breath, Shepard clambered to her feet and walked toward her bed, reaching for the clasps on her armor. She kept her back to him as she discarded the pieces of her hardsuit into organized piles on the rumpled sheets, one by one.

When Shepard finally spoke, she was so quiet that Garrus' translator struggled to make sense of her words.

"What?" he asked, not quite hearing her. He stood up and walked over to stand behind her and slightly to the left like he always did in the field—pure habit, but standing anywhere else felt wrong, somehow. When he saw her scrabbling uselessly at the final clasp on her chestplate, he slipped his talons beneath the catch and deftly released it for her.

"Thanks," she said quietly, shucking the chestplate off so she was left in her black mesh undersuit and boots. (He always forgot how small she looked out of her armor. The corded muscle that ran beneath the sturdy fabric betrayed her slight frame, however; Shepard was deadly no matter what she was wearing.) Still avoiding his eyes, she hugged her arms across her stomach and began to pace back and forth, boots crunching sharply against the myriad of broken glass that covered the floor around her bed. Garrus waited for her to say something.

"I asked if you've read my file," she repeated. Her eyebrows were drawn close together in deep thought.

Garrus shrugged, not seeing a reason to deny it. "Of course I have. Everyone's read it."

Grimacing, she nodded slowly, coming to a stop in front of her ransacked drawers and armor customization display, which was flickering unsteadily. "EDI," she called out, "cut the feeds to my cabin until I give the word, okay?"

"Of course, Shepard. Logging you out."

Trepidation began building in the pit of Garrus' stomach as he stared at the sharp lines of her shoulder blades beneath her bodysuit. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be privy to whatever it was she was hiding. Perhaps it really wasn't his business after all. The other half of his brain was excited to learn about Shepard's personal life for the first time (he was also excited to know that EDI had been recording their fight earlier—he was going to need a copy of that vid).

Shepard turned in place and met his gaze head-on. "You know that I grew up on Earth," she explained, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I was part of the Tenth Street Reds—a shitty name, I know, but we didn't exactly vote on it."

"I remember." He did, actually. He remembered the unpleasant man outside of Chora's Den who'd recognized Shepard. He also remembered the look of sheer panic that'd crossed her face for the briefest of moments when he called out to her—something he never saw again until the day Shepard found him on Omega, covered in his own blood and gasping for breath.

It took a lot to worry Shepard. It took even more to scare her, so whatever this situation was, it was huge. Bigger-than-Reapers huge.

Shepard began to pace once again, brushing his shoulder as she slipped past him. Garrus sat down on the edge of the bed and followed her with his eyes. She continued stiffly, "I got a message from the Reds about two hours ago. They just found out that I'm alive again."

"All right," Garrus said slowly, not understand what the big deal was.

"They want me to come back to Earth for negotiations."

"Negotiations for what?"

Shepard stopped pacing. Her shoulders tensed and she turned back to face him, her grey eyes clouded with anger, desperation, and pure, unadulterated fear.

"The Reds…they've got my brother, Garrus. I have seven days to get planetside before they kill him."

A little short, but necessary. Please drop a review so I know how I'm doing.