The air leaves her lungs all at once, a phantom fist on her chest, pressing them to empty. Hand on the door, she can feel it autonomously fumbling to pull it open, working independently of her mind, a blank grey sleeting nothing, eyes staring at the figure caught in the field, time moving like molasses.

Garrus.

Fingers knock the lock—already slashed by Chara—out completely, and scrabble at the edge for leverage, mind a million miles afield, line of sight fixed closer.

How long had it been since she'd seen his face? A year and a half, she knows. Just a year and a half. He'd been here, once, while she had — when she'd been thrust into cryo, for some damn reason or another. Just a year and a half.

And so much has changed.

Shepard's hands close around the edge of the door's seal, and haul it back. She'd already wasted too much time. Four, now five seconds past when she'd hoped to be long gone. Hands at the door, ready to push off into a dead sprint, she lets time spin out just one selfish second longer.

Six.

Closing her eyes, she turns her head, opening them again, looking out. It's barely a whisper, almost lost in the rush of her acceleration.

"Goodbye."