Chapter One

Vancouver, 2016. As I stepped out of the airport terminal and onto the streets of the city, I laughed in joyful anticipation. The sky was so beautiful; I'm not sure about the rest of you, but nothing beats a nice gray sky and a cool breeze to encourage me to seize the day. Summer in Missouri was starting to become so depressing.

I turned around and found my cousin Troy whooping, yelling "WE MADE IT VANCOUVER!" while his luggage flailed violently behind him. After five months of anticipation and planning, it was all finally paying off.

Troy rushed me, letting his suitcase crash to the pavement, and we began jumping in a frenzied joy, at first firmly holding each other by the shoulders then increasing ourselves to adrenaline-fueled all-in-good-fun punches. I don't even remember what we were saying—probably didn't even know at the time—only that we were completely out of our minds having travelled to another country to see our favorite musicians.

"Dude!" Troy said after we stopped jumping, throwing another light punch at my shoulder. "We're about to see Being As An Ocean live in Vancouver!"

"Being As a mother-friggin Ocean!" I returned, matching his intensity. We were both wearing our BAAO T-shirts we'd gotten at the first concert we'd seen them, back in Saint Louis, and had told anyone who commented on our apparel that we were going to Vancouver to see the best fucking band on the planet. This was the night of our lives.

"All right, aright aright aright," I said, calming myself and planning our next steps. "We gotta get to the hotel, get our shit put away, and hit a bar before we head to the show." I started looking up and down the street. "How the fuck do you hail a cab in Vancouver?"

"Probably the same way you hail a cab in America, dumbass," Troy replied, sticking his thumb up in the air, staring up and down the street like I was, looking for a cab. A number of cars lined the streets, but no taxis as far as I could see. But we were in Canada; taxis could be pink Lincoln Navigators for all I knew.

No one stopped on the curb for us.

There was a car sitting at an intersection down the street that gave me a moment to pause. It sat lower to the ground than most cars, unless you drive a pimp-mobile, and the emissions coming off it were astounding considering I couldn't see a tailpipe. It was cold outside, but not enough to freeze vehicle emissions like that. Besides, the gas wasn't smoky, just that translucent boil that makes you think you're tripping balls when you look at something bright.

"Hey dude, does that car seem weird to you?" I asked.

"We're in Canada bro, they all look weird."

"Canadians drive the same cars as the rest of the world, moron," I replied. Taking a closer look, I didn't see any wheels and the shape of the car seemed out of place. The lines were all wrong, like they were from a different decade than any car model I'd ever seen. And being a mechanic I've seen just about every model there is. Maybe it was one of those really high-tech Euro cars, like the newest half-mil-priced Lambo.

Then something happened. Very nondescript, I know, so let me try to do it justice. You know that feeling you have just before you realize you're dreaming, when everything suddenly seems wrong? That's realization hitting you that it's all fucked up and that's what helps you realize you're dreaming. Your brain kicks into gear and tells you this can't possibly be reality, because your memories enter your subconscious and you understand that none of this makes any sense.

That's about the feeling I had when I turned around and saw that the airport we had just exited was obviously not the one we'd arrived in. It stood massive, at least fifty stories high, and gave off more of an ivory tower vibe. The kind of place corporate executives and rich millionaires pay substantial money to inhabit. Definitely not an airport terminal linked to a runway with six planes ready to load up and fly out to their destinations.

I turned to Troy only to see that he was staring at me. "Dude, are you real?"

"What?" I asked, still trying to make sense of everything.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

𝘐'𝘮 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. It all clicked into place.

"I think I'm the one having the dream."

"No offense man, but if anyone's dreaming, it's me. This is friggin crazy."

I frowned. Was my subconscious projection of my cousin really trying to make me question the reality of my fantasy, or was he there with me? Like some Inception shit or something?

"So you see it too?" I asked.

"If by 'it' you mean the fucking hover cars, then yeah, I see it."

Hover cars? I looked to my right down the crowded street we'd scoped out earlier to find that the vehicles were indeed not touching the ground, but rather floating inches above it. The emissions vented from underneath the vehicle, which explained what I'd seen earlier.

"What the hell is happening?" I asked no one in particular.

"This is a trippy-ass dream," Troy muttered, now looking at the sky.

"It can't be," I said. "I'm definitely aware of what's happening, so I know I'm real. And you actually seem to be you, so I think you're real."

"Of course I'm real dude. Is this some Inception shit? Are you invading my dreams right now?"

"How the fuck should I know dude? What the fuck is going on?!"

Then I heard it. I suppose we both did—Troy seemed as real to me as I did, which punched a pretty big hole in the dream theory. But soon enough the thought fled from my mind as a thunderous shriek pierced the sky, so painfully loud we both covered our ears and sank to our knees. After several seconds we gathered the resolve to un-shield ourselves and look to the sky.

The sight chilled my spine. With a flash of red light, a long, black metallic finger stretched down from the gray clouds and plummeted to the earth, knocking us on our asses despite the fact that we were already kneeling. Only when I gathered myself did I realize that it wasn't just a finger, but an entire metal hand that had descended from the sky and crashed on our level.

𝘈 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳!

I couldn't believe it. Had the flight attendant mixed some mushrooms into my meal? Put a bit of acid in my whiskey? Just my luck, the first time I get to visit another country and I'm imagining the opening act of Mass Effect 3, one of the most devastating moments in my video game history.

"Is that a fucking Reaper?!" Troy screamed, both of us staring up at the colossus completely dumbfounded. It stood well over any of the buildings in the area, which was a feat considering that only minutes earlier those same buildings were giving me an inferiority complex.

"What the fuck did that lady put in our food?" I asked, knowing any answer was self-evident. We weren't hallucinating, we weren't drugged, we weren't asleep; no two people share identical experiences when impaired in any such way. Besides, in dreams (which was the most logical explanation) everything is chopped up and disorderly. While the moment was certainly chaotic and terrifying, I absorbed every detail of it with perfect clarity. Like thinking you're drunk only to remember you barely had two beers. Suddenly everything you're doing becomes real and you realized you fucked up by asking that chick at the bar for her number.

I looked at Troy, and we both knew in that moment. We'd always joked that we were more like brothers than cousins—our minds worked so similarly—and we both knew what the priority was at that point. If this was real, if there was even a chance, we had to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

"Come on!" I yelled, pushing myself to my feet.

"Where?" Troy asked.

"I don't know dude, it's a fucking Reaper invasion! What do you do in a situation like this?! Just run!"

We took off, no direction, no rhyme or reason, just running because the Reaper was right the hell on top of us. I could hear weapons firing in the distance, see shuttles flying out to greet the menace only to be gunned down, but it didn't become real until the massive death machine began priming its main cannon.

The repercussion knocked us off our feet once more and literally deafened me. I fell to the concrete with a thud and rolled. The good thing about being six feet tall and 170 pounds is that you've got a bit of time to hit the ground once you're airborne, and once you go down you can maneuver your body more easily to avoid as much pain as possible. Skills I had perfected being as reckless as I was.

I groaned, loudly I thought but unable to hear any of it, and pushed myself to my feet. Troy heaved himself up in similar fashion and we both looked up at the Reaper's target, the building adjacent to the airport. Or, what had been the airport ten minutes prior.

It seemed familiar, and when I saw the Alliance logo at the top of the building I knew immediately. It was the Alliance HQ in Vancouver. The same building Shepard starts out at in the beginning of game three. In fact I could almost imagine Anderson digging Shep out of the rubble at this very moment and them facing the chaos in front of us.

Oddly enough, there was very little confusion in my mind. I suppose I'd played the games so many times that I was immediately able to make the connections once I saw them despite my brain telling me this was all delusional and impossible. I'd come to accept the fact early in my life that raving insanity just came with the job. Roll with it.

"Are we . . . " Troy started, trying to catch his breath and put words to our ludicrous situation. "Are we living the plotline of Mass Effect 3?"

I nodded. I'd like to say crazier things had happened, but no. They really hadn't. We were in the Mass Effect universe. You have to understand, at that point in my life I hadn't read a single fan fiction before. I assumed there were others like me who had realized how cool it would be to insert themselves into a game reality, but I never realized there was an entire culture around it. I thought I was one of the only people nerdy enough and who possessed the literary inclination to even attempt such a thing. I never imagined that there were people who wrote about being dropped into the middle of Mass Effect; I certainly never imagined that something like that would actually happen to me.

But somehow, as it always does, part of me had found the truth and accepted it before I had. My one instinct was to survive.

To do that, I knew we had to find Shepard.

"We've gotta get up there," I told Troy.

He looked at me as though I had grown horns. And wings. And had half a horse's body. "Are you insane?"

"Just entertain the fact that this is real. How the hell are we supposed to survive? Earth gets fucking raped, dude! Shepard's our only shot!"

"And if it's not real?"

"Then we're having some kind of delusion and a cop will smack us out of it or something. Think about your options dude. Possibly get brutally murdered by Reapers and turned into some abomination of nature, or find out you're delusional and sleep it off at the hotel. Which one sounds worse?"

He had to admit that the possibility of getting massacred by a Reaper was way worse than being humiliated over a hallucination. I could see him mulling it over in his mind.

The very fact that we were even having this conversation was insane.

"Fine," he said, mentally convincing himself. "Fine, let's fucking do it."

I needed no further encouragement, jumping into a sprint as soon as we'd made up our minds. Beams of angry light fell all around us and explosions muted all other sound in the world, but on we ran, ever forward toward our salvation. Or delusion, I really wasn't sure at that point.

We reached the door in seconds—no I didn't run track in school but I am extremely agile on my feet—and shoved inward. No effect. I pulled outward and, to my great dismay, nothing happened.

"Access denied," a female robotic voice spoke. Reminded me of Majel Barrett's performance as the Starfleet Computer. "You do not have authorization to enter this facility. Please contact your Systems Alliance Civilian Liaison to request admittance to—"

"Dammit woman, we don't have time for this!" Troy screamed at the door.

"The Reapers are attacking!" I added. "We need to get inside to secure Commander Shepard and Councilor Anderson."

"I cannot comply. According to the Alliance codes of conduct, section twelve paragraph thirty-two sub-section A14—"

"Forget the regs!" I yelled. "We're about to face planetary destruction if you don't open this door! Isn't there something in your army handbook about overriding protocols in desperate situations?"

A detonation of some kind had us stumble to our knees yet again, but we were on our feet momentarily awaiting the computer's reply.

"Section thirty-four paragraph nine details procedures for overwhelming combat scenarios in which civilians may be granted temporary military status."

"Good, then under section thirty-four paragraph nine sub-section whatever I order you to open this door so we can do some fucking good here!"

The voice went away. Fuck it all, there we were stranded on earth during a goddamn Reaper invasion and the jack-off computer was going to deny us access to the building. I bet Shepard didn't have to deal with this shit. What am I saying? Of course she didn't—she's Shepard!

A second later my anger turned to astonishment. The glass door slid open quite unexpectedly, and after only a moment of exchanging open-mouthed looks at each other, Troy and I rushed inside.

The place was nice. Nicer than I'd have thought for military. Marble flooring, some sort of imported wood columns supporting the upper walkway, futuristic glass (maybe?) walls, all offset by a massive sculpture of the Alliance logo atop a bronze globe easily twice my height. Classy as fuck.

"Dude," Troy said, hitting me on the shoulder while looking off in the distance. "Elevator."

I followed his gaze and jogged over to the door. It greeted us automatically, ushering us inside, and closed the doors just as quickly.

"Uh, computer? Are you there?" I asked.

I was immediately answered by the same voice. Robots don't lack for response time, at least. "I am the Alliance Headquarters' VI assistant. You may call me Hannah."

"Uh, great, Hannah." Weird putting a name to someone who didn't have a physical presence. "Can you locate Commander Shepard and Councilor Anderson for me?"

"Commander Shepard and Councilor Anderson are no longer inside this facility. They have exited through the main courtroom's window on the seventy-seventh floor."

I glanced to my left at Troy. Seventy-seven? Damn this was a tall building, considering there had to be at least another forty floors above that. Not to mention rife with superstitions; I'd read once about a hotel that barricaded all the rooms and floors that had 66 and 77, especially the ones labelled 666 and 777, so what the fuck was stopping these guys?

"Take us to the seventy-seventh floor then," Troy said for me, knowing numeric superstition was not something I enjoyed involving myself with.

Almost instantaneously the elevator lurched upward, but oddly enough it didn't feel the same as the lifts I was used to. There was no pressure trying to cave my legs in, no odd motion-sickness, and best of all, no uncomfortable shove once we reached the top. Apparently elevators in this time period had received a considerable upgrade from the ones in Mass Effect 1's day.

When we stepped out I vaguely recognized the semi-reception area we were in from the game. This was where Shep and Anderson had talked briefly before the committee meeting, and where Ash/Kaidan had made their appearance.

Bodies were everywhere. I don't know if you've ever seen a dead body before; I guess most people have—wakes, funerals, etc.—but when you're faced with the total annihilation of two dozen people . . . it gets to you. It's not like they were just shot or stabbed or died of a heart attack in a way that killed them quickly. Their bodies were scorched. Before it ended they had certainly endured one of the most horrific deaths imaginable.

We followed the trail of destruction, not even managing to cast glances at each other, until we reached the committee chambers. As one would expect, even more bodies thrown against the wall along with all the other debris. The impact of the Reaper's shot had evidently been strong enough to shove aside anything it hadn't directly disintegrated, making the entire room empty aside from the piles of wreckage and corpses lining the walls.

Outside, through the shattered window, we could see the war raging. More Reapers had joined the first, spread throughout the city, and the Alliance was going at it hard. Too hard. They had yet to realize that this was a war of attrition. They couldn't just throw everything they had at a handful of Reapers when there were hundreds more in space; they needed to hold back, focus on population extraction, and regroup to a central operations point to coordinate a plan of attack.

No, if you're wondering, I'm not a military strategist nor have I ever served in any military capacity. I guess way too many documentaries and video games showcasing overwhelming odds actually kicks in when you're in that situation.

Still, we had to focus on the matter at hand. Shepard, Anderson, 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺. Though survival and getting the hell back to my own life was definitely the top priority on my list, I found myself thinking about all the things we could do to help with the war. Assuming Shepard knew as little as she did in the games (or hell, for all I knew it could be a he. I'd played as both) (s)he could definitely use the support.

It was a ludicrous idea, but one that I could think about later. As I said, mind in the moment.

I nearly jumped out the window to the ledge below, but Troy's hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"What the hell are we doing?" he asked. As he said it, he glanced from Reaper to Reaper, brows slightly raised. I'd seen the look before, on him and on myself. We really didn't know what the hell we were doing; why we were chasing Shepard, why we were even here in the first place, why we believed any of this was real. We were living the plot of Mass Effect 3 for fuck's sake! That shit doesn't just happen!

Still, I'd gone through this mental process half a dozen times already. There was no answer. We were just operating on instinct, flying autopilot, because that's what seemed like the best course of action at the moment. Of course, I'd had my share of run-ins while flying blind, but this was different. This was something we truly had no choice in. The only action, however illogical it may have been, was to simply go with it and do what the smarter part of my brain told me to.

I slapped Troy on the shoulder. "I have no fucking clue dude. But right now, that's all we've got."

Then I jumped. Surprisingly enough the fall wasn't as far as it had seemed. Surely the air was lighter with a Reaper just above us and fighters rushing through the sky as well. I don't know the exact details of mass effect theory, but I read enough of the codices in the game and listened to enough dialogue to get the gist of it. Essentially, whenever something of sufficient mass powered by a mass effect engine lands in an atmosphere similar to earth's, it either decreases the mass of the objects around it or decreases the mass of gravity itself, thus making us able to do cool shit like super-jumps. Which of those is correct, I haven't the faintest idea. Also the fighters constantly swooping in probably had some effect on gravity as well, so there was that.

So you can imagine it was with ease that we began running down the same path Shepard and Anderson ran down in the game. Each step seemed to carry us twice as far, and though we were moving at an increased speed, it wasn't hard to keep my feet in front of me. You ever run so fast that your feet can't keep up with the rest of your body and you face-plant into the ground? Luckily I've only done that in grass; God help the poor bastards who've done it on concrete.

And luckily, that wasn't the case here, although it was considerably harder to slow down. Also luckily, I wasn't stupid enough to look down. Didn't even think about it at the time. I don't have any particular fear of heights, but knowing my clumsy self I could have easily fallen off that walkway, and even more so if I had realized exactly how far away the ground was. Although, now that I think about it, as light as gravity was it might not have hurt too much falling from that distance. Note the word might. I really have no clue how dense gravity really was, so more than likely it would have been similarly lethal. Falling speed compounds the higher you are, after all.

So, with that lovely thought, I leapt to a ladder and heaved myself to the roof of what may have been a building connected to Alliance HQ. I really wasn't paying attention to anything aside from the pile of dead Husks I recognized to be the handiwork of Shepard and Anderson.

"They came through here," I said, taking off in that direction.

"So we really are living the game," Troy replied, a mix between question and statement.

"Well yeah, what'd you expect?"

I could almost hear him frown. He was just as baffled as I was at our predicament. "I dunno. Alternate reality, horribly vivid shared nightmare, hell, I would've bet psychological torture if not for the fact that we've been shot at a dozen times."

I jumped down to the landing where the melee tutorial happens in the game. "I'm still holding on to the hope that this is some kind of simulation that's gotten out of control. Like a glitch with one of those new VR gaming things."

"But then wouldn't we remember that?" A valid point. "Far as I know, we stepped off a plane and into the Mass Effect universe."

"Yeah kinda shoots that theory to pieces."

We blew through the now-vacant building where Shepard performs the first heavy melee, sees the child for the first time, and has that brief chat with Anderson while crawling through debris. Seeing as all the Husks were dead and apparently another blast of Reaper fire had hit the structure, clearing the rubble from our path, it was considerably easier to make our way through.

Then we passed outside again. The battle had increased in intensity, gunships of all sizes launching hit-and-run strikes against the Reapers, only to be blown out of the sky after an unsuccessful run. The spherical Oculi were also flying about, keeping Alliance pilots busy and occasionally stopping to shoot a red beam at the ground or a building, presumably where Marines or even civilians were holed up.

I couldn't believe it. There I was, twenty-one years old, in the middle of a full-scale planetary war. Despite having picked up a gun or two in my life, the sight in front of me took the life out of my breath.

And then it just about took the breath right out of me. There was a split-second of almost earth-shattering silence, and then a roaring detonation that sent me flying a good ten feet to my left. The ground caved in under me as I went tumbling down, completely unaware of whether I was free-falling or sliding down the destroyed walkway. I thought I could feel my body slamming against something every now and again but was too disoriented to make sense of it.

I've been told I have a moderately high pain threshold. Broke my arm once when I was a kid and still kept running around playing capture the flag until my gym teacher called me out on it. Been stabbed, sliced, and cut up so many times being a mechanic and never seemed to notice a thing until whatever I was working on became covered in blood. I still have scars all over my hands and numerous marks on my body, each telling a different story about how I was too thick-headed to notice I'd done something to injure myself.

But hitting the ground after that fall, that was one experience I actually knew I was fucked. I hit the metal below with a sickening crack and all my senses faded. Couldn't hear the war being fought in the background. Couldn't smell flames or the stench of eezo polluting the atmosphere from the recently-destroyed frigate. Couldn't taste the blood in my mouth, though I learned only minutes later it was there. Even my eyes, which struggled intensely to remain open, slipped into a state of half-functionality with gray rimming my periphery.

Damn, I was a dead man. And with not even a cigarette in my mouth to alleviate a bit of the pain.

Through what little I could perceive with my dying eyes, I saw Troy laying just next to me. Didn't look quite as bad, at least I thought. He was managing to struggle weakly to his feet. I, on the other hand, just sat there immobilized, unable to even consider attempting to get up let alone actually try it.

My vision faded. The gray took over the small sliver I could still see through and was immediately replaced by black.

Only for a second. At least, that's what it seemed like to me.

When I came to again I was sitting upright, senses fully restored. The battle raged as ferociously as ever, refusing to relent for even a moment to allow me to regain my grasp on the situation.

A medic—I assumed she was a medic, anyway—knelt over me with an omni-tool in one hand and an applicator of some sort in the other. The contraption spewed an almost foamy-looking substance onto my abdomen, which I only then realized was soaked in blood. Damn, and I was wearing my favorite BAAO T-shirt, too.

"Dude, you're alive!" I faintly heard Troy scream. I leaned to the left and saw him crouched cautiously behind the medic. About half a dozen Alliance soldiers were on either side of me, using the same hunk of metal I leaned on for cover. Shooting. Ducking. We were in the middle of a battle. Not just us in a massive, frenzied area under Reaper occupation, but an actual battle with enemies just on the other side of the metal.

"Just hold still," the medic said with a stern voice. "This might hurt a bit."

That was an understatement. As much as the fall had racked my brain with unpleasantness, the medic resetting my broken ribs hurt just as equally. I hadn't even realized I was in pain until she began fixing me. Shock, more than likely. There was plenty of that to go around.

And more on the way apparently. One of the Marines on my right fell back, clutching at a hole in his navy blue armor, and toppled in a heap to the ground. The medic quickly rushed to the fallen soldier, satisfied that I was no longer dying, but evidently didn't hold much hope for him. She turned to the rest of the unit.

"This position's shit!" she yelled, picking up the fallen soldier's rifle and spraying a few bullets.

Another one, a tall colossus of a soldier, piped up, firing as he yelled. "Our orders are to get to evac shuttles and protect civilians, no matter what! Everyone get ready to roll out!"

I wondered if that included me. I was in no position to move. The bleeding had all but halted and my abdomen felt considerably less constricted, but the medi-gel (at least I'm assuming that's what it was) still needed more time to set in.

On the other hand, fuck it. If this was a dream or some kind of weird experiment-gone-wrong, I would just wake up when I died. If not, at least I'd go down fighting like a boss in the Mass Effect universe.

So yeah, fuck it was sounding like the better option at this point.

I stood to my feet, nearly vomiting as I did so, but managed to keep it down and ran for the fallen soldier's pistol. I don't know what kind of adrenaline-fueled craziness had taken me over, but I had the gun in my hands and was blind-firing before I even saw our targets.

Cannibals. Lots of them. Maybe a dozen, maybe two—it was a bit hard to count, lightheaded as I was. All I knew was that they stood in the way of me getting to Shepard and finding a somewhat plausible way to survive. And that the Predator pistol felt remarkably comfortable in my hands. I've shot a lot of guns in my day—cops in the family definitely has its privileges—but there was almost no recoil and the hair trigger made it surprisingly easy to squeeze off three or four shots before the enemy retreated. Usually three or four was enough given that they hit just the right spot.

I vaguely heard soldiers yelling at me to "get the fuck down!" but ignored all of it. I took cover when necessary, fired when the timing was right, and took down enough Cannibals that after a few minutes they realized I might just be doing them some good. That or there was just no point trying to stop me. Even Troy's much longer and profane tirades had died out to a mere "what the fuck" every now and then.

The Cannibals were ridiculous. Easy to kill, but still, it took me a minute to figure out where the weak points were. Being Reaper drones a simple headshot didn't do the trick, although a high-velocity slug from a powerful enough rifle like the Mantis or Widow probably would have worked. Instead I found where their armor was weakest: just below the right arm. The left was essentially a human corpse with a cannon at the feet, so shooting there was both disgusting and pointless. A bit of trial and error made that abundantly clear. Then again, in my state there was no way to even know if I was hitting anything aside from the debris in the background. With five other people shooting their guns in that direction it was impossible to know who was really doing the killing.

Taking cover was also something I wasn't used to. Of course I'd shot guns before, played a bit of laser tag and paintball in my day, but that's different. Nothing lethal shooting back at you, so you don't take it quite as seriously. In games you know as soon as the blinking light goes away or the next round starts you're good to go again. In real life you have to listen to the shots, time it just right, and fire in coordination with you allies so as not to get hit. The Marines could take a blow or two, but I had no shields and no armor. All it would've taken was one bullet and I'd be down, this time much more permanently.

Oddly enough though, it all came naturally. I suppose it was just adrenaline, the fight or flight instinct. Often enough we're capable of things we don't even realize until necessity kicks in and forces us to stretch our limits. Or, as I said, I could've been doing a completely horrendous job and was merely mistaking the soldier's achievements for my own. Amazing how a severe wound can interfere with your perceptions like that.

A few minutes later we seemed to be clear, a small pile of Cannibal corpses dead on the ground across from us. Though my chest and below was aching in pain, it almost numbed when compared to the sense of achievement I took at our small victory.

Which was cut severely short by one of the Marines. Apparently there was a stereotype that I'd yet to understand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" This coming from the one who'd spoken earlier about their orders. They were all wearing full body armor and helmets so I couldn't tell any difference visually, aside from the medic who was a bit smaller than her male counterparts, but I could hear enough of a distinction in their voices to know this guy had to be the leader of their unit.

"Sorry sir," I replied, "but you looked like you needed the help and we have to get the hell out of here."

"Do you know the punishment for civilian interference in a military operation?" the gigantor asked, another question along the "you're going to get us all killed" track.

"Not really." Wouldn't do any good to lie. "But in this case I don't think it matters. We're in the middle of a galactic war here, we need to get to Shepard and the 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 before they take off—"

"That isn't even close to being an option. All civilians and Alliance personnel are being directed to evacuation shuttles to regroup with Alliance Command."

"Alliance Command just got incinerated when the Reaper landed," I said. "And trust me, any evac shuttles you get in the air won't stay there long. The Reapers control the skies, surely you must realize that."

I got a few bewildered stares from some of the other Marines. Yeah, I may not know much about military life, but I've played enough video games and seen enough shit go down that I know a lost cause when I see it. Plus, in this case I really had seen it. Duh.

"How do you know all that?" the medic asked me. Wouldn't have expected her to be the one to add to the conversation.

"I . . . was on the streets below when the first wave landed." At that point I motioned to Troy. "We went to the committee chambers to see if we could find Shepard or Anderson, but it was too late. The Admirals are dead. The Commander and Councilor took off in this direction trying to reach 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺."

"Makes sense," one of the others butted in. "With 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺's stealth systems she's the only bird who could get in and out without attracting any attention."

"But why do you need to find Commander Shepard?" the medic asked.

"Daniels!" the squad leader yelled. "All of you, this is ludicrous. We have our orders; let's get our asses in gear and follow them. You two," he said, taking special care to give Troy and I death glares. "Follow us. And no more interference."

"Can't do that," Troy said, walking over to stand beside me. "We're going to find Shepard with or without you. If any of you want to survive, I'd suggest you do the same thing."

"Civilian! Come with us now, or—"

"Or you'll shoot us? The Reapers are going to do that anyway if we stay with you. Your orders are outdated. Shepard and 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 are the priority right now."

Satisfied, he turned and began jogging towards where he thought Shepard and Anderson were headed.

"I know how you guys feel about abandoning your mission," I said, "but if there's a time to screw your orders, it's now." And then I jogged off to join my cousin.

No one followed us. I figured the unit would come after us if only out of a sense of duty to protect us, but the only footsteps I heard were the ones we were creating. I wished we'd put up more of a fight. Those guys were all dead if they stayed in Vancouver.

The image flashed through my mind of the scene in-game where the civilian shuttle gets decimated by the Reaper. That little boy scrambling in only to get incinerated by laser fire. Knowing that hundreds of thousands of people were going to die here—possibly millions worldwide. I knew exactly what was about to happen and I was absolutely powerless to stop it.

In that moment I think I fully understood what Shepard had been going through for the last three years. I mean you see the toll it takes on him/her in the game, but I never related so fully to the crushing weight on Shep's shoulders until then.

Still we kept running. Wasn't even sure where we were going, only that some of the wreckage looked a bit familiar to what you see in the game. We were on the water, leaping across gaps between chunks of debris that were somehow buoyant enough to float on the surface. Even as the battle raged overhead and the Reapers moved throughout the city, my mind was stuck on that one thought.

They're all going to die.

"I think we're here," Troy said, snapping me out of my daydream.

I surveyed our surroundings, noting that we were in fact very close to the position Shepard and Anderson had to hold until 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 could reach them. I could almost hear the gunshots in the distance among the chaos of war all around us.

We nearly redoubled our efforts to reach them when I heard footsteps behind us. I instinctively swiveled to get a better view, gun at the ready expecting another assault from Cannibals.

Much to my surprise, it wasn't anyone with such ill-intent. Two Alliance Marines, one of them I recognized as the medic who'd patched me up.

If I hadn't been clutching a severely wounded abdomen and confounded by the mass hysteria in the air, I would have smiled. "Decided to come along for the ride then?"

"Not quite," the woman said. "Couldn't let a patient run off and get himself killed, even if he is being an idiot."

I did smile at that. "Well you're in luck doc, because we're almost there."

I turned and nodded to Troy, who took that as a signal to press on. Apparently while I'd been lost in my mental musings about the condition of this reality he'd found a rifle, so he led the charge alongside the soldier who'd accompanied the medic.

The LZ was littered with Cannibal corpses and two dozen of the living things. Well, I guess as alive as one can be under Reaper control. Luckily they were facing south, presumably giving Shepard and Anderson all their attention and gunfire, whereas we were coming in from the west. As one, the four of us opened fire, taking down three of them in as many seconds. Taken off-guard by this outmaneuvering on our part, the drones scrambled for suitable cover only to be gunned down from flanking fire. With four of us on their west flank, two on the south, and nothing but water north and east, the Cannibals didn't stand a chance. No cover position offered them reprieve from our assault, and they were down in ten seconds flat.

"Come on," I yelled to the group. I would've done something cool and vaulted my cover, but the medi-gel still hadn't fully settled and I was running on fumes as it was. Instead I had to opt for a more practical solution and jog around toward the platform overlooking the waterfront.

I can't even begin to describe how surreal it was seeing Shepard for the first time. She was a woman, by the way, something I'd had much speculation about. Seeing as the male Shep's physical appearance was based on a model from our time, that would have been way too freaky.

She stood there, rifle in one arm and pistol in the other, looking as though she could take on the entire galaxy. In the games people always talk about how she has some kind of inspirational bad-ass vibe that simply suffocates the room, but I didn't understand it until right then. This was the hero of the friggin galaxy, the woman who'd overcome insurmountable odds—including being killed in space and disintegrating in-atmosphere—and the one who was going to stop the Reapers. I'd never been so awed just by seeing someone.

Anderson was Anderson. Not that seeing him wasn't just as odd, but the effect paled in comparison to Shepard's. That was when it all became real.

I looked to the left at Troy, who was giving me the same questioning glance.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

The Marines had already started working their way down, so we followed suit. It would be much less awkward if they introduced us as just more civilians looking for extraction.

". . . just heading to our primary insertion point when our bird was shot down," the Marine was saying. The one whose name, rank, or identity I knew absolutely nothing about. At least I knew the medic was a medic. This guy gave me literally nothing to tell him apart from every other soldier out there.

"And the civilians?" Anderson asked, nodding towards us.

The soldier sighed. "Found them after the frigate detonated. Daniels patched them up and they got a bit . . . overzealous in their efforts to assist us. This one," and he made a point of gesturing to me, "said they had to reach you at all costs."

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰.

"What's your name, son?" Anderson asked me.

𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘥 𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥.

"Donovan," I answered. "Donovan Womble. This is my cousin, Troy."

Troy nodded.

"What was so important that you had to reach us?" Shepard asked.

I couldn't think straight. I was having a conversation with Commander Shepard and Councilor Anderson. I was in the Mass Effect universe, Reapers were attacking earth, I'd just shot and (possibly) killed several Cannibals, and I was having a conversation with Shepard.

If I was on a bad trip, whoever made the drug was a fucking genius. Insane, but a genius.

"Listen, Commander—" I began, but was cut short when a continuous gust of wind slapped my back and the sky began ringing with the sound of a huge engine whirring nearby. I guess at that point I was getting used to the sounds of mass effect drives.

I turned to find the 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 dropping down to the LZ. Not surprising, I had expected it any moment now, but still it took my breath away. I know not everyone is into ship designs—it's a bit like cars. Either you've got a thing for it or you don't—but the 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 was truly a sight to behold in real life. The games didn't do her justice. Sleek, aerodynamic, and shiny as all hell, with the classic NORMANDY SR-2 stamped on the hull. Couldn't have been more beautiful if Cerberus had shelled out another billion credits on her.

I guess someone was on the comms, because everyone but Troy and I put a hand to one ear and stopped to listen. I'd always hated being left out of the conversation. Damn third wheel bullshit.

Almost as if their movements were synchronized, everyone's hands dropped.

"Come on," Shepard said, gesturing to the group at large. "Everyone onboard."

"Ma'am? What about the civilians?" the medic asked.

"We can't just leave them now that they're here. We've got the space."

I needed no more encouragement. With a bit of help from Troy I hopped up to the open cargo bay door and spun to make sure everyone else made it.

Surprisingly, the medic and soldier were still groundside.

"You're not coming with?" I asked, mostly to the medic.

"Our duties are to protect the civilians here," she replied. "Besides, this is where the fight's at."

"And how am I supposed to survive without a doctor treating me?" I really wasn't even concerned about that; the medi-gel seemed to be holding and I wasn't in that much pain. Just the thought of anyone staying on earth, especially when these particular two had saved my life, didn't sit right.

Anderson was still on the ground too, and he stepped forward just enough so we could all hear him. "You two get onboard," he told the Marines. "𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺's got a skeleton crew as it is. They can use all the help they can get."

"But sir—" the soldier started.

"That's an order, Corporal." I could tell even without really seeing their faces that no more incentive was required. Anderson was a war hero and a damn good leader. If there was anyone in the Alliance that held the respect of every last Marine, it was him. So the soldier followed his order without further question, helping the medic up beside us.

"Come on Anderson," Shepard said. "You too."

Shit. Anderson.

"I'm not coming with you on this one, Shepard."

I could almost hear the "what the fuck are you saying" thoughts in everyone's minds. I realized how Shepard felt about it in the game, but going through it in real life made me realize even more. I felt like a real piece of shit knowing I was about to fly off to relative safety while he and the rest of the Marines stayed on earth facing the most brutal odds in the history of warfare.

"What are you saying, Anderson?"

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦.

"You heard them. These soldiers need a leader, and I'm the best they've got."

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦.

"I'm staying with you."

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵? 𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵?

"Talk to the Council. We need every species and all their fleets if we want to stand a chance against the Reapers."

𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘌𝘈 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

"They won't listen to me."

"Then make them listen. Now go, that's an order!"

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴.

"I don't take orders from you, remember?"

Anderson threw Shepard's dogtags to her and the Commander caught them easily despite having her rifle in one hand.

"Consider yourself reinstated, Commander."

The look in Shepard's eyes . . . I couldn't even hold my gaze for a few seconds. As terrible as I felt, I knew she felt a million times worse. She was leaving earth after three years of trying to prevent this, but more than that, she was leaving a friend knowing that in all probability he was going to die.

She looked at the tags briefly, then to Anderson.

"You know what you have to do," he said.

"I'll be back for you," Shepard said, her tone low and serious. "And I'll bring every fleet I can. Good luck."

Anderson didn't say anything in response. I didn't blame him, knowing what he was about to go up against.

𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 began lifting off. With one last glance Anderson ran in the opposite direction, heading towards whatever fight he could find. With each second we rose higher into the air, passing a Reaper as we did so, seeing the war unfold below us. It was . . . it was horrible. I'm not what you would call a guy who has a healthy grasp of his emotions, but seeing everything unfold like that got to me.

And then when I thought it couldn't get much worse, it did.

I followed Shepard's gaze to a landing zone down on the waterfront where two shuttles were being prepped for takeoff. Soldiers escorted civilians to their respective shuttles, and in all the panic, no one noticed the little boy lost and looking for some sort of reprieve.

I couldn't watch, but at the same time it felt like it'd be a disgrace to look away. I just stood there, eyes glued to the scene as a Reaper came from beyond the corner of a skyscraper and took notice of the shuttles about to launch.

𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧! I wanted to scream. I wanted to shoot. I wanted to jump out of the cargo bay, run up to the Reaper and beat my fists bloody against it. None of it would change anything. I couldn't stop it.

The shuttles launched. The Reaper primed its main cannon. Two beams, one per shuttle.

They were gone. All of them. Including that little boy.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴.