First Contactla_libertineJuly 12 2012, 01:55:40 UTC
ME3 EC SPOILER
"So be it," said the Child in a distinctly non-childlike voice. Turning from her, it shimmered and disappeared, leaving her alone on the platform, facing the three Avenues of Choice.
She grunted with pain as her lifeblood continued to drip steadily from her wounds, and then the heavens above her opened with deadly fire as the might of the Reapers bore down upon collected ranks of the Alliance of the Species. Nightflowers bloomed against the stars as ships exploded into the void, the lives of those within extinguished forever. Alliance guns tore into the Reapers as well, but the scorchings they inflicted grew less with each passing second.
The Shepard watched the display for a moment, her face blank, and then brought up her omni-tool. She keyed in a quick message and sent it off. The orange glow remained, however, and she looked up to see the fiery burst of a dreadnought above her. Detritus hurtled towards her unshielded platform. The Shepard closed her eyes.
...
Back on the Ship of Normandy, the Major's omni-tool pinged. Distracted from his station of battle, he glanced down to see the Final Message of the Shepard. I failed. I love you. He gripped his station, appendages whitening, and turned to the Joking Pilot.
"She's gone. Do what needs to be done."
The Pilot looked at him quizzically. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "Do it."
Shrugging, the Pilot complied. The Ship of Normandy veered into the field of battle, her main gun firing. The Major shuddered with each blast, watching as the ranks of ships around him disintegrated.
The Ship of Normandy centred on a Reaper, the largest in their vicinity, and it turned to face them. Its position changed, revealing its underbody cannon, and the Major clenched his jaw.
"Fire," he said, and the forward screen exploded in a field of ruby light.
The Professor looked up from her reading of The Deeds of The Shepard, an overblown dramatisation of the hero's life, popular at the time of its first release some one hundred or more solar cycles ago. The class before her displayed varying degrees of attentiveness, as was to be expected in a room full of teenagers, from outright boredom to an occasional tear from highly emotional girls. She stood up.
"That's enough for today. For tonight's task, please complete a précis on the decisions The Shepard faced at the Avenues of Choice, why you feel she rejected them, and how we have benefited from this today."
A chime sounded in the room and the class began to stand. She raised her voice. "No less than one thousand words! On my desk, start of next class."
Students grumbled as they left, and she sighed, sitting down again. She raised a hand to her head and smoothed away a tension spot. Would they be ready?
She turned to face the great clock that dominated the sunward wall of the room, mandatory in all rooms at the Academy of the Shepard. Its numbers counted down: steadily, inexorably. Barely five hundred day cycles until the Return of the Reapers.
They had to be ready. This class would be the vanguard, the first wave of offence against the invasion.
"Shepard help us all," the Professor muttered, and got back to grading essays.
Prompts: ~ Only mostly dead. ~ Brute Squad. ~ You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
"So be it," said the Child in a distinctly non-childlike voice. Turning from her, it shimmered and disappeared, leaving her alone on the platform, facing the three Avenues of Choice.
She grunted with pain as her lifeblood continued to drip steadily from her wounds, and then the heavens above her opened with deadly fire as the might of the Reapers bore down upon collected ranks of the Alliance of the Species. Nightflowers bloomed against the stars as ships exploded into the void, the lives of those within extinguished forever. Alliance guns tore into the Reapers as well, but the scorchings they inflicted grew less with each passing second.
The Shepard watched the display for a moment, her face blank, and then brought up her omni-tool. She keyed in a quick message and sent it off. The orange glow remained, however, and she looked up to see the fiery burst of a dreadnought above her. Detritus hurtled towards her unshielded platform. The Shepard closed her eyes.
...
Back on the Ship of Normandy, the Major's omni-tool pinged. Distracted from his station of battle, he glanced down to see the Final Message of the Shepard. I failed. I love you. He gripped his station, appendages whitening, and turned to the Joking Pilot.
"She's gone. Do what needs to be done."
The Pilot looked at him quizzically. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "Do it."
Shrugging, the Pilot complied. The Ship of Normandy veered into the field of battle, her main gun firing. The Major shuddered with each blast, watching as the ranks of ships around him disintegrated.
The Ship of Normandy centred on a Reaper, the largest in their vicinity, and it turned to face them. Its position changed, revealing its underbody cannon, and the Major clenched his jaw.
"Fire," he said, and the forward screen exploded in a field of ruby light.
The Professor looked up from her reading of The Deeds of The Shepard, an overblown dramatisation of the hero's life, popular at the time of its first release some one hundred or more solar cycles ago. The class before her displayed varying degrees of attentiveness, as was to be expected in a room full of teenagers, from outright boredom to an occasional tear from highly emotional girls. She stood up.
"That's enough for today. For tonight's task, please complete a précis on the decisions The Shepard faced at the Avenues of Choice, why you feel she rejected them, and how we have benefited from this today."
A chime sounded in the room and the class began to stand. She raised her voice. "No less than one thousand words! On my desk, start of next class."
Students grumbled as they left, and she sighed, sitting down again. She raised a hand to her head and smoothed away a tension spot. Would they be ready?
She turned to face the great clock that dominated the sunward wall of the room, mandatory in all rooms at the Academy of the Shepard. Its numbers counted down: steadily, inexorably. Barely five hundred day cycles until the Return of the Reapers.
They had to be ready. This class would be the vanguard, the first wave of offence against the invasion.
"Shepard help us all," the Professor muttered, and got back to grading essays.
Prompts:
~ Only mostly dead.
~ Brute Squad.
~ You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
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