How Shepard Would Really Do It: Fixing Mass Effect 3
A/N: Bored, and not really in the mood to work on my other stories, so I'll just kinda screw around with this. Enjoy. Or don't. Whatever.
Shepard looked ahead, rubbing his forehead. He had a hell of a headache coming on, and this stupid AI and it's obnoxious choices weren't helping. Kill his new allies, make a life-altering decision for every living creature, or become the very thing he was trying to destroy. Oh, yeah, and die. Fucking wonderful. He rolled his eyes. There really couldn't just be a nice, big, anti-Reaper gun? There really had to be these stupid consequences for each of his 'options'? He sighed. Guess this is it. He began to make his way towards the power conduit he would need to destroy to take out the Reapers. Might as well do what I came here to do. Sorry Geth, I know you just gained souls, and peace with your three century old enemies, and acceptance with the galactic community, but I've got to wipe you out.
However, as he raised his pistol to shoot, he stopped. Why? Why would he give up now? When had he ever done that since he began this long and arduous campaign? Never! No reason to start now. He turned towards the Catalyst. The shimmering AI douche-bag looked back at him. "You must choose."
"I know." Shepard responded. "I've made my choice." He walked away from the power conduit and past the Catalyst, flipping it off. He activated his suit radio, which inexplicably still worked after being blasted off by Harbinger. "Hackett, this is Shepard. Blow up the Citadel." Shepard waited a few seconds for a response.
"Commander, I must be getting interference. It sounded like you said 'blow up the Citadel'."
"Yeah, I did. See, there's an AI who controls the Reapers, and he's part of the Citadel. Blow up the Citadel, no more AI. No more AI, no more Reapers."
"What about all of the people on the Citadel? And you? You'll all be killed!" Shepard thought for a moment.
"Only target the Presidium. I'll get the people here off the station. The wards oughta be safe."
"How will you do that?"
"I'll figure something out, Admiral. You know how I am."
"Roger that, Shepard, sounds good. Commencing attack."
Satisfied, Shepard took off at a sprint, as the Catalyst shouted after him. "Wait! You must choose!" Not paying the little bastard any mind, Shepard began frantically searching for a form of transport. Suddenly, he saw it. It was beautiful. In a Presidium shop window, a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport sat gleaming, begging to be driven. "Perfect." Dashing inside the store, he swiped the keys from behind the counter and got in, turned on the engine, and listened for a moment to the beautiful roar of the 1200 horsepower, W16 engine. He gunned the motor and took off, scooping up the residents of the Presidium. It was a tight squeeze; after all, it was just a car. But, he was Commander Shepard. He made it work. After picking up the Council (saving their asses for, what, the third time now?) he pressed a button he had somehow had time to install, which made the car spontaneously grow wings. He put his foot down, and blasted off the station at 261 miles per hour.
He banked right, giving his passengers a view of the station as Sword and Shield fleets hammered it with volleys of cannon fire. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your right, you can see the extinction of a race of genocidal, sentient dreadnoughts." After a few minutes of bombardment from the combined fleets of the galaxy, the Presidium ring shattered. Immediately, the Reapers powered down, the lights along their superstructures going out, and their tentacled bodies going limp. Shepard put his head back, relaxing. Another job well done. Now, all there was left to do was celebrate. Starting with him getting some quality time with the female members of his squad. He smiled contentedly at the thought.