Choice
AN: Hey there, Joltflier here. This is my first attempt at an online submission, so be sure to tell me what you think in the comment section.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect in any form aside from a copy of the game.
Choice. One of the core principles of what it is to live, or so they say. The thing that separates sentients from the machines they create.
Never was that more apparent than in this moment.
I'm a soldier, philosophy never was a strong point of mine. If they needed a point taken, or something killed, I was the one they went to.
'Ruthless' they call me. 'Cold' and 'without remorse', all because I did the things no one else would do to finish the job.
It never occurred to me that there was a choice, there was just the objective.
I'd made sacrifices, and I alone had to bear the consequences. They were my burden, they couldn't understand. They weren't there.
Again, I never considered that a choice. It was just the way it was.
I'd been alone since the beginning, having them there didn't change the fact.
Who could know that my crew would be the family I'd never had a child?
Who could know how much they would strive to hold me up even when I didn't wish them to?
Choices. They had their own just as I did. And like me, I doubt they ever considered them to be as such.
It was just the way things were; from the beginning, to now.
They called it 'the Cycle', claimed it was the only option. They said there wasn't another choice.
It seems even the sentient among the machines fail to realize that any action taken free of direct control constitutes a choice. For all their criticizing of organics and our fallibility, they still refuse to see their own.
So strange, I never thought these would be my last thoughts. I always thought I would die in the line of duty.
I'd already done it once after all. How many could think they might have a second chance like the one I'd been granted?
How many thought living again could be a choice?
I sure hadn't.
But now, it was my time, my dues were ready.
I was dying.
No matter what I chose, I was sure of that.
It was no longer a choice.
All that remained was this last, final, choice.
Would I let everyone else die with me?
Three choices, it said. Three options.
So strange that after all their attempts to persuade me to just give up, they omitted it now from their choices. The choice to turn away. To give up.
So strange, in my last moments I never thought I would stop to think on this level. Why would I? I was a soldier. I followed orders. I did what was necessary.
The ending had never been my choice.
Three choices.
Four.
I shook my head, the fourth wasn't an option. It was right to omit it. We both knew I'd passed the point where that choice was viable.
I didn't fight and sacrifice this much just to give up.
Not that the other three were any better.
Destruction untold, the genocide of not one, but two races. The likely death of a very dear friend and crewmate. The death of a loved one. Everything left in desolation.
This was the only choice to complete my orders, finish my goal.
To complete my promise to destroy each and every one of them.
Did I have what it took to make that last consent? To make that final sacrifice to finish the job?
Could I still harden my heart against all those who'd worked so hard to pry it open?
Control unyielding. The ability to shape the galaxy to my will, while losing everything that would make that matter. What good was it to control the most powerful force in the galaxy if I lost my tie to the one thing that would keep me in check?
I was only human after all. I wasn't perfect. Stripped of my tie to my humanity, what stops me from becoming the same or worse than those I've fought so hard to stop?
What keeps me from becoming everything I've always feared I am?
Synthesis unending. To play god and change everyone and everything. To decide that no one can fight over differences when they are all the same.
What could possibly give me that right? What would it mean to strip choice from everyone for this one, all-encompassing decision?
What would it say of me to make a choice on behalf of all those who did their best to help me see I have my own?
Choices.
I'm dying. I'm out of time. A sacrifice must be made; one way or another. Did I have the strength left to reach it? To do what was required?
Did I have the will to end this?
I could spend days, months, pondering my choices; and I feel I'd still be no closer to my answer.
I don't have months. I only have moments.
I made my choice.
I began to walk, willing this dying piece of flesh to function just that much longer.
Willing myself to do what I must.
In the end, our choices matter. I'd never realized that before now. I'd never realized how many mistakes I'd made; how many times I'd failed to choose well simply by ignoring that there was a choice.
I was full of regrets. What was one more?
Perhaps, someday, others might look back and understand. Might see why I chose.
Maybe I'll have forgiveness.
In this moment, I make my sacrifice. I pay my dues.
I give all of myself, in the hopes that this last sacrifice can give everyone a chance, whether they deserve it or no.
As the pain fades, as my mind falls apart, as my vision fades to black among a sea of green. I can only hope that this last action will not be in vain, and that someday, I can have forgiveness.
Forgiveness for my choice, just this once, to play god.
My choice to do what must be done.
One last time.