This is a short piece I wrote before ME3 came out. My idea of how the sides should get a rematch... one day.
I own nothing you recognize. If you do recognize, you know who does.
Perfection.
They couldn't do the math.
Thousands of cycles. Tens of thousands. Every time, all spacefaring life - harvested. Many trillions. Sometimes more. Enough to make thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of the Demiurges. Millions upon millions should have existed, even of the largest ones.
Yet so few came to this Harvesting. Nazara said they will blacken the skies of every world… yet the skies were all but clear.
For they were the Demiurges. Not perfect. Not supreme. For many cycles, they collected the harvested material, immeasurable amounts of it. They built millions of themselves. And yet, that was but a tiny fraction of the material. And just the dregs of it. Most of it, the best of it, was stored for the Perfection. And every broken Demiurge that could be recovered, it, too, became part of the Perfection.
Nazara had limited contact with the rest. It didn't know that after the last cycle, the decision was made to wait no longer. To craft the Perfection. Many of the Demiurges gave themselves up, broken down. So important, so massive was the job, that but a single small tentacle was spared for this Harvesting. So small that it wasn't enough.
But it didn't matter. For now, the Perfection was ready. Surrounded by the unworthy specks of the Demiurges, it was about to harvest the galaxy. Then, many galaxies. The Perfection could not be stopped. The universe will feel its might.
The HQ of the Galactic Alliance Military.
They never believed it could happen. Yes, Commander Shepard insisted there might be more out there, but they all hoped it was a mistake. Still, the alarms were there. Never activated except as a drill, yet still carefully maintained. And now they were sounded.
It was chaos. People were running in all directions. And weaving through their mass, the Supreme Commander ran toward his office.
When he entered it, the room looked on fire. Every single display and alarm was flashing red. The implants in his head already transmitted all the necessary data to him, but he needed the displays.
It had to be seen to be believed.
The figures on the display confirmed what he already knew. Yasnitsa, a major colony on the edge of the inhabited galaxy, was under Reaper attack. Huge numbers of them, far more than the 22nd century invasion, were literally ripping the planet apart.
Despite the numbers, the Commander knew that the galactic races were not doomed. Their strength was so much more now than during the first invasion. It will be difficult, but they could prevail. They will prevail.
Yet even as he told himself that, a chill entered his heart. Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the enormous sphere dwarfing the Reapers. The Perfection. The Death Star.