The Way The World Ends
By Samuel Mansfield
First chapter starts below; reading Author's note/Disclaimer not necessary to begin reading.
Skip ahead to begin/
Disclaimer/Author's Note: By writing this, naturally I make no claim as to the ownership of Mass Effect, the Mass Effect Trilogy, or anything pertaining to the franchise. However, I would like to make it known, that while conventionally, this still is a fanfiction, the premise for it revolves around an idea which was originally conceived and ultimately adopted by me through much speculation on the ending of Mass Effect 3. (In my second playthrough of the game, and Insanity play through too, I even took notes. My friends have made fun of me for doing this ever sense, much to my chagrin, obviously) Still, I hope that the summer-slated release of the Mass Effect 3: Extended Cut will vindicate these theories in which this story will be built upon, but in the event that it does not, the nature of Mass Effect and of Commander Shepard—specifically how he envisioned by us, or me—the player-, allows me to forge my own cannon, especially in the absence of anything to contradict the telling of this story.
Still, it is a story to tell, all the same. I've always loved storytelling, and have always considered myself at least very passionate towards the art of storytelling, regardless of the medium used to tell it. In fact, the medium is the most fascinating part of it; it what's gets me to do something like write this story. I do it for myself, mostly; for practice and to make sure my writing is still fresh after all these years of fearing to do something like this again. There's a spectrum to it, and I know I'm rambling at this point, but is it important. If anyone reading this is familiar with the play The Seagull by Anton Chekhov, then you should be able to see where one side of that spectrum ends. Writing is fun, and I love doing this, but writing is just as much scary as well. A reenactment of the end of the Seagull, in which the protagonist—if you could call him that— who is himself, also an aspiring writer but stifled by the actions of an oblivious mother, who's tragic flaw is her own success, goes nonchalantly into the room leading out of his study, and just as casually ends his life off-stage signified by the firing of a gun. One moment, he's working; making progress, and finding his old spark, being critical of his own work in, at least, somewhat of a constructive manner. The next, after a… less than ideal reunion with his old childhood flame—a girl who left him for his own step dad, who was also accomplished author, yet not content with his own personal life- or his sex life too, for that matter—and ruined hers in the process. She comes back, a shell of her former self, having dealt with a miscarriage who would have been a bastard anyways, and all the while, receives no support of any kind from the father, as well as the enabler of the entire affair: the protagonist's step father. The Author. So she comes through the protagonist's window one night, running in a fluster, nor making any real sense. All she can seem to arrive upon is the imagery of a seagull which the protagonist killed for her in their youth because he loved her, but she was enraptured by his step dad, which effectively turns the protagonist into the sort of man he is by the play's… less than desirable conclusion. The kind of man who would kill himself. Offstage.
His death comes as but a footnote in the tragedy of such an… uncomfortable existence. However, it is in the nature of the execution… or we'll say, the way the deed is… carried out… is the most terrifying aspect of all of this, and therefore, the reason why most of my ideas towards picking up my pen again would take place in the small hours of the morning, where I would indulge in the fruitless endeavor of finding sleep when I couldn't even find my own train of thought, for it can easily, and in any event, will always outlast me, pushing forward into a hazy realm that my mind can only fail miserably to try to keep pace with— a straggler in my own land. A slave to my thoughts: things as interminable as they were implacable. Like Dante's circle of hell for Lust, where its denizens, if you can call them that, are carried about on the winds of their own passion. So was I for my own passions, as unreliable as they were, for they're constantly influenced by the things that influence me. Like Mass Effect.
So I won't just fall asleep, trying to neglect these thoughts that should drive me. I won't fall asleep with a title of some book or story or just an idea on my minds dry, cracked lips. I will lead my imagination back to the water… To a world weary author's watering hole, where the storyteller's true vocation is symbiotic in its relationship to the author's soul: to his spirit.
And so, as I finally can call to mind the importance of digression, I will facilitate all the brevity I'm privy to or capable of, which is to say, most likely none, and finally begin the telling of this tale.
Things to be aware of:
Almost uniformly paragon in all choices, I won't go and make a list, but if anyone would like one, I could simply take down all the variables that my game shows whenever I choose to port it into a new game. However, I'm sure you can expect what decisions those would be.
NOTE: THIS IS NOT AN ALTERNATE ENDING. THIS EXPOUNDS OF THE ENDING OF MASS EFFECT 3, REGARDLESS OF HOW "UNVIABLE" IT MIGHT SEEM TO ANYONE WHO WOULD THINK IT'S NOT SUITABLE FOR A NEW STORY. MASS EFFECT 3 WAS THE END OF SHEPARD'S TRILOGY, BUT IT IS NOT THE ENDING OF MASS EFFECT. WITH MATURITY, A SENSIBLE MIND, AND EVEN A LITTLE FAITH IN BIOWARE, WHO UP TO THIS POINT HAS ALWAYS CATERED TO OUR NEEDS—BUT MOSTLY WANTS—EVEN WHEN WE WEREN'T SURE WHAT EXACTLY IT WAS WE WANTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.
IF ANYTHING, WHETHER THIS TURNS OUT TO BE CANON OR NOT, IT WILL SERVE TO PROVE THIS POINT.
UNSHACKLE YOUR MIND FROM THE STUBBORN NUANCES THAT REIGN OVER YOUR ABILITY TO PERCEIVE MASS EFFECT.
MASS EFFECT IS WHAT IT IS, FOR BETTER OR WORSE.
AND WHAT IT IS, REGARDLESS OF YOUR VISION FOR THE UNIVERSE…
IS THAT WAY, AND MADE THAT WAY, DUE TO THE CONSTANT MINDFULNESS AND THE NEED TO CONSIDER…
WHAT IT COULD ONE DAY BE.
Samuel "Sam" Mansfield,
In the wee hours of a Saturday morning.
THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS.
CHAPTER ONE:
THE WAY A DEAD MAN FEELS.
Anderson was sure he was dead by now. Or maybe it was that he hoped instead? Hoping for something and knowing something was, to Anderson—whenever both were inclusive to each other- like trying to mix water and oil. But, hell. Maybe water and oil would mix these days, considering everything else that's happened at this point, thanks to Shepard.
To start, a Salarian of all things cured the near fifteen hundred year-long tyranny of the Genophage, the Krogan sterility plague, who he himself had helped modify during his time with Salarian Special Tasks Group, or the STG. The Salarian himself—an acquaintance of the Commander, gave his life to release the cure into Tuchanka's atmosphere, via an old Salarian facility, The Shroud, which pre-dates the Rachni Wars and built presumably sometime after the two species' first contact, and was used for the renewal and restoration of the planet's atmosphere, which was all but decimated after the Krogan first split the atom, and made the planet's surface, for the most part, largely uninhabitable. Later it was used to maintain and modify the Genophage, like the aforementioned Genophage Modification Project the Salarian STG had worked on, and now most recently, as a final insult to The Shroud's original intent and design—as well as the intent of those Salarians who originally designed it to begin with. Since the release of the cure, the Salarian government has gone largely dark, content to guard their own borders rather than help the rest of us fight, whilst meanwhile, even the Turians and Krogan are even capable of coexistence. Hell! The Krogan had almost been immediately deployed right after the cure was released, and the Krogan of Tuchanka mobilized the clans to bring the fight back to Palaven. Palaven—of all places!
Not only that, but the Quarians made peace with Geth, after three centuries of exile, and then all-out war, and then only curbed by the rhetoric of the galaxy most gifted diplomat who ever learned how to hold a gun: Commander Shepard. Commander John Shepard, the man whose name is on everyone's lips these days, and not just humans'.
In hindsight, it's fortunate that he's probably the only of his kind. A soldier, and a peacemaker. Something every politician strived to be known as; to keep up appearances, you know. That being said, the ambitions of most, if not all of the politicians and public officials that Anderson had the misfortune of having to spend his political career making nice with, even as short-lived as it was, were deadly and poisonous enough where adding actual armament to it would just be downright gratuitous. Overkill.
The fact that this wasn't the case, even amidst this war, was something for which Anderson was very grateful.
I'd rather die than have to attend even one more of those damned formal functions. Seeing every lobbyist and bureaucrat chasing somebody's ambulance… anyone's ambulance… shouting through a smile akin to Shakespeare's proverbial monsters of the Deep: perforcing upon themselves... Hell, all you would need then would be the fire and brimstone, and you'd have your own personalized Hell, because their teeth might as well be gnashing what with the influx of political bullshit making its way through that death-lock of smile—which is more akin snarl of a predator—and then escaping into the final frontier—the unfortunate sods who actually indulged in playing their little mind games—and I don't mean the ones who actually have own their own angle to it. No, not them—if anything, they probably still at least keep an ear to the ground...
No. I mean the ones who sincerely believe these people, and whatever nonsense they're deciding to feed them that particular day, and in doing so, enable them to make the rest of our lives generally as miserable as possible, because without the little people, their private empires would fall like a house of cards.
With all the politically correct hogwash and formalities and all that— it just make you want to regress back into a sort of primal barbarism, if only just to prove to them were all still animals, and our bestial nature can't be dismissed by simply choosing not acknowledge it entirely, and even the best grin from the most unscrupulous individual, be him a politician or not, cannot mask the beast that stalks the shadows of your mind, pushing you into corners you could never imagine to be so uncomfortable, but still can be seen in the smile, the eyes—even the handshake. You can put lip stick on a pig—yeah. But too bad the pig smells like a French whorehouse. It's the Achilles heel of political cosmetics: a winning smile, but what's this all about integrity? Integrity? Oh what a novel concept. Let's do try it sometime!
Yeah. I'd rather die, that's for sure… which I guess must be fortunate.
Because I'm dying.
Anderson laughed, and almost instantly after, wished that he didn't. His body was wracked in pain; subdued by an implacable fatigue that was seemingly inescapable. Immune to any sort of evasion—psychological or otherwise. It wasn't something he could skirt around, like, say, a mine field, for example.
A minefield would be like shore-leave, at this point, Anderson thought to himself.
Would be something I could at least… work with…
Anderson sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh.
Because I'm so God damn tired... And...
And... because I'm dying.
...
And here I was hoping I was already dead. Shit…
Here I wished it was already over. Over and done. Done with—God I'm so ready for this to be all over… I've never felt so.. so tired…
But then Anderson realized… and with realizing, he knew. And with knowing that he knew, the Hope he had felt not only moments ago, it died— almost casually so; nonchalantly suffocating inside the very vessel that was supposed to act as the medium in which it was carried? And the effort it took to do such a thing? The effort it took to hope for anything? To house such an circumstantially unwelcome guest on the very cornerstone where your very essence was originally forged? It's the origin— or simply, that which makes us who we are. Keeping a hope housed in the glass confinements of a soul that's already threatened with its own problems could bring the whole thing crashing down, and in retrospect, not worth taking. There wouldn't much to hope for from this point. It didn't matter. He didn't need hope. Hope is only for when you are completely clueless as to which way the wind is blowing. In the dark.
Because Anderson, as just so happened.
Anderson had the best seats in the house.
But he found himself neglecting his only advantage,
He just couldn't keep his eyes open...
Also…
Also because I'm dying...
And Anderson let loose another deep sigh. It conveyed just how world weary he'd become.
How world weary this damn war had made him.
...
But… damn
What a view
And then it was, that Anderson truly knew he wasn't dead.
A dead man doesn't hope, nor is he capable of harboring it.
He doesn't know anything-prefer anything, how can he?
A dead man has no preferences—he's dead!
And a dead man certainly does not "enjoy the view."
Even if this view could be appreciated, by anyone. The world... Earth...
Earth was burning. And he couldn't do anything. Anything to stop it from happening.
But a dead man wouldn't care—couldn't care. Anderson did far more than care, and briefly, hated the fact that was still alive all the more.
See? What a novel concept!
Anderson closed his eyes, so as to not have to witness the extinction of his species over the skies of the world that bore him. He wished he weren't here; that the shot The Illusive Man had fired from Shepard's own gun would have carried him to someplace where all he knew was not just there to be harvested. Where the world he served his life doing his duty to protect it was not burning. Delivered him from evil, even if that meant death. If only he were dead...
As if they'd save the best seats in house for a corpse, he laughed softly to himself.
I would have preferred a Matinée instead. On a Sunday, after Sunday service… And then ride out of London: Sunday-driving… no destination. Not arriving… anywhere, really. Or leaving, either, for that matter.
On my way…
Back Home. I guess?
Oh and um... By the way,
where exactly is Home again?
Anderson laughed—this time, prepared for the penalty of his defiance towards his body as it…
…Tendered its resignation, and therefore…
His too.
…
Because I'm dying.
Hah. I never went to church anyways. Hard to find them these days- ever since after '48…
Guess they packed up when we crossed the river Styx. Where's the boatman now? I'm pretty sure I've got enough on me to afford this one. After all, it's not a round trip. Pretty sure that's not even offered in the—
The ground quaked, and Anderson was introduced to a pain that was unwarranted, or, at least to him it was. He didn't laugh this time, though he was getting around to it. It was all a dead man could do, though Anderson had to correct himself that he, in fact, was still not quite dead quite just yet.
But this is how a dead man feels…
As I lay dying…
Anderson smiled: another act of defiance. At least it didn't come with its batteries included this time. It didn't bring the pain.
And with that, it drained the pleasure of his defiance. The pain reminded him he was still alive.
And remembering he was still alive helped him forget the pain.
The pain of a man, as he lays there.
Dying.
A prisoner to a body that no longer responded to him: he could not move, or keep his eyes open, or even cry.
Hell, he was incapable of even being scared at this point.
Hell... Maybe he was too tired to be scared at this point?
Or maybe just too tired to care?
Feels like it's been… years… Years… since I…
The ground shook again. This time, more violently. Anderson felt his indifference towards a pain he had not invited. He hurt, but it brought him no comfort, though, I guess that would be considered normal… However, pain brought through his own defiance was justified through the autonomy of such insubordination. Of the act itself. Insubordination generally alludes to some sort of independence; it reflects on a certain degree of control one exhibits over himself and the functions he's capable of. Feeling capable of anything, even the autonomy to bring about one's own… discomfort? Even that was worth it.
It reminded him he was alive.
But the involuntary spasms of the earth… floor, ground—whatever—of the Citadel as it began to do… whatever it was supposed to do… (Work, hopefully, thought Anderson)
No….
No.
The pain brought on by its occurrence did not remind Anderson he was alive.
It reminded him he was vulnerable. Like a baby, in its crib…
As the rest of the house is burning down…
So Anderson did something better than laugh. He did something better than trying out a sort of masochism to help him to forget or put off for now the waning of his own mortality.
Yes…
As I lay dying…
In my time of…
Yes. Anderson did something more… as to show the true extent of his defiance.
It would serve as the final insult. An insult intended for Death, perhaps later to be fed liberally to his hounds. The ones he sets to those… as they lay dying. Laying, because they're dying. And dying as they lay. No burials. No wake. Just stillness.
And as Anderson lay dying, his defiance was made into a weapon in which, even in his present state, he could wield like a god damn sword.
Yes. In his defiance, Anderson did the thing no man thinks he'll do. As he lays; dying…
Anderson began to sing.
"In my time of dying,
Don't want no one to mourn…
All I want for you to do…"
Anderson coughed, mid-sentence; and tried to cover his mouth with his hand…
He pulled his hand from his mouth, and from the corner of his eye, saw the same hand…
Covered in blood.
His blood.
Anderson coughed more violently, perhaps from his mind registering the significance of what that meant, that he's dying from more things, possibly, than he can even account for at this point. He was tired; sleep beckoned to him like an impatient mistress, but he had more pressing concerns, especially as, after the fit of coughing had finally ceased, and found soon that both of his ashy colored hands were coated in a viscous material that was obviously his blood, but also something more. Most likely, phlegm, but still, he couldn't help but feel that the blood on his hands were darker than they should be. Like they wouldn't wash out, even if he was privy to the means in which he could do such a thing… but he felt that, even if he could or even tried, it wouldn't wash out. Like Macbeth...
Anderson sighed, More Shakespeare… Why did I have to grow up in London?
Shall I compare it to a summer's day?
Shall I compare this to a summer's day? Today?
Certainly not... all those lovely days are gone—damn you Shakespeare.
What would you write, if you were here with me?
We'd have the best seats in the house... but would leave with the heaviest hearts. Lead.
Tell me Philosopher...
Is this the cause of Thunder?
The blood spilt on the ground, seeping through the soil; trying to escape the coming fire.
And all the while, I sit here... still alive, for no reason other than I'm not dead yet.
Anderson looked down to his hands. No, he was not dead. Not yet. But he knew the unavoidable outcome bound up in all of this. So, naturally, he did not provide any hope the opportunity this time around to encumber him with the illusion that this would conclude in any other way besides the way he expected, which was with eventual death. He wouldn't even allow himself to hope that said death will merciful, painless, or even quick. As preferable as quick, painless death appealed to Anderson, he himself couldn't say, as much as he wanted it, that such was his preference. Because whatever fate he was moving towards, it would be whatever fate had in store for him. And looking at his hands again... Fate seemed to be a cruel, uncaring sovereign to swear fealty to.
So, Anderson decided to take his mind off his hands, and continued singing, albeit, in a raspy, dry voice. He didn't get far before provoking another bout of coughing. Which meant more blood on his hands.
Because I'm dying…
And, because I'm going to die here.
And I must accept that...
Because I'm dying.
I'm dying, God damn it...
More determined than ever, he sang. Boldly.
"Well, well, well…
…so I can die easy"
"Well, well, well…
…so I can die easy."
The ground shakes again. The whole Citadel is reverberating with something very much like a hum now. An audible hum: similar to the one made by the Normandy's eezo drive core, but much louder, and literally moved the entire Citadel in concert around Anderson as the closed space station rearranged itself, groaning and moaning in the process like an old mutt left out in the sun for too long. Or like chassis of a mech, rusted from rain but made to run around. Do somersaults.
Made to run the whole nine yards, and then some.
Like me, huh? Will I be running the whole nine yards too? Why do I feel as if…
Anderson continued to sing, temporarily putting that train of thought on hold, if only for a moment…
"Jesus is gonna make up…
The Citadel continued to groan, and the hum became slightly less audible, the vibrations, slightly less noticeable.
Jesus is gonna make up…
A metallic clicking sound was heard, like as if the point of something came to rest on another part of the Citadel, followed by the return of the hum, but not the vibrations with it. The clicking sound continued, as if it was swaying just ever so slightly to keep prodding whatever it was making contact with, like a pendulum, but with less momentum.
It was almost as if it was trying to remind someone of something… Whoever and whatever that was. It didn't concern Anderson. Anderson had done his part. All he had to do now was wait. Wait for the end to come, in the thick of his time of dying...
His time.
"Jesus gonna make up me dying in bed…"
Anderson almost laughed again at the irony of his choice of songs to sing as he waited for this all just to be over. It was almost unfair in a way that he could not have just simply died already. He deserved that much. After staying on Earth, surviving the Reapers… and then…
Anderson shuddered. He tried his best not to think about it: the truth. The ugly, disgusting, embarrassing, shameful truth. He had not been strong enough. His mind was a resource that had been made available given the circumstances. Given his decision to stay. It was fine in Vancouver, or, at least, nowhere near as bad as what he came to see and experience firsthand.
Anderson took the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and rubbed away at his rose-tinted vision where everything seemed to now lack substance and depth. Like as if everything were two dimensional primarily, but sticking up way to close at you. Like it was being put right up in your face for your convenience. Obviously, this was not the case.
Anderson, for once, now finally gave his surroundings a cursory look-over.
Where's Shepard? He wondered.
He was right next to me the last I saw, before I blacked out for a while… or however long I was out. It couldn't have been that long.
Could it?
Anderson looked up towards the podium that he been "using" when Shepard was first arriving. When Shepard…
Fell for the bait. God, forgive me…
Was he dead? Unlikely. He looked at where he last saw Shepard, there were no signs of a scuffle, or that Shepard had been injured any more than what he arrived with, which is hard to say exactly to what extent he was injured. Anderson's memory was a haze of details, like a dream that he felt completely versed in when he was living it, but now that he's woken up, it will hang off the edge of his tongue for days, teasing his memory but never yielding anything more than simply more time wasted spent trying to remember. But God, he felt as if he should know what was going on!
And then it happened. A light shone down from the concave ceiling of wherever they were in the Citadel— at first, it was almost blinding. And then, it was. Almost directly after this light source's debut, the entire room was flooded with light. Thick, impenetrable, impermeable light: like the sun had literally been thrown down at you, if not only to distract you, because such things w at their—the enemy's- disposal. It was like being in a room where a woman was walking out from a shower, and she makes you turn around or leave the room altogether so as to give her privacy. That's what Anderson was reminded of here.
That's what he was reminded of… until the light gave way to the secret it had tried to initially keep hidden. To its… cargo.
Commander Shepard. It was Commander Shepard. And that was when Anderson was reminded of something he both thought he would never forget, but could ultimately at this point not have to worry about.
Because I'm dying…
And he remembered.
He remembered his duty.
Anderson stood up. It was awkward, and definitely painful process on his end, but there was a palpable… element—or even like a spirit or ghost of some sort that clearly possessed him. It wasn't something supernatural or paranormal. It was something innate and buried so deep inside Anderson that it becomes obvious it's something he's carried with him for a while.
It's no spirit, or Reaper indoctrinating him… No. The prior doesn't exist in any reality he's familiar with… and the latter…
The latter he could tell from experience, in spite of how contemptuous that made him feel… about…
About himself.
The entire Citadel shook—this time in markedly different manner from any other time before, and the hum returned as well. This time, it was definitely louder.
Much louder.
Admiral Hackett's voice buzzed through the podium
"Shepard! Commander, do you read? The Catalyst is doing something; the Citadel seems to be priming for… something. It's opened its arms— I believe it's priming to fire, Commander, but we have no way to be sure.
If you read me, you need to evacuate the Citadel immediately. I repeat: evacuate the Citadel immediately. The Citadel looks like it's-"
Anderson leaned over the console and responded. Hackett's expression immediately hardened upon seeing Anderson. Anderson wasn't sure how much Hackett could see of him from his perspective, but by the looks in his eyes, Anderson could tell he made the connection almost instantaneously.
Anderson was dying.
"I read you Admiral… Steven," Anderson replied, "I have the Commander; he's with me—safe for now."
"David, neither of you will be if you don't get out of there, now! The Citadel is priming to fire. I can't say what will happen after it fires, whether the Citadel will make it or no—"
"I'm on it Admiral," Anderson cut him off. His voice was devoid of any sort of encumbrances, and driven by his implacable sense of duty and responsibility- and David was responsible. He knew that, even if Hackett and Shepard will never know. Hopefully, they'll never know.
Dead men tell no tales… No lingering sentiments; residual as the worst kind always are…
Just silence. And stillness: an all-encompassing… abyss, and in the stillness:
Deliverance.
Deliverance from evil, and danger: yes. But more importantly… from a debt I can never repay.
I'm so sorry John. I hope you never have to learn the truth… And if you do…
"Forgive me, Steven… Admiral," Anderson took his hand off his chest where he'd been hiding the gunshot wound where The Illusive Man had shot him in what seems like an entire lifetime ago. He wasn't only hiding the wound, but keeping pressure to staunch the flow of blood, which there was a lot of.
"But we both know only one person will be waiting down there to see you when this is over. It won't be me. It was never meant to be… I was never meant to…"
Hackett said nothing.
"Good bye, Steven. It's time I passed the torch. To the next generation… We're getting old, you know that?"
"Yeah."
"We did good. No… you did good. Damn good. You, and the boy."
"He's not a boy anymore,David. None of us are. Not after this."
"Maybe. But's he more of a man than I could claim to be… or... could claim to have been."
Anderson paused only a second before looking Admiral Steven Hackett dead in the eyes with all the intensity a dying man could muster when he's dying on his feet. With his boots on.
"Tell him I'm sorry. For everything."
There was no clear indication as to whether Admiral Hackett understood what Anderson wanted Hackett to tell Shepard he was sorry for, but the silence spoke volumes.
"Yes, David. I will"
Maybe next time I can die in bed, with bare feet wrestling gingerly with smooth, white silk sheets. Like falling asleep.
Or just like falling… Oh Kahlee… If only things could have been different.
Than maybe I might have been stronger... when it counted most.
Anderson carried Shepard as fast as he could to the conduit that he first arrived here by. It was only a short distance—make a couple of odd hundred feet. A stroll in the park for some, but for a man who's supposed to be dying, and for a man who's probably somewhere in-between, or the very least, just unconscious, Anderson had his work cut out for him. Shepard was a lot of dead weight to carry for a man who'd only just recently been shot. But Anderson did not struggle, or at least did not show it. Instead, he sang. Singing, as he "marched," like the soldiers used to back in London. Singing as they marched along, snare drums marking their pace as they passed on by. Anderson loved seeing that as a boy, and wanted to die similarly as a man. Singing as he marched along to the end of long, drawn-out tale that was his life. He wanted to die with a tune locked in his throat, like a bird in some gilded cage. He wanted to die with it filling his voice with warmth that extended far beyond what a dead man should feel—or a dying one should. Anderson was not dead. Not yet.
"Well meet me Jesus, meet me…
Meet me in the air"
Anderson was so close now; he could see the conduit, but the Citadel felt like it was shaking itself apart, trying to, like Anderson, to just be done with it all at this point. Anderson smiled humorously when he realized that his tomb would also become analogous to himself now as well. Anderson and the Citadel were relics of another time, collecting dust at the top of the shelf, getting older, and with age, more outdated.
But this was something only he could do. And by god! God dammit, he was so damn close!
"If these wings should fail me,
"Lord, won't you meet me with another pair!..."
Even closer.
"Well, well, well…"
A few more steps…
"So I can die easy…"
Now kneel down… and lower him. Gently.
"Well, well, well…"
"So I can die easy…"
Hurry. The whole thing's gonna come undone. Need to… just…
"Jesus is gonna make up,"
Need to just…
"Jesus is gonna make up,"
And finally, just need to...
"Jesus is gonna make up…"
And… there!
"Jesus is gonna make up me dying in bed."
"Good. He's gone. Safe. It's over. It's finally…"
And then, Anderson's world exploded into the most beautiful colors and lights that he'd never seen before, or anything like them! And, before it consumed him, he wept at the sight of something so beautiful as it wrapped his entire body in a strange, warmth—like a bed made of lights and colors that he could die in. Where he could die easy.
And for a moment, he could feel his spirit; glowing.
His spirit was on fire, with a hunger that was even greater than any Reaper. All their capitol ships were cast into the shadow of his now indomitable spirit, as it went super nova inside his very body, transcending flesh, bone, and marrow which once could confine it, before it simply consumed these trappings in its journey to rejoin the collective energy of the universe, maybe one day to be put to use again. But, for now at least, it was the energy of the universe, and even before it becomes lost in the vastness of space and tangled up in the different folds in the fabric of time, it was damned palpable; it could burn you, and the flames danced with the luster of a thousand souls, taking in another kinsmen, and adding to a universal potential. Pure energy, carried on cosmic winds...
Anderson became something greater than our ability to comprehend or understand, in ways that would only belittle our understanding of how this Universe can truly be interpreted. But Anderson, in this one moment, was not something we could interpret, or could be made subject to our interpretation, because the moment his spirit became tangible, it outshone a million eyes like a million suns, seeing a million futures, with a hundred billion different possibilites that would realize themselves in a hundred million ways, and he touched all of the space both there and between, and in doing so, shared the sorrows, joys, fears, anxieties hopes, dreams and ideals of an otherwise disconnected universe, and shared in all of their burdens in a single glorious moment of transcendence that ushered in a sort of cosmic synergy. In this moment, Anderson was like a God: Omnipotence in tangible form, and projected across the countless sea of stars, on which it thus began its maiden voyage into the great unknown, riding on the crest of something that would carry him off to a place where the living cannot follow... as we watch, marring this passage with indifference, as we are wont to. Mired in this indifference, we inhibit ourselves, secular as we are, and cannot see the bigger picture being painted right before our very eyes on the canvas of the night sky. Anderson escaped these inhibitions, like a phoenix rising from gold, and not ashes, and blazing a trail across the skies of Earth, and all of her colonies, just like a comet, but harnessed by this new energy just released into the universe. And only when it becomes so pellucid and so palpable that you fear you might drown... does it leave you, but singes the soul: brands it- simply for bearing witness to the unbridled beauty of an unforgiving cosmos, as cruel as she is beautiful, and tonight, her agent Anderson. Anderson, a man... or a god? No. Definitely a man, but definitely something else. Maybe an instrument of some higher power, or maybe something beyond imagining. Something amazing, and if not, then simply and reminder to us this universe itself is amazing, and capable of anything.
It was something wonderful. And Anderson touched every part of the Universe in this way, and everything that existed was brought together, for a single glorious moment.
And then he was gone,
And the galaxy was set on fire,
And everything changed. Forever.