Never Fear, The Saints are Here
Shepard looked up at the ash filled sky of London, now devastated by the destructive force of the Reapers. Even with the combined and hardworking efforts of all the Citadel races in the entire galaxy, numerous Reaper forces remained alive and standing, continuing to pulverize any attempt of resistance found in their deadly path of extermination.
Shepard stared in horror as the British landmark clock tower began to lean on its side. Its support beams gave away entirely. The old structure of Big Ben collapsed with a mighty grinding slam. The faint sound of a ringing bell could be heard tumbling out onto the ruined streets, bumping into every abandoned car down the road. At the corner of his eye, the Commander noticed a few teenagers in bright purple clothing running around haphazardly around the street. With them, they carried old gunpowder pistols and champagne. Shepard wore a face of unmistakable disgust; a bunch of kids partying in a war against complete extinction of all galactic races.
Not a moment later, a massive, near-deafening explosion rocking a nearby reaper off its massive metal tentacles. Shepard took his attention away from the teenage hooligans and stared up at the massive metal behemoth. It began to tip over, its shadow now enveloping the area where the Commander stood. He immediately took off in an adrenaline-induced sprint, avoiding the terrible fate of being crushed like a bug underneath the body of the falling monstrosity. Shepard narrowly escaped his death, hopping away seconds before the Reaper smashed into the ground and knocked over a demolished building, creating a short domino effect over two blocks. The shockwave from its impact kicked up a flurry of dust and ash high up into the air, rupturing the ground with ripples of waves. He struggled to breath through the ash-filled air in his lungs. He coughed and heaved, crawling on his hands and knees away from the fallen reaper. Off in the distance, Shepard's ears perked, hearing approaching footsteps not a yard away from him. He patted around his belt for his pistol as he tried to look up, but the ash and dust stung his eye.
"Do you need a hand there, mate?" a deep cockney voice asked him.
Squinting, Shepard saw a gloved hand being extended above his face. Taking the hand, he was helped up back onto his feet and rubbed his eyes clear. His helper had a prominent sideburn, wore a bowler hat on his head as well as a gold-plated monocle on his right eye. For clothing, the man wore a black trench coat and pants embroidered with elegant gold and purple designs. His hands and feet sported leather gloves and polished black shoes. Around his neck was a golden fleur-de-lis, hung there by a golden chain.
"Are you alright? Here, let me dust away the rubbish off your shoulders." He proceeded to do just that.
"Who are you?" Shepard asked. Why was this man dressed as if he was a guest in a ballroom? Does he not realize they're in a middle of a warzone?
"Me? Nobody asked for my name before," he responded, shrugging his shoulders, "Just call me the Boss like everybody else."
"Excuse me?"
Before the Boss could say anything else, a car rolled up right beside them. It was a wheeled twenty-first luxury vehicle colored with purple and gold hues. Shepard wondered who drive such an old and ancient vehicle in this day and age, but he was not able to see the driver through its heavily tinted lavender windows. The passenger door opened, revealing a man in grey pants, black shoes, a purple shirt and purple tinted glasses. He was in a middle of a battlefield, and yet he wore no body armor of any kind. He could even see highly decorated purple Fleur-de-lis tattoos on his bare arms and shoulders. The man tightly held a gold-plated Kalashnikov with wood furnishings in his arms, clenching it as if it was his only child.
"Hey Boss, you done jerking off here? We got alien asses to kick." His voice carried no trace of fear, no trace of anxiety, no trace of anything but the assuring sound of inevitable asskicking.
"Hold on there, Johnny. I think we have a new compatriot here." He waved to Shepard, who was brushing off dirt from his face.
"Sorry Boss, but I'm not waiting around for some random guy off the streets while these giant walking calamari bastards are still blowing our shit up."
Pulling back the level mechanism on his weapon, he jumped into a nearby functioning hovercar and flew up into the smoky air, leaving behind the Boss and Shepard in the arms of the arriving company of the Third Street Saints. He turned the wheel, sailing towards the direction of the Reaper force. One saw his approach, raising its massive single red eye to shoot him down. Johnny Gat skillfully dodged the red death beam and soared over the Reaper's head. He hopped out, sending the empty vehicle crashing into the monolith, leaving a small crater behind. Pulling a second gold-plated Kalashnikov from his back, he fired both of his weapons in all its glory. He yelled his battle cry, running along the body of the Reaper, all the while sending a hail of hot copper jacket lead into the robotic creature. It reared up and screeched in pain. Johnny Gat began to slide down the moment the metal surface began to turn vertically. The change of angle did not at all prevent Johnny Gat from continually shooting the dying reaper beneath his feet. He hopped away just in time for the Reaper to slam onto the ground; a shockwave of dust and rubble burst along the seams of the metal cuttlefish. Gat flew swiftly through the air and smoothly landed on the roof of a ruined skyscraper. He dusted dirt and dust off his clothing as he rose from his knees, before cranking his head up to meet face-to-face with another reaper. But this, however, was no ordinary Reaper. This was the Harbinger, and with its deep and ancient voice, it spoke to Gat as if he was naught but an insignificant cockroach.
"Your resistance is impressive, but inevitably futile. In due course, you and your species will fall and the next cycle will begin."
"Oh yeah? In due course, I'm about to rip you a new asshole."
Johnny Gat pulled a Rocket Propelled Grenade miraculously from his back, enchanted with the pimptastic power of the Third Street Saints, and shot it directly at the Harbinger's glowing red eye. It tried to shoot down the grenade from the air with its death ray, but the projectile proved to be far more powerful than its measly light beam. It emerged from the red ray unscathed, much to the Harbringer's dull surprise. The grenade rocketed right into its single eye, through Harbinger's body, and out the other side in a spectacular view of sparks and flying scrap metal. Johnny Gat turned and walked slowly away, his RPG resting on his shoulder. Time seemed to slow as the Harbinger exploded brightly behind him.
Just then, several hundred highly customized low-riders and luxury cars, spray painted with sparkling purple and trimmed with gleaming gold, erupted wondrously into the ash-filled air from the openings of smoldering ruins. Their occupants, wearing the same fantastic color scheme, cheered out all at once. They held early twenty first century weapons in one hand and a beer in the other. They blasted their weapons in the air, brass shells raining down and clattering everywhere on the shattered pavement beneath them. They soared majestically in an arc, leaving behind a long trail of loose paper money, booze, and the wonderful smell of shiny bling. On cue, multiple Reaper forces fell in a blaze of gold and purple, crumbling, and powerless against the Saint's gangster army. With Johnny Gat majestically leading the front lines, ripping apart husks with nothing but his middle finger, the calamari robots stood no chance.
In just a few short moments, the tides have turned between the Earth's forces and the Reapers. What was a fight for survival against extinction became winning battle against the retreating robotic cephalopods, all thanks to the mighty pimp power of the Third Street Saints.