Chapter 15 – The Final Countdown

AN: Ugh. As usual, life threw me down from the high place and smote me on the ruin of the mountain of time. But somehow people on SB have started liking this story all of a sudden. And these likes, akin to theurgic chanting, have summoned me from my rest! I rise from somnambulic oceans like dread Cthulhu! Or more like a harried waiter finally coming back to your table to apologize that your food is taking so long to make.


Omake/intro:

A petite lady is sitting at a table, sighing down at a mostly blank paper. There was a single line of text;

-UN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S-

Groaning, she took a sip from the massive mug next to her.

Her eyes bulged, and she sprayed liquid over her desk. She stood up and slammed her hand on the desk. "What is this shit!?"

Grabbing the mug she stormed out of the room. She slammed the door behind her causing the "Head Muse" placard on the door to clatter to the floor.

She glanced at the bank of elevators then sneered and took the stairs. Down, down she stomped. Finally at the bottom, she kicked open the push-door, and walked into a massive factorium.

Machinery and massive glass condensers filled the vault. Multi-colored liquids piped between, around, and through the work floor. Catwalks stretched overhead and workers bustled about; white coats, clipboards, and hardhats.

She stomps over to a gaggle of murmuring overseers and thrust out her mug. She pointed at it. "What. Is. Happening."

They glanced nervously at each other.

"The juice mix isn't alchemizing as we expected."

"The crack ratio was correct, but we're getting fantasy traces with no sci-fi elements in the fermentation process."

"We're processing a new batch, but it will take some time to coalesce."

"Until then, this is all we have."

She glared at the mug and took another tentative sip. She swished it around, then swallowed.

"Ugh. Not bad, but it's a completely wrong flavor. How can I get any writing done if the creative juice isn't right?"

The scientists glanced at each other. "M…maybe you could write something different until we get the new batch in?"

She sneered up at them. "Tried that even before I drank this swill. The Boss isn't happy that we're this close," She raised her other hand, forming a cruel claw. A tiny crack of space between her thumb and index finger. "This fucking close to actually finishing the stupid story! And nothing's happened in months!" She glowered at the cringing brewers. She leaned forward and lowered her voice, "He's starting to question if he should be writing anything at all."

They all gasped.

"But our jobs! The factory…" he trailed off.

"That's right you fuckwits! We need an asspull RIGHT NOW. And what do I have to work with?" She threw the mug down, shattering it. "Fantasy shit! I don't even care about the crack ratio! We need sci-fi. Get me anything you have! Now!"

The brewers took this as a signal to run away. She snagged the slowest one by the scruff of his neck as he tried to stumble past her. He tried to shake her off with his weedy strength but she slid behind him, jumped on his back, and put him in a half nelson.

"You guys are acting really suspicious. What are you not telling me?" Her teeth snapped next to his ear.

"C-calm down lady! Come on, you're hurting me!"

She dug her heels into his ribs. "What is it!? Tell me!"

"Ow! Ow! Ok, ok, I'll tell you. Stop! Just get off me."

She jumped down and crossed her arms.

He rubbed his chest and straightened his glasses.

She tapped her foot.

He coughed.

She glared

He sighed. "There's none left."

"What? What about the dregs? I know there's always leftovers and slops left from a batch. Those should still be around."

He gestured at the broken mug on the floor. "We used the last of it to try make that stuff."

She stared at him, mouth pressed in a tight line.

As the seconds passed, he wilted.

"Fuck it! We'll do it live!" She threw her hands up and she spun around and stomped up the stairs back to her desk.


In whirlwind and storm is His way, And clouds are the dust beneath His feet. He rebukes the sea and makes it dry; He dries up all the rivers. Bashan and Carmel wither; The blossoms of Lebanon wither. Mountains quake because of Him And the hills dissolve; Indeed the earth is upheaved by His presence, The world and all the inhabitants in it. Who can stand before His indignation? Who can endure the burning of His anger? His wrath is poured out like fire And the rocks are broken up by Him.…
Nahum 1:3-6

When I extinguish you, I will cover the sky; I will darken its stars. I will cover the sun with a cloud, and the moon will not shine.
Ezekiel 32:7


The wreckage of earth

Two months into the horrors of the Reaper invasion, the final prolonged battle for the fate of reality continues. Three quarters of earth is dead; over 8 billion humans. Humanity fought long and hard against the overwhelming Reapers, and while humanity still manages to hold the endless tide of Reapers at bay, the calculus of war shows that these victories must come at a price. Heavy casualties in the first days of the fighting coupled with meteor strikes, random kinetic beams fired at earth, Harbinger's targeted strikes and finally, starvation and disease have bled humanity almost dry.

Humanity may win the war for reality, but in doing so, will meet their undoing as a species.

The ferocious war cries and gallant speeches of victory are all replaced with a single vow, spoken before each engagement. "…To the last, I grapple with thee; from hell's heart, I stab at thee; for hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee."

Usually simply shortened to "Fuck you all!"

If humanity was going down, they were taking the Reapers with them.

In the midst of this exhaustive horror, the dross and social lies are all stripped away. In this intense pressure, people find themselves instantly transformed; shattered and broken or forged into diamonds.

Heroes stepping up to meet the impossible.

Children pulling broken adults from crushed bunkers.

Medics working to save lives until they collapse, then dragging themselves back to consciousness to save more lives.

And even villains rise…

The traitor mage-turned-ancient-vampire, Tremere, puts forth the most audacious plan of his existence. His plan is to cement humanity's victory over the Reapers; engraving success into the nature of humanity itself, regardless the cost.

Desperation and vengeance fuels resolve.

And so the few remaining grandmasters of reality-working on earth gather in the great Salt Lake Temple. It stands untouched, alone, amidst the ashen blast zone that Utah has become. Hoarded quintessence reserves and cannibalized artifacts are used to craft the ritual sigil. It spools and twists over and through the room in four dimensions. Engraved in places. Etched and traced in others. Woven across and around holographic ribbons of light. It is the full description of humanity's body; millions of millions of miles long, describing all that humanity physically ever was, and ever will be.

They have been working for hours upon days upon weeks; time stacked again and again on top of itself in a tesseracting knot. Burnt out echoes of those who gave their lives for more Time surround the inner sanctum.

Standing at the heart of the greatest working of true magic left to mankind, Tremere is ready to engrave revenge on the true name of humanity.

The ritual nears the final moments, the other participants hemorrhaging blood, life, and will. Tremere readies his athame, lifting it above his head. As he steps into the central circle to finish the binding, surrounded by the desperate remnants of vampires, werewolves and mages, Tremere has a moment of clarity.

He knows this will fail as well.

It is time.

He shakes himself and steels his will. There is no time for doubt.

He stabs down and through, piercing his heart.

Magical power pounds down the sigils representing humanity, a thousand million billion lines of power all focused into the dagger thrust in his heart.

pounding
smashing
crushing

It is more power than he has ever faced, even more than when he drank the vile blood of the Antidiluvian Saulot for eternal life and damnation.

He is the catalyst and conduit between the essence of humanity and the vast pressure of the spell. The lens, focusing and projecting through him into every human alive.

It flays him, ripping and pulling at his essence and form. He crumples.

He must shape this pressure or it will erase him.

His vision dims. He opens his mouth but cannot speak. His lips still. His eyes flash and all at once, his mind sees.

How very small he is. As if from a great distance, his life flashes before him.

In his quest for immortality, he has betrayed allies and broken rules and laws of both magic and mortals; mages and vampires both. Each plan, each step forward has been a step backwards as well. All his plans; all his attempts at selfish gain; half-worked. His desperate grasping and greed took success in equal measure as it gave.

Hubris.

His brilliance led him and his fellows further down the road to damnation every step of the way. His betrayal of his Hermetic brethren, and his betrayal of his own soul as he forsook Change to escape death and became a vampire.

Trading wonder for politics and spite. Drowning in an ocean of blood. Keeping his soul alive in that fucking mirror. Possessing his treacherous followers.

What was it all for? Worthless hubris.

Mages may call it the Awakening. Vampires might call it Golconda.

His soul - his Avatar, long discarded, returns to him in this moment of epiphany.

Instead of branding humanity with his rage against fate, for the first time in his life and unlife, he gives up his hubris and offers to humanity what he so desperately desired for himself.

Instead of demanding victory and vengeance, he whispers.

"Rise again."

Echoing backwards and forwards through time, every human, past present and future, resonates with his words. Each human alive through the galaxy, along with every dead human since the start of mankind.

And as humanity's essence is being rewritten, the umbra shatters as a massive drill rips through space, spewing forth the combined forces the Normandy crew could bring with them for the final battle of reality.

And above them all, blooming from the center of the galaxy, a new star of ascension shines.

Glowing sunbursts light each brow as every human who has ever died throughout all of history comes back to life.

Round three, motherfuckers.


Aftermath omake:

Anderson looked at the Council, rubbing the glowing disk on his forehead. "So what are you going to do once we finish destroying the Reapers?"

Tevos blinked. "What do you mean?"

Anderson shrugged. "The Mass Effect only works because it has the belief of a billion years's worth of civilizations fueling it. When the Reapers are all dead, the Mass Effect will probably fall apart."

"But our races all believe in it! We know it works!"

Anderson shook his head. "Your lack of faith disturbs me."


AN: I think this is it. I could write more words, but I don't think there's more story. What's Harbinger going to do against self-resurrecting, exalted, mage humanity and co? That was my final plot twist, and surprisingly one of the first scenes I wrote for this story. If there's one thing I learned from writing this story, it's that it's better to write a well crafted sentence than a page of words that say the same thing. Not saying that words aren't important, but just I'm trying to aim for less is more or somesuch. I'd rather leave you a little bit hungry. At this point, this story is neither Mass Effect, or oWod. But if someone wants to write what happens next? I'd read that.

Adios.

'Til all are one.

Ascension awaits.