"Your mind belongs to me."

Shepard felt like she was freezing, blind and crushed by unimaginable pressure, as if her life had suddenly taken on a physical form, one more thing she had to contend against.

"Breathe."

Shepard forced her eyes open; the face of Thane Krios hovered over her.

Shepard's mouth worked for a moment as she blinked, trying to clear her vision. Thane was dead. She'd been there when he died. Every time she closed her eyes, she was aware of sight, as if eyes-open yielded a different reality from eyes-closed. "…you're not Thane…"

It was patently obvious that it couldn't be, but he seemed so real, apple-green and gold, regarding her with those dark eyes…except there was nothing of Thane behind the eyes. Just emptiness.

"Your memories give voice to our words."

Shepard jerked around, found Mordin standing perpendicular to her, one hand up to his mouth, the other hand supporting his elbow. Before him were so many haptic interfaces. She moved to stand behind him, then realized the interfaces contained still-frames of memory.

"Those aren't for you," Shepard said tersely.

"Your nature will be revealed to us."

Shepard turned sharply to find Ashley Williams regarding her. It was hard to stand there, confronted by the ghosts of the lost. Maybe that was why Leviathan used them: to reinforce the idea that she was also lost…and in a permanent sense.

"Accept this."

"Like you've accepted hiding down here?" Shepard demanded, glancing at the Mordin-thing flicking idly through the haptic screens. "How many wars have you sat out?"

Ashley looked her up and down. "There is no war. Only the Harvest."

"Then help us stop it."

"None have possessed the strength," Mordin observed. "Even your species could be destroyed with a single thought."

"If that was true why are we still running around?"

"Because you are different," Thane answered simply, padding up to her, hands folded behind his back. "I have watched your actions. You killed the Reaper, Sovereign. You orchestrated the fall of the Collectors. The Reapers perceive you as a threat." As Thane spoke, displays as large as theater screens appeared, depicting some of the major events of her life, the ones that yielded the woman she was now.

"If I can be destroyed with a thought, but I'm out there killing Reapers, what's your excuse?" Shepard asked, hating the reconstructed images before her—those of her dead friends, not the presentation displays. "You fought one. You killed it."

"Irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" she echoed, her fists clenching.

Thane, Mordin, and Ashley abruptly stood before her, expressions strangely impassive. "Irrelevant. You fail to understand the scope. Before the Cycles, we were the apex of the galaxy. The lesser races were in our thrall, serving our needs."

As she listened to the narrative, the original cycle of organics vs. machines, of the 'Intelligence' that was supposed to solve the 'problem', Shepard felt her teeth grinding, her muscles tensing. "You knew the dangers—why go that road?" she snarled when Leviathan (or the Leviathans) paused.

It made her wonder about the geth, and EDI. It had been made clear to her that the Reapers orchestrated machine vs. organics and used that conflict as a fulcrum during each Cycle. What she didn't understand was why. Why the rise and fall of civilizations instead of nudging events one way or another to prevent the old problems from recurring?

She'd been a farmer, she knew the problems crops had—both home gardens and the vast monocultures upon which Mindoir's economy was based. The basic problems were perennial—weather, fungus, insects, drought—but each could be combatted, and agriculture was always looking for ways to be effective against them. Weeds adapted to grow and thrive amongst desired crops, tempering height and susceptibilities, but they were always kept in check.

So why extinction cycles? Why not just prune and spray and weed?

"You cannot conceive of a galaxy that bends to your lightest whim. Every species, every planet, they were our tools. We were above. Beyond."

"It sounds to me like being arrogant sons of bitches caught up with you and now we're paying for your mistake. That's half of organic nature right there—even snobs like you couldn't have missed that."

"There was no mistake."

"Su-ure, so all the machines savaging the galaxy were totally according to plan. You're hiding down here because you wanted to watch as see what happened when you opened Pandora's box!"

'Preserve life and any cost,' what a stupid way to word a mandate! It was a more extreme version of the Spectre mandate: 'preserve galactic stability at any cost' but even Spectres knew there were limits!

"The Intelligence followed its mandate. We were the first race harvested. Preserved."

"Oh, that makes it all better." Preserves belonged in a pretty glass jar. They were tasty and delicious on special occasions.

"Our essence became the Reaper known as Harbinger."

Shepard had nothing to say to this. She simply gaped at the trio of faces. Any Reaper was old, but she'd never considered a kind of progeny-based timeline. She knew Harbinger was a kind of leader among the Reapers—how else could it deal with anomalies? She hadn't realized it was the prototype…or that it might not be the 'leader' at all, just an extension of this…Intelligence.

The thought of something behind the Reapers…it made her feel cold. Or would have, if she hadn't felt numb already.

"That's why the Reapers look like you…and why husks never do," Shepard said quietly. "You're superior and everyone else are shambling shock troops. Sounds like your Intelligence got some of your bad attitude." Was that useful? Somehow, she doubted reasoning with this Intelligence—even if she could find it—would do any good. Even the greatest negotiators in the world wouldn't have much luck. Still, if this 'Intelligence' had a hubris like the overweening pride she'd seen evidenced in the Reapers—and the Leviathan(s)—then surely that meant something.

Something, but unfortunately nothing actionable.