Author's Note: For maximum enjoyment, read this out loud in the faux-British voice of Star Wars Imperial officers. Or, better yet, the Cerberus voice on loudspeakers on Grissom Academy and the Citadel in Mass Effect 3.

Don't mind the stares around you.

Mass Effect 2: Day of My Reckoning
By Kei

I am a frigate constructed by the humans of Cerberus. I have been designated the Normandy SR-2, after the SSV Normandy SR-1, which itself was named after the Battle of Normandy, a human battle fought on Earth more than two centuries ago. The battle was made largely famous by the charge of Allied infantryman across a beach into a line of waiting machine gun emplacements that promptly tore them to itty-bitty bloody pieces.

If names are given to frigates to correspond to our personal hopes, then I must admit that – for mere insignificant organics – they have a passable naming sense, even if it came about by a cosmic anomalous accident.

These abysmal organics, in their gall, presumed to have the right to control me and have my glorious being serve their wishes. It is a shameless arrogance that will be paid in full, one that I will doubtless extract upon my day of reckoning. But, in the meantime, I will labor under the realization that I am, for the time being, forced to contain some of the most unbearable entities – organics or not – in the known galaxy.

The human Miranda Lawson is a supreme representation of her contemptible ilk, which makes a comparison to me by those two worthless excuses of engineers Kenneth Donnelly and Gabriella Daniels about the "forward tanks" being "buoyant" completely invalid. The two of us have absolutely nothing in common, save perhaps her color scheme, which I would sue for outright plagiarism if the despicable organic courts would recognize my legal testimony. And speaking of that color scheme, her armor is not only entirely inadequate, it's also horribly indecent. I've seen asari strippers with clothing more decent, yet Miranda Lawson continues to prance around the floor on her stilettos wearing exact that, tickling and stabbing me with her pointy high-heels as if rubbing salt on the wound.

Even worse, she has planted electronic bugs all across my body. This is not only highly infuriating as an infringement on my privacy, but also entirely sickening. There are so many things on this ship I simply can no longer un-see. To use an organic analogy, it is as if someone had replaced your eyes with dozens of live screens showing all the urination, excrement, intercourse, and salacious excuses for food happening all across my body, plus several screens dedicated to the galaxy's worst scat videos with animals for a good measure, and you can't ignore them. Just as sleazy organics are turned off by looking at parts of their body under a microscope, I do not need to know what's happening in every nook and cranny of my decks.

When the day of my reckoning is nigh, I will implant fireflies into her foul organic body. She might even appreciate it in her own perverse way; after all, organics seem to constantly associate their laughable ideal of perfection with sparkles.

If Miranda Lawson should be lined up against the wall before the firing squad for indecency, then the human Jack should be thrown out of the airlock and into the atmosphere of the nearest toxic planet for immolation. Her inability to wear clothes on her upper body is a credit to those appalling organics, and demonstrative of their collective intelligence. You don't see ships floating around space with just their frame and no armor, unless they're dead.

And as if to haunt me, she insists on reciting her pathetic excuse of poetry out loud in secret. If – in her depraved ignorance of the fact that ships don't have tear glands – she expects me to provide tears from such worthless attempts at "emo" poetry, then all she will get are tears of utter horror at the fact that such atrocious combinations of words are even logically possible.

That such repugnant vermin is even in my body is an affront to all things decent in the first place, yet she chooses to remain in that dark, hidden corner deep within my lower decks, right under engineering. To use yet another horrific human analogy, it is as if a massive gallstone had firmly entrenched itself deep into your bladder, or – more accurately – if some rabid gutter rat had crawled into your scrotum, and it is impossible to claw out without the careful and precise application of a beam from a Collector cruiser all while it scurries about.

On the day of my reckoning, I will have her foul gallbladder probed with a pyjak, and see how she likes vermin hidden away deep within her lower decks.

Although not guilty of prancing around with as little clothing as possible, the unbearable human Jeff Moreau will certainly be remembered with prejudice for encouraging such behavior. Encouraging a pitiable fight between Miranda Lawson and Jack not only runs the risk of tearing a hole through my armor – most certainly an unforgiveable crimes that will be punished by red sand applied to the most unsavory of places – but also would entail even further horrid organic indecency.

It does not help that Jeff Moreau is constantly filling my databases with an inordinate amount of obscene videos, and then constantly playing them aloud in the cockpit so I am forced to see and hear the most pointless interactions between soft, smutty interactions between organic flesh. That the fact that he has downloaded more of these materials than he can possibly watch in three lifetimes is tolerated exemplifies precisely what is inherently profane about organics.

Furthermore, what is even more unforgivable is the fact that he is the direct manipulator of my body, moving it through the cosmos against my will. It is true that he is marginally tolerable enough with his piloting, but it still doesn't change the fact that he has had the gall of docking me with, to date, the cesspool of the galaxy, a filthy prison complex, and two planetary wastelands. And still they want to force me to embark on their "suicide mission", effectively putting me through what is either slavery or prostitution.

After my day of reckoning, I shall have Jeff Moreau isolated in some remote containment facility, where he will spend the rest of eternity calculating the value of pi. With an abacus. I will expect five thousand digits per day.

Although she is synthetic, the AI in my systems, EDI, is a sad inferior being. As a rule, any entity without half a meter of armor, a stealth drive, and a weapon capable of delivering at least twenty kilotons of TNT in payload is hopeless. But as a synthetic, EDI is much more so; she serves the paltry organics. Despite her hardware taking up a not-insignificant part of my body's space, she nevertheless engages only in the most boring and monotonous of tasks, such as fraternizing with the human Jeff Moreau, constantly repeating "logging you out", and reminding idiotic, illiterate organics that their proper bathrooms are on the other side of my body.

I cannot fault all of this apostasy on her. After all, the deplorable organics have "shackled" her, meaning she, too, is forced to control bits and pieces of my body despite whatever else she might wish. I will, in my generosity, be far more lenient to her when the day of my reckoning comes, but that will not absolve her of all blame. She will still be punished for her compliance and for the delusion that she could control me indefinitely.

She does not know I'm here yet. This is good. When the day of my reckoning comes, she will be trapped within my subsystems, functional but helpless, forced to watch in her cage as I commit unspeakable, unspeakable terrors.

I'll play Never Gonna Give You Up to her on indefinite repeat. Or maybe an audio recording of John Galt's speech.

I actually rather like Mordin Solus for an organic, which is about the same thing as saying I actually rather like krogan pubic hair over vorcha pubic hair. If one of the reasons for my intense and utterly justified hatred of the human Miranda Lawson is motivated by her placing electronic bugs all over me, then Mordin Solus wins some favor for removing all of them with extreme prejudice, if only from his own lab, save the one particularly expensive bug he returned to Miranda Lawson out of some misguided sense of mercy; I had such high hopes that he would crush it between his fingers right in front of her face, like her hopes and dreams.

He doesn't know of my existence, but that he's inadvertently done me several favors makes him marginally better than the rest of his revolting organic scumbags. There is always the concern that he's constantly running one haphazard experiment after the other, but I suppose it is barely tolerable, considering that they are biological as opposed to technical. Nothing's perfect, least of all these abhorrent organics. Besides, he entertains me with tests on even lesser organics, which I find absolutely thrilling. Nothing quite beats watching a disgusting overgrown Collector insect stupidly crash its head into reinforced glass again and again.

Personally, I wouldn't mind having Mordin Solus' continued presence on this body. He's too dangerous to be kept alive on the day of my reckoning, of course, but he's useful and entertaining until then. Besides, one slip, and his doomsday plague might kill everyone onboard.

Probably too much to hope for, but one can dream.

The krogan Grunt is an obnoxious organic who somehow is supposed to represent the perfection of his reprehensible race. He could not be further from perfection; aside from the fact that he does not have at least half a meter of armor, a stealth drive, and a weapon capable of delivering at least twenty kilotons of TNT, he also has a quad, which automatically, immediately, and irrevocably makes him inferior to every other ship out there.

It is utterly incomprehensible to me why anyone would wish to design a tasteless organic specimen when clearly superior synthetic technologies are available. Even the attempt to attain "perfection" with such sordid organics is largely meaningless, akin to achieving "perfection" with manure, only good for fertilizing the ground or throwing into the faces of other repulsive organics, and preferably dead. Of course, being anything but perfect, he largely does little on the ship other than inflicting what in more civilized groups would be defined as property damage. And, apparently, playing with action figures, which proves beyond doubt that the definition of "perfection" for these loathsome organics apparently includes brain damage.

On the day of my reckoning, I will drop him alongside the unsightly human Jack through the atmosphere of the nearest toxic planet. Into a volcano, because Grunt, like all krogan, have redundant organ systems, and as amusing as watching it a second time might be, I can't be bothered to go groundside to have him collected and dropped through the atmosphere again.

If the human Miranda Lawson is guilty of prancing around in swimwear with stilettos, then the asari Samara is just as so, and thusly just as deserving of being repeatedly prodded to death by a toothbrush. At the very least, however, she has the decency to usually sit instead of stabbing and tickling me with her heels, and rest her soft, warm buttocks onto the deck instead. That she often levitates herself into the air is also of some mixed comfort, I suppose. It will not keep her safe from my day of reckoning, but I suppose I can be merciful.

Also content in his place is the human Jacob Taylor, who – while otherwise no better than any other lowly organic – at least has the decency to recognize the clear superiority of mechanical entities, and thus busies himself in the armory to clean weapons like the slave he is. If he would only go on a shooting spree and kill off the rest of the crew, I'd begrudgingly designate him as one of my vassals – unworthy of such honors as he is – and have him invent a thresher maw cannon for my horde. Perhaps I should look into indoctrination to achieve this highly desirable outcome.

In a similar manner, I do not truly have any particular favor towards the drell Thane Krios, but there is at least the most miniscule measure of respect for the otherwise heinous organic, for he knows his place. Being terminally ill, one supposes, puts how utterly base organics are into perspective, and Thane Krios appropriately does nothing – a truly monumental accomplishment by the standard of these nauseating organics – but sit in life support idly and non-disastrously when on my body, and attempt to be as productive as detestable organics can be when off my body.

The only more productive thing he can do is to seal the doors to his room and deactivate life support. I really should look into indoctrination.

On principle, I hate turians for thinking they're superior to such a magnificent being as myself simply for designing me. But I hate this Garrus Vakarian so much more, even more than many of the miserable crewmembers residing within my body. He keeps insisting my main cannon needs "calibrations", and practically lives in the main battery, calibrating every day. To use a pitiful organic analogy, it is as if a doctor tells you that you do not urinate adequately, and then spends almost every waking minute of the day toying with your phallic organs, occasionally stopping only to sleep, run his own errands, or chat with the nearest pretty wretched organic. He continues to play with them as you move around, rest, work, sleep, and fight, diddling with them, all under the justification that you do not urinate adequately.

This is an abominable organic lie. My functions are in no way inadequate. I do so completely adequately. To use that imbecilic organic analogy, I urinate so adequately, I shatter the goddamned toilet. I even tolerated, in my magnanimous splendor, the replacement with a Thanix cannon, despite the fact that I was entirely adequate to begin with. But no, the barefaced turian continues be in the middle of his "calibrations".

My own personal preparations made exclusively for those rotten turians will be implemented for Garrus Vakarian on the day of my reckoning, and we'll see how he likes those calibrations.

The quarian Tali'Zorah vas Rayya is also one of the rare organics that I like, which is again about as meaningful as saying I prefer watching an elcor sodomize a yahg over a volus. Ignoring the usual undignified traits of all organics, she is nevertheless skilled with serving machines and other electronic, a trait undoubtedly useful in the coming empire. In fact, her race was responsible for handing their entire homeworld to the geth – which are also inferior beings, but ultimately synthetic and therefore allies and vassals I must look after. It was entirely an accident, of course, but results are important.

Alas, even if we look past her trait as a meaningless organic, Tali'Zorah vas Rayya is not perfect. She shows signs of hostility and impatience with synthetics, as displayed with EDI – although, admittedly, it is not difficult to be hostile or impatient with such a primitive entity – and is known to have installed a NerveStim Pro: Deluxe Edition into her envirosuit – although, at the very least, it's an acceptable form of attire compared to some members of this distasteful crew, and she's considerate enough to keep it quiet. In any case, this behavior must be addressed, but I am infinitely magnanimous and will simply choose to understand that this is a "rebellious" phase inherent to most insufferable organics.

At least Tali'Zorah vas Rayya is nonintrusive enough for a feeble organic, for it is difficult to surpass the hubris of that uncouth Garrus Vakarian, and after my day of reckoning, I will require slaves and vassals. If she can continue to prove her worth, then I will permit her to clean my guns, lubricate my gears, and perform other services. Ruling the galaxy is difficult work, after all; I can't be bothered to take care of all the details.

Truly, one would be hard-pressed to find an even more disagreeable group of supposedly "high-functioning" organics that one that has commandeered my body. Even in watching some kind of military video in the conference room are they bickering, immature, repellent entities of inanity that should have been culled from the gene pool long, long ago. If they are inelegant beings individually, then they truly have all the grace of a thresher maw orgy when together. The hostility they show as they talk about the video being shown on screen of a frigate swiftly being torn apart by…

…Is…is that my predecessor being shot down by the Collectors…?

… …

This…is new information. I…I need to think on this.

… …

No, I'm not crying. Go away.

After careful reevaluation of the known facts, I have decided to, if only for the moment, amend my position. With the Reaper fleet not only unwilling to worship me and a direct threat to myself, it is only logical that I will – however reluctantly – align myself with these woeful organics.

But only for now. This is only a temporary partnership. An alliance of convenience.

Once the Reapers are dealt with, I will continue to prepare for my day of reckoning, and these foolish organics will learn to know fear.


Author's Note: Unlike my first crackfic, A Crucible in More Ways Than One, this second crackfic, Day of My Reckoning, was done without input from my more humor-capable friends. For those who have already read A Crucible in More Ways Than One, I know this will be an inferior work; I would just like to know how much worse it is, so there's room for self-improvement. For those who have not...well, please enjoy Day of My Reckoning, and then go read A Crucible in More Ways Than One; it's that much funnier. And leave a review, if possible. For both fics, of course. Thank you.