wednesday shepard

At the end of it all, Shepard stands alone.

Just three beams of light, a hologram of a boy they never had the chance to save, and their home shining bright below them.

They take a step forward slowly, haltingly. Their foot was shattered in the blast from Harbinger, the muscles burned beyond function. Only their Cerberus-grade augmentation and the reminder of their family, somewhere in the chaos on a small frigate, keeps them moving. As they reach the place where their path diverges, where they will be forced to make a decision, they here a small voice behind them.

More than ever, the Catalyst looks like a small boy. It asks, voice no longer echoing, how Shepard can do this. How can someone as small and unimportant as a human walk long after their body is destroyed. How can someone as broken as Shepard still have enough hope to sacrifice themselves.

Why would they fight for so long and so hard, give up so much, take on so much pain, for the sake of a galaxy that was never even truly grateful?

Shepard considers the question for a moment, gazing down at Earth, the home they will never see again. A small, sad smile curls the corners of their lips up. Voice choked with dust and blood and tears they cannot allow themselves to shed, they give the only answer they know to be true.

“It had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong.”

The REAL Reason for the Harvest: An April Fool's Day Headcanon

Dark space: the ideal hiding place for Reapers. In dark space, they can remain undetected and undisturbed as they wait for organic civilizations to develop toward the point that they are ready to harvest.

Dark space, unfortunately, is also extraordinarily boring.

Vigil described the Reapers as “hibernating” and indeed, they do turn off many systems that are unnecessary in deep space. But the Reapers are loathe to shut off their minds for millennia, leaving them in need of ways to occupy themselves. Analyzing the tactics, successes, and failures of the last invasion, planning the next one, all grow stale and old after only a few years. They have long since proved every mathematical theorem within their reach. So the Reapers turn to an alternative pastime familiar to many of my readers: smut.

The Reapers’ collection of organic races is primarily geared toward establishing an extensive library of each race’s kinks. When a Harvest concludes and the Reapers return to dark space, there is a flurry of creative activity as the Reapers explore the newfound kinks of the harvested races. Epic libraries of smut are composed and shared among the Reaper fleet, up or downvoted by the Reaper collective. Animations and other artistic renderings of sex acts are also popular.

Experts on the Reapers, to the extent there are any, would swear that the Reapers have no sex organs, nor any use for them. While the relevant parts are carefully protected by heavy plating during harvests, and thus never witnessed, Reapers are partly organic and capable of expressing the sex organs of any race they have successfully assimilated into Reaper form. (From this point of view, the Protheans’ “failure” to become a Reaper suggests that their sexual organs and response were deemed inadequate by Reaper standards. On the other hand, there was great enthusiasm for the project of creating a “human Reaper…”) The more “avant-garde” of Reapers use their array of sexual parts to experiment with the kinks they discover, individually and in combination.

Eventually, all of this palls. The Reapers, despite their vast intellect, are fundamentally not creative; they endlessly recycle the same invasion plan, after all. So when all the latest kinks have been fully explored, boredom and ennui begin to make an appearance, and the angry, sexually frustrated Reapers know that it’s time for another Harvest.

Kaidan pulled the doors to the pod shut, his shaking hands hesitating over the eject button. But finally he did, as he felt the eyes in the pod glaring at him, waiting for him to save them before they had to do it themselves. He secured himself in a seat, pulling the straps over his head.

He flipped open his omni-tool and opened the panels he kept open during battle. His armor was synched to everyone in the crew, capable of monitoring their life signs. He opened Shepard’s panel, seeing her vitals pop up in front of him.

Elevated heart rate, he observed. Normal though. Under stress, with pressing endurance, of course her heart rate would be dramatic.

A notification popped up, glaring red letters that were all he could see. 

Helmet Rupture.

His system had to have been acting up, because if Shepard’s helmet had ruptured, her oxygen would be seeping out, letting harsh, toxic air sweep into her lungs, leaving her helpless, suffocating to death.

He unlocked his seatbelt, aware that everyone else was watching him. He muttered her name under his breath, a somewhat silent prayer that she’d hear him, that she’d hang on until he could get to her.

His omni-tool buzzed again, and again, and didn’t stop.

Critical: Elevated Heart Rate

Critical: Broken Ribs (4)

Critical: Internal Hemorrhaging

Critical: Insufficient Oxygen

He looked out the small window in the escape pod, the flaming corpse of the Normandy all he could see, and no signs of Shepard. He saw a single escape pod spewed from the front of the ship, and prayed to god that Shepard was in there. 

The Normandy exploded into an array of colors and debris. His omni-tool deployed a single, chilling shock across his arm, and then it stopped. 

He looked down again, where Shepard’s life signs had gone completely flat. No heartbeat, no brain activity, more broken bones and blood loss than he could imagine happening to a person.


I’m pretty sure Wednesday Shepard and Garrus didn’t immediately see eye to eye when they first met. There was respect there but I’m pretty sure she yelled at him every other minute when he decided to get bratty at literally every companion.

But the two managed to bond pretty well a quarter of the way through the hunt for Saren by hanging out at the mako and repairing it together. He’d gently tease her for breaking the it with her not-so-stellar driving and she’d laugh it off because, “Yeah, well I technically never got my license! But I’m an engineer so it’s fine.”

and that’s how Garrus got desensitized to horrifying situations and why he now seems to fear nothing