"The choice is yours."

Each breath was a curse, needles pricking through her lungs, through her ribs, sending sparks of white flashing into her vision. There was a crack each time she shifted as her charred, abused armor protested even the slightest movement. Parts were melted to her skin; it should have worried her more that she couldn't feel them except for the uncomfortable pull where burned flesh met the edge of metal and plastic. The skin near it seared, but the nerves beneath were deadened.

"Your options are wrong," Shepard managed at last.

"My conclusions are the most efficient with the data available." If it had the mind, it might have sounded offended as well as arrogant, but mere study of organics did not make it more than it was.

"No. You said I altered the variables, but you haven't taken everything into consideration." The commander shook her head and immediately regretted it as stars and spots danced over her eyes. Her skin itched as it tightened desperately in an attempt to prevent further loss of blood where she was cut and scraped, but even the advanced skin- and bone-weave combined with her cybernetics were not sufficient to cover damage this extensive on their own. She wasn't confident she would make it even with all the medi-gel in the galaxy, and she sure didn't have a chance in Hell if she didn't get off this damn station soon.

If she got off this damn station.

She wasn't leaving until the Reapers were subdued, one way or another. Garrus' order be damned—I'm sorry—If stopping this war meant the only way off this station was as ash on the solar winds, so be it.

"What data has not been processed?" It might have sounded incredulous.

Shepard prepared the shallowest breath she could manage, but needles jabbed her lungs anyway. "The geth and the quarians—Hell, the whole damn galaxy has united against you, organics and synthetics alike. Shouldn't that tell you something?" The commander fought the urge to cough: that would do her cracked ribs no good. If there was blood pooling in her lungs at this point, it didn't matter much anyway—a cough or two wouldn't keep her from drowning in it, and the blood loss that was already making her head spin would get to her first.

"Patterns show that they will eventually fall to fighting each other; this is a necessary but temporary alliance."

"Yes—there will always be fighting—whether it's against the Reapers, or mercenaries, or corrupt politicians, or each other. The point is, we have a choice about when and how and why. We chose to fight together against you. We can choose our own paths. We can choose peace. We can choose the cycle we want for ourselves, even if that means cycles of peacetime and wartime." Gasps between phrases sent shocks cascading through her chest, but the words gave her energy.

"But the waste of life in these destructive cycles is pointless. Synthetics will defeat organics. It is undeniable—you will fall, and the cycles you have foolishly chosen will cease."

A hot rush of anger rode Shepard's bloodstream at this, her words coming stronger even as her breathing hitched and her frame trembled with fatigue. "You don't understand! We don't want your salvation. We want our own. You think organics and synthetics will always destroy each other? Think again. The geth and the quarians have united—synthetics are helping organics rebuild their homeworld after a war that some agree should have never happened, that you believe would have ended only in destruction. They're building trust—a galaxy where synthetics and organics can work together, exist together, and build a healthy and diverse galaxy. We don't need to destroy or control each other, and we sure as Hell don't need to make everyone the same to get along; we've proved it. It's important. Our differences are what have made us strong in this war against you. If you tried to synthesize us, there would be no room to grow, to change, to improve. We'd end up as stunted and empty as your husks, your Collectors—nowhere to go, no passion, no community, no purpose."

The AI-child was silent as Shepard clung desperately to consciousness; darkness began to creep into the edges of her vision. Not yet, not yet, not yet…

"You make a fair point with your data—"

"Now call off your goddamn Reapers." She could no longer hear the hum of the Crucible's power core, and the AI's words were too muffled for comfort. But, for a moment, Commander Marian Shepard spoke with all her old authority; broken, bleeding, but still a fire in her green eyes and spirit in her voice.

The AI was silent, child-like head bowed. It looked up after a moment to meet Shepard's eyes, her vision fading. "At first, I suspected you were merely attempting to find a way to save your own life, unwilling to directly trade everything you think you have for peace." Its hollow eyes scanned her form, and the only thing keeping the commander on her feet was the will to know the war was ended or if she needed to drag her sorry ass to the Crucible and fire the damn thing. "But you correctly assume you will die regardless—you truly believe this is the best solution, one worthy of trading your life for."

A choked "Yeah" in response. "Need to hear it to know now."

"Yes. Yes—I will do this for you, and all the advanced species of the galaxy."

Shepard gritted her teeth as her legs gave way with relief—relief and blood loss that was impossible to ignore.

"We will also offer to help rebuild your worlds on one condition."

"Name it." Her own voice sounded distant, heard from the bottom of a dark pit.

"If you are in danger of destroying each other or the galaxy, we will intervene, and the cycle will begin again."

There was a throbbing in Shepard's head, the darkness now swimming in her vision, but she tried to consider all possible outcomes. "Fine, but that doesn't mean war. Not just any war. They have to truly be on the verge of wiping each other out—all of them." But they wouldn't be destroying the Crucible, of that she was certain, even if she wasn't there to advise them.

"Very well." It paused, and Shepard wanted nothing more to just lie down, to close her eyes—Anderson had it right. They had all earned a rest. But its voice, distant, called her back again. "We will call the Normandy to this position. It would benefit us if you were to survive and provide a bridge between the Reapers and the galaxy. There is a very small chance you could live, but we cannot promise you will see the bargain pay out."

Shepard sighed, and mustered the last of her strength to keep conscious, trying to see past the darkness to the ships she knew flew far above her. "I'll do my damnedest." She could not discern shapes, but there might have been blue light where the reapers and the explosions of the battle had once shown red, the blur might have been the Normandy's shuttle. But Shepard could not be sure. For now, the galaxy was safe; Tali and Garrus were onboard the Normandy wherever it was, and all of this would soon be another mission report. Not a bad way to end this saga of impending doom. Her team, as far as she knew, was alive. If they made it through this, she had finally done her job.