Here Come The Reapers! With Smoking Jackets And Pipes?
A strange thought came to me like all strange thoughts do. Completely out of the blue like a bolt of lighting. The cloud of ignorance above my head dissipated, and suddenly I saw it as clear as day.
The Reapers are like some kind of country club … no, wait, wait, come back. I know Mass Effect 3 has come and gone, I just need to put down this thought into words.
The Reapers are a gang of sentient warships, which come round the Milky Way every 50,000 years to bugger up all space-faring species’ hard work. In one foul swoop they completely demolish and burn everything and everyone they touch … a bit like a guffawing gang of Victorian bank managers. Too wealthy to care about all the stuff they knock over. After all, we are only mere proletarians in their eyes. We aren’t even fit enough to lick their butlers arse (the butler in this case being an entire army of indoctrinated people).
The Reapers sit out in dark space for 50,000 years, smoking their pipes in fancy armchairs built from the materials of thousands and thousands of dead civilizations, but once every so often they come back into our galaxy for a little recruiting drive. In our pea-brained minds this is a galactic wide invasion, but really they are just looking for the races that show particular spunk and good old fashion perseverance. Think of them as industrialists from the 1800s, always rambling on about their meagre existence before becoming successful and joining an army of sentient space monsters … hold on, things are getting confused.
My point is, perhaps Shepard really is ignorant to the benefits of us joining this grand club. Ok, some may say the hazing process is a little harsh and initial entry payments are a tad high at about 5-6 billion human lives. But let’s not forget the benefits that come after being melted down into a DNA smoothie and injected into a new machine body.
You can for one start speaking holier than thou because, let’s face it, you are a giant warship. You can do anything you want. You can give cryptic messages soaked in your booming indulgent grandiose voice and watch the dim organics try to figure out what you mean, watching the tiny gears turn in their flea-sized grey matter. Oh the joys!
You have life-long employment as the living embodiment of the apocalypse. You only have to work 100 years out of every 50,000 years, so the working hours are very flexible, giving you enough time to write a novel, pursue a career as a comedian on the dark space stage or just sit back and wait for a far off star to go super nova.
Everyone will respect you. You got giant laser cannons after all. That’s the kind of respect you can’t buy.
You’ll never be alone because your consciousness will be made up of thousands of minds. Think of all the witty anecdotes you can listen to, all the intense debates you can get involved in, all the best knock knock-jokes you can repeat again and again and again.
You can get an infinite amount of toys to experiment with and splice together. Let’s take this race of walking frog people and stick their heads onto this race called the Krogan … wait … oh … now they look like an army of Earthworm Jims! SCIENCE!
One weird downside though, is that you are under the control of a ghostly seven-year-old star-child. But who really likes their boss anyway?