She watched intently as the knight approached the castle. He appeared wary, but confident. She scowled. They came regularly, each one as smug as the one before. She grew tired of the charade, but a promise was made. Her closest friend--her only friend, really--asked her long ago to secure her away, to ensure none would control her life, that not even her family could decide watch direction she would take.
She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.
Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.
Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.
Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.
Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.
Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.
As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.
She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.
He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.
“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.
“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.
“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”
“I have my duty.”
“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”
She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”
He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.
She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.
When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.
She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.
Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.
She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.
A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.
She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.
The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.
“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”
Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.
“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”
She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”
Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.
“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”
She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.
Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.
She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.
Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:
“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”
Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.
Dancer of the Red Stage
The drums pounded, the flutes played their lilting melodies, the horns their counter bravado. It is unknown how long they had played; time had little meaning anymore. All the matter was the music was playing. All that mattered was that the dance had begun. Like every performance before, once the music began, there was little else she could think upon outside of her performance.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
Last Wish of the Djinni
The lamp looked to be something straight out of the stories. Covered in sand, sitting by itself in the middle of nowhere, gilded gold and gems adorning the outside. The young boy stared at it for some time, unbelieving what he was seeing. He loosened the wrapping around his face for a moment, trying to get a better look at it. Unable to contain his curiosity, he lifted the lamp for a closer look.
He first tried to lift the top off. It would not budge; unlike a normal lamp, the top seemed sealed. He got more and more excited; why would anyone prevent the top from opening, unless it’s not a normal lamp?
It took him two tries to get his courage up to rub the lamp with his sleeve, cleaning it off. The dust that arose from him made him cough, like a sudden sandstorm had come from the lamp itself. He dropped the lamp, shutting his eyes against the sand that erupted.
When he finally was able to open his eyes again, a man appeared before him. The dark-skinned, well-dressed man was missing everything below the waist, having it replaced by a small whirlwind of dust and sand. The cone cause sand to kick up at its base, but little else now.
“What is your wish, young one?” The man spoke in even tones, as if repeating something he’s said innumerable times.
“What do you mean?” the boy asked. He did not need to force the nervousness in his voice, although he did feign the ignorance.
“You may have any three wishes granted that your heart may desire,” the Djinn said with immeasurable patience. “You may never have more than three wishes, no matter what you say or do, and you may not give a wish to another. You may have anything that is within my power to give you; however, you may not wish to influence the mind or heart of another of your kind.”
The boy was smart, and thoughtful, and caring. He had heard many tales of the Djinn in all forms, from stories told in his town to things he read in books from foreign lands. Even the times he played with his friends, new stories of the Djinn would appear. None would end well for the one making the wish, and sometimes even worse for those around him.
“My first wish,” the boy said after much thought, “is for you to answer a question from me truthfully.”
“As you wish,” the Djinn said. His expression and tone changed little, as yet only showing patience.
“Is what they say true, that many have asked you of wishes, and it ends poorly every time?” The boy rushed his words, unable to disguise his hope that stories were just fables of caution.
“It is true, I am afraid.” The Djinn frowned, dejected at his own answer but pleased to deal with such an honest patron.
The boy stood with his bowed, obviously upset by the answer and wishing to take his time to decide just what his few remaining wishes should be.
“My second wish,” the boy said, raising his head to look at the Djinn in the eye once more, “is for you to answer another question from me truthfully.”
The Djinn looked at him, unable to hide the dubious expression. “As you wish,” he responded after a moment.
“Why? Why do people who have their wishes granted always regret it being so?”
The Djinn smiled. This was indeed a smart boy. “Because no person truly knows their desires; they only perceive problems, and wish for such things to fixed without effort. No one’s problems can ever be simply fixed however; no person’s life is so simple.”
The boy thought about this. It was hard to understand, but he believed the Djinn’s word, and strived to do so. “So, then the problem is not the one who grants the wishes, or the nature of the wishes, but the desire to have wishes granted.”
“It is so.” The Djinn crossed his arms, wondering what the boy could possibly have for his last wish.
The boy nodded, a serious look on his face. “Then for sake for all who follow, there is only one wish that my heart will allow me to make.
“I wish that none that find this lamp, from this time on until time ends, will ever have a wish granted.”
The sandstorm below the Djinn died suddenly. He fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping in pain, struggling to draw breath. He looked at the boy, anger in his eyes. The boy stared at the writhing Djinn, coldly.
“Do not blame me,” he told the dying form beneath him. “You could have told any of those before me what you told me. Perhaps they would have been wise enough to turn you down, perhaps not; but this is the only end for those of you who lay curses among us willingly.”
“Don’t believe yourself righteous, child,” the djinn said, with its final breaths. “Don’t believe yourself a savior. I am not the only Djinn; your kind will forever seek us, for they are forever corrupted, and must always see their folly.”
The Djinn finally let go its corporeal form, becoming so much sand and joining the desert around them in which the boy had found it. “Then I shall find your kin,” the boy swore to desert, “and I will wish them all to the Desert, so that ‘my kind’ can instead find their wishes in hard work and purposeful effort.”
He picked up the lantern, dusting it off. No further dust spewed from the lantern, no sandstorm erupted from within. He took its loop, running it through his belt so it hung from his waist, a reminder and trophy of his new quest of vengeance. He wrapped his head in cloth once more, and took the first steps in his new life and purpose.
He first tried to lift the top off. It would not budge; unlike a normal lamp, the top seemed sealed. He got more and more excited; why would anyone prevent the top from opening, unless it’s not a normal lamp?
It took him two tries to get his courage up to rub the lamp with his sleeve, cleaning it off. The dust that arose from him made him cough, like a sudden sandstorm had come from the lamp itself. He dropped the lamp, shutting his eyes against the sand that erupted.
When he finally was able to open his eyes again, a man appeared before him. The dark-skinned, well-dressed man was missing everything below the waist, having it replaced by a small whirlwind of dust and sand. The cone cause sand to kick up at its base, but little else now.
“What is your wish, young one?” The man spoke in even tones, as if repeating something he’s said innumerable times.
“What do you mean?” the boy asked. He did not need to force the nervousness in his voice, although he did feign the ignorance.
“You may have any three wishes granted that your heart may desire,” the Djinn said with immeasurable patience. “You may never have more than three wishes, no matter what you say or do, and you may not give a wish to another. You may have anything that is within my power to give you; however, you may not wish to influence the mind or heart of another of your kind.”
The boy was smart, and thoughtful, and caring. He had heard many tales of the Djinn in all forms, from stories told in his town to things he read in books from foreign lands. Even the times he played with his friends, new stories of the Djinn would appear. None would end well for the one making the wish, and sometimes even worse for those around him.
“My first wish,” the boy said after much thought, “is for you to answer a question from me truthfully.”
“As you wish,” the Djinn said. His expression and tone changed little, as yet only showing patience.
“Is what they say true, that many have asked you of wishes, and it ends poorly every time?” The boy rushed his words, unable to disguise his hope that stories were just fables of caution.
“It is true, I am afraid.” The Djinn frowned, dejected at his own answer but pleased to deal with such an honest patron.
The boy stood with his bowed, obviously upset by the answer and wishing to take his time to decide just what his few remaining wishes should be.
“My second wish,” the boy said, raising his head to look at the Djinn in the eye once more, “is for you to answer another question from me truthfully.”
The Djinn looked at him, unable to hide the dubious expression. “As you wish,” he responded after a moment.
“Why? Why do people who have their wishes granted always regret it being so?”
The Djinn smiled. This was indeed a smart boy. “Because no person truly knows their desires; they only perceive problems, and wish for such things to fixed without effort. No one’s problems can ever be simply fixed however; no person’s life is so simple.”
The boy thought about this. It was hard to understand, but he believed the Djinn’s word, and strived to do so. “So, then the problem is not the one who grants the wishes, or the nature of the wishes, but the desire to have wishes granted.”
“It is so.” The Djinn crossed his arms, wondering what the boy could possibly have for his last wish.
The boy nodded, a serious look on his face. “Then for sake for all who follow, there is only one wish that my heart will allow me to make.
“I wish that none that find this lamp, from this time on until time ends, will ever have a wish granted.”
The sandstorm below the Djinn died suddenly. He fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping in pain, struggling to draw breath. He looked at the boy, anger in his eyes. The boy stared at the writhing Djinn, coldly.
“Do not blame me,” he told the dying form beneath him. “You could have told any of those before me what you told me. Perhaps they would have been wise enough to turn you down, perhaps not; but this is the only end for those of you who lay curses among us willingly.”
“Don’t believe yourself righteous, child,” the djinn said, with its final breaths. “Don’t believe yourself a savior. I am not the only Djinn; your kind will forever seek us, for they are forever corrupted, and must always see their folly.”
The Djinn finally let go its corporeal form, becoming so much sand and joining the desert around them in which the boy had found it. “Then I shall find your kin,” the boy swore to desert, “and I will wish them all to the Desert, so that ‘my kind’ can instead find their wishes in hard work and purposeful effort.”
He picked up the lantern, dusting it off. No further dust spewed from the lantern, no sandstorm erupted from within. He took its loop, running it through his belt so it hung from his waist, a reminder and trophy of his new quest of vengeance. He wrapped his head in cloth once more, and took the first steps in his new life and purpose.
Monkey Leather
I didn’t even have a moment to open it before it was snatched from my hands. The figure that leapt away only stayed in my sight for a moment, ducking around a corner. I shrugged; it wasn’t my wallet after all, and chasing after someone who could have easily arrived shortly before I did seemed like more trouble than it would be worth. The metallic sound from the alleyway meant that he was either jumping a fence or climbing onto the fire escape of the building, so either way I didn’t stand much of a chance catching him.
So you can imagine my surprise when, rounding the next corner on the same block, I find the wallet on the ground in front of me, lazily laying on the sidewalk as if it were tired of waiting for me. It took me a moment to notice the nearby pool of blood that didn’t quite make it all the way to the soft brown leather. I picked up the wallet once again and followed the path. Afraid to look but unable to stop myself, I pushed myself around the corner to look down the nearby alleyway. All I managed to see before I pulled myself back was a human body, broken on the ground, its head twisted at an impossible angle and far smaller than it should have been.
The police station was only two blocks away, and I don’t believe I have run faster in my life. I escorted an officer to the scene, explaining what had happened and handing over the wallet afterward. She was quite kind, doing her best to make sure I was ok after encountering my first dead body. After checking with a few people who were standing nearby, she insisted I go home.
Knowing she was one of the few good police officers I had dealt with in my life made it that much harder when I found her body near my front door, two small, neat holes steaming in her chest right near her heart. The wallet stood nonchalantly nearby in the grass, open curiously but with no signs of being disturbed.
I looked inside. There were few identifying objects; no credit cards, no license, just a few of those discount grocer deals and a few business cards, none of which matched. One of them stood out: a collectibles shop that seemed to sell leather items. Seemed as good a place to start as any.
The owner of the place seemed as confused as I was when I showed him the wallet. He did manage to tell me one thing before the display of swords behind him dropped suddenly off the wall, a well-honed katana slicing his hand off at the wrist, the wallet tumbling from his grip and coming to a gentle rest against the inside of my foot.
He told me that the leather was made from the hide of a monkey. It was enough told that I was not surprised when his hand stood up and ran off on its own long before the paramedics arrived to try and save him.
So please, guy with the gun outside the subway station, I’m telling you one last time, for your own sake: Do not take my wallet.
Rant at people ranting at ME3 ending
Ok, if it wasn't obvious to those reading my G+ post, I'm a little peeved about this whole "Let's bitch at Bioware for the ending they put into the game that I love!" rant that seemingly everyone with the Internet as decided to get behind. it's absolutely ridiculous on many, many levels.
I'm not going to cross post it, so if you want to read my original rant, go here.
Let me put a warning here: I'm going to be spoilerific. The reason why I'm posting this on my blog is so that I CAN be spoilerific. For the most part, I don't think people are going to come read this unless they expect this, so if somehow, you've gotten this far and don't want to read on about the endings of Mass Effect 3, STOP READING NOW. Thank you.
Now, I've done a little more research, having a few more in-depth conversations with people, read a few blogs, looked up some rants on Youtube, checked out a few more of the endings myself, etc. I get it a bit more. I can sort of see why a lot of people are angry.
It's still REALLY DUMB. But I get it. If I made a bunch of stupid assumptions about what was going on without examining anything for myself, or decided to make enormous jumps in my conclusions as to what things mean, sure, I'd be pissed too. I'd be stupid, but I'd be pissed (but then, those two tend to go hand in hand pretty often).
There are a few, specific issues that have been brought up multiple times in multiple ways that I simply feel are inaccurate at best, and presumptive at worse. I'm going to start with the simpler ones.
There's been a lot of complaints that Shepherd's team somehow "miraculously" made it back to Normandy. Despite a clearing of the hot-zone you performed not too long ago, the fact that there are multiple Makos and other vehicles in the area, and the fact that the team all left you in the damn ship when it last exploded, seemingly everyone is SHOCKED that somehow, for some reason, your surviving team left for and made it to the Normandy while you died. Not sure how this is surprising, nor why people had to make up stories about teleporters.
Many people complained about the emotional connection, that they wouldn't have left it in that situation. Well, I'm sorry, but it came down to two things. Your team either saw you dead, or they saw you limp your way into the lift. The lift that took you to the Citadel, where you most likely weren't going to be returning to Earth unless the Citadel crashed. You limped through that damn place for the better part of an hour. It's not suprising that, when someone gave the order to retreat, your damn team beat feet.
The next issue I had is with people wanting to tell the little robot-child-thing off, shoot it or otherwise do something else than submit to the choices in that situation. My question is: what the fuck do you want Shepherd to do?? Bleed on it? It's a hologram! It's a program! It's NOT THERE!! You want to kill it? Well, low and behold, that's one of the GORRAM CHOICES!! Destroying the Repears destroys it too (and if you think about it, you're actually doing it the other way around: destory IT is what destroys the Reapers)! This isn't hard, people.
Seriously, what the hell else would Shepherd do in that situation?? Bleed out? The longer you wait, the more people die. Decisions are made. And when you're stuck in a room, dying, with a few decisions in front of you, not making a decision, or telling the child to fuck off without doing anything, is dying, and condemning everyone else to dying. Seriously, what else do you want? Getting three options (assuming you came fully prepared) was a bit shocking, in my opinion.
Ok, now to get all pseudo-gaming-science all up in this bitch.
First of all: This whole "People are stranded here" thing.
They have said MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the games--twice in ME3 alone!!--that FTL travel between systems is entirely possible. it just takes years, instead of seconds. The relays were a convenience more than anything else... In fact, some times when you escape a system from the Reapers, Evi says, "Faster than light jump successful."
So, they're not fucking stranded. If the ships they are using can use the stupid relays, they can use FTL. Granted, it's just gonna take the better part of a decade (for some, like the Quarians and the Geth, it's could take almost half a century, but they're the best equipped to handle it anyway). Seriously, if you think they're stranded their, either (a) you haven't been paying attention the entire game, or (b) you're stupid, and you're not thinking about it.
Ok, second: Joker running away.
First of all, if I saw a giant wave of destructive energy shooting out at me, and Shepherd was confirmed dead... HELL YEAH I'D RUN!! His loyalty is to the friggin' ship. That was made obvious at the beginning.
My only problem is that he was smiling when he got off the crashed ship. He should have been pissed, and definitely shouldn't be the first one off the ship.
Setting that aside...
The reviews and rants I have read lead me to believe that everyone assumes Joker went to a Mass Effect relay and jumped. Assuming he did so, yeah, this entire ending would be ridiculous. With this assumption, you also had to be assuming that Joker pretty much had to start running almost as soon as Shepherd got hit with the laser-blast-thing.
Ok, let's just assume this is wrong because it's stupid. Why would anyone write an ending where that kind of simple physics issue is overlooked? Heck, they even mentioned something in game about on-board sound-synthesizers that make it sound like an explosion happens in space when there isn't one (although, scientifically, that's still in question). If you take away that assumption, and just assume that Joker hit the ship's FTL when crazy-ray-of-WTF-ness started happening, it doesn't seem that illogical anymore, right? Why did anyone even jump to this conclusion?
To make it worse, the ending pretty much takes us by the hand, doing its best to try to show us that this didn't happen in a Mass Relay jump.
Three considerations: One, he's making adjustments and piloting. This means he is NOT traveling via the Relays, as that is near-instantaneous, and he's said before that he makes all adjustments for jumps before he touches the relay. Two: the beam *caught him*. No way it could do that in near-instantaneous travel. Three: The beam that caught him was a wave, not the destructive-looking-lazer-thing shot out by the relays, but the wave that came of the Crucible. That means he's not on the relay's path.
The only logical thing was that, as crazy shit started to go down, he hit FTL tried to escape with the fleet, and got caught in the blast from the Crucible. Regardless of which ending you choose, the subsequent change to Edi would mess with the ship, pull it out of FTL, and cause the ship to crash.
Ok, that is done.
So this pretty much reduces the complaints the fact that they haven't wrapped up everyone elses' stories (which I hope they do in comics and books, and not in this game, because I loved the other media), the lack of more variation in the endings (ok, seriously, I don't know what you were expecting here, high quality CG is expensive especially in design, and what they pulled off was great-looking, and IMO it all had to end somewhat the same way anyway), and the fact that the endings were color-coded.
I do have to admit, I am kind of irritated by the color-coded-morality endings (although I don't think they correspond entirely). Still, I understand why they did it: Because they took us by the fucking hand while trying to still do a decent, somewhat artistic ending, and we still didn't get it.
So shut up. However much I don't like including myself in this, it's our fault this crap is happening, and our bitching and whining just means we're going to have more Navis in our future.
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