The thought of his species—his people—being reduced to that state made him physically ill. He'd always hated that aspect of the Mass Effect universe when he'd played the games. The way humanity was portrayed as this scrappy underdog that had to prove itself worthy of alien approval. The way human culture and human values were gradually eroded by constant exposure to "superior" alien civilizations.
But those had been games. Fiction. Entertainment. The idea that it was real, that it was going to happen, that there was nothing he could do to stop it...
He stumbled toward what he assumed was the bathroom, his weak legs barely carrying him. The nausea hit him in waves, not just from the physical weakness of this body but from the existential horror of what he now knew lay ahead.
Humanity was doomed. Not to extinction—that would almost be kinder—but to permanent subjugation. To becoming a client race of alien overlords who would use them as cannon fodder in their wars while keeping them technologically and politically dependent.
And I can't do anything about it.
That was the worst part. Even if he could somehow convince people that he knew what was coming, who would believe him? A malnourished teenager living in poverty with a history of drug abuse? They'd lock him up in a psychiatric hospital before he could even finish explaining about the Reapers.
He barely made it to the toilet before he started vomiting. His body convulsed violently, rejecting not just whatever chemicals had been pumped into it but the crushing weight of knowledge he now carried. The future of human civilization rested on decisions that had already been made, paths that had already been chosen, and he was powerless to change any of it.
I failed them, he thought as he retched into the stained porcelain. I failed my entire species before I even knew they needed saving.
The guilt was irrational—he hadn't chosen this situation, hadn't asked to be thrust into this role—but it was overwhelming nonetheless. Somewhere out there, billions of humans were living their lives in blissful ignorance of what was coming. They were falling in love, having children, building dreams and making plans for futures that would be cut short or corrupted by alien interference.
Mother Earth, he thought, and the pain was like a physical wound. They're going to threaten our home. They're going to hold our planet hostage to ensure our compliance. Our ancestors fought and died for human freedom, and we're going to throw it all away for alien technology we don't even understand.
He was still hunched over the toilet when something impossible happened. A voice spoke directly into his mind—not through his ears, but somehow directly into his consciousness.
Welcome, User 45013. You have been selected for a purpose: to uplift humanity.
He froze, his hands gripping the sides of the toilet so hard his knuckles went white. What the hell?
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to prevent humanity's subjugation by alien forces. Time remaining: 6 years, 7 months, 12 days.
This is insane, he thought. I'm having a psychotic break. The stress finally broke my mind.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true. This voice, this presence in his head—it felt external, artificial. Like some kind of advanced AI or computer system.
Do you accept this mission? the voice asked. Warning: Refusal will result in no penalty, but failure to prevent humanity's subjugation will result in the permanent loss of human independence and technological advancement. Choose wisely.
What's the worst that could happen? he thought grimly. I die? That might be better than living to see humanity reduced to alien lapdogs.
He'd always believed that it was better to die free than to live as a slave. The idea of his species, his culture, his entire civilization being gradually absorbed and neutered by alien influences was more horrifying to him than the prospect of death.
At least if I die trying, I die human.
"Yes," he whispered to the empty bathroom. "I accept."
Congratulations, Daniel Fischer. Mission parameters confirmed. Initial resource package will now be downloaded. Prepare for knowledge transfer.
Knowledge transfer? he thought with sudden alarm. Wait, what does that—
Transferring technological specifications: UNSC technology tree, Titanfall universe technology tree. Warning: Human neural architecture not optimized for direct data download. Procedure may cause temporary unconsciousness. Transfer beginning in 3... 2... 1...
No, wait, STOP! he tried to scream, but it was too late.
The information hit his brain like a tsunami of liquid fire. Blueprints, schematics, theoretical frameworks, manufacturing processes—thousands upon thousands of years of technological development from two different advanced human civilizations flooded into his consciousness all at once.
Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine specifications. MAC cannon designs. MJOLNIR armor schematics. Slipspace navigation protocols. Titanfall mech blueprints. Jump kit technology. Arc reactor designs. Smart pistol targeting systems.
Each piece of knowledge was complete, perfect, and absolutely overwhelming. His brain—this teenage brain that was already weakened by drugs and malnutrition—wasn't equipped to handle the influx of information. He could feel his neurons firing in patterns they were never designed for, synapses overloading as they tried to process data that should have taken lifetimes to accumulate.
I'm going to die, he realized with crystal clarity as his vision began to blur. My brain is going to burn out like an overloaded circuit.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, he found that he didn't regret his choice. If this knowledge—however he was supposed to access it—could give humanity a fighting chance against what was coming, then his death would be worth it.
The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was his own reflection in the bathroom's cracked mirror—Daniel Fischer's pale, frightened face staring back at him as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the filthy tile floor.
But in those final moments before the darkness took him, he thought he could see something else in that reflection. A glimpse of the future he might be able to create if he survived this. A future where humanity didn't bow to alien masters, where human ships flew through space powered by human technology, where the species that had crawled out of caves to touch the stars refused to kneel to anyone or anything that tried to chain them down.
Let me live, he prayed to whatever force had brought him here as the knowledge burned through his mind like acid. Let me live long enough to save them. Please.
The darkness closed in, but somewhere in the depths of his unconscious mind, vast libraries of impossible knowledge began to settle and organize themselves, waiting for him to wake up and discover what he had become.
Outside the bathroom, his supposed sister was pounding on the door and shouting his name, but Daniel Fischer—whoever he truly was now—couldn't hear her anymore. He was falling through an endless void filled with the blueprints of humanity's salvation, and whether he would survive the fall remained to be seen.
The future of the human race hung in the balance, and the only person who might be able to tip the scales lay unconscious on a bathroom floor in a run-down apartment, his mind rewriting itself with knowledge that might either save his species or kill him in the attempt.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. Today, there was only darkness, and the faint hope that when he woke up, he would still be human enough to care about the mission he had accepted.
The clock was ticking. Six years, seven months, and eleven days until First Contact.
And humanity's only hope was a malnourished teenager with the memories of a college student and the technological knowledge of civilizations that had never existed.
God help us all.