Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, don't own Mass Effect.

A/N: Was playing ME3 for research purposes for the other stories. Watched the Reapers invade Earth again. Found it utterly hilarious they called it "armor" because Shepard one handed the chestplate from the N7 set.

Anyway, long story short – we know the Reapers are dangerous to the order of 150 kilotons…on the frigate side.

Why the hell is the main gun of the Everest, a gun that outputs a measly 38 kilotons, impressive? Forty years ago, the Russians detonated the Tsar Bomba, a nuclear warhead with the yield of 60 MEGATONS. That's right, MEGATONS. Why the hell is humanity shitting their pants over thirty eight?

"Six months. What the hell can we do in six months? These things are more powerful than the entire might of the Fifth Fleet alone." Hackett growled, tossing the files onto the table haphazardly. "Fighting them conventionally is a waste of fucking time."

"I understand your frustrations, Admiral, but what else do you suggest? The only thing we can do right now is to try and build up our defenses and hope it holds."

"I'd like to take this time and remind everyone that two years ago, you idiots brushed us off." Anderson snarked, rolling his eyes.

"Shit. I can't believe I'm hearing this crap." A new voice interrupted, strolling into the room. "Who the hell are you sorry bastards and what the hell have you done with my beloved Earth!?" He demanded, slamming an armored gauntlet onto the table.

Unlike those pansy ass hardsuits everyone else used, this guy was wearing actual armor. He stood twelve feet tall and looked like a miniature ATLAS.

He broke the damn thing with ease.

"Who are you and who let you in?" Someone snapped.

"Shut the hell up, maggot – the big boys are talking here." The new arrival snapped. "I cannot believe I am hearing this defeatist shit. Build our defenses up and hope for the fucking best? Did some alien race waltz in and rip off our collective, human, balls? Because that DON'T FUCKING SOUND LIKE THE HUMANS I KNOW! The humans I know are the best at adapting to bad situations. The humans I know are capable of tremendous feats of creativity, kindness, and most importantly, WARFARE. I've looked through your inventory, and I can say with 100% certainty that you fuck tards need to fire your entire goddamn R&D division. What the hell is this shit?" He demanded, holding up an N7 chestplate.

"That's the chestplate from the N7 armor." Hackett said evenly, staring at the new arrival.

"Wrong." The man snapped, breaking it in half with his hands. "It's junk. This isn't fucking armor – this is an over glorified space suit pretending to be armor. Now, what the hell is this?" He asked, slamming a Predator pistol on the table.

"That's the standard issue sidearm." Someone else said.

"WRONG! It's a goddamn pea shooter is what it is!" He snapped, turning it on his own chest plate. He fired once, twice, then three times and tossed it out of the window.

"THIS…" He declared loudly, slamming a fist onto his chest plate, "IS ARMOR! And THIS," He continued, pulling a large pistol from his side holster. "Is a US Navy Mark 23 Special Operations Command .45 caliber pistol. This thing was designed nearly two hundred years ago and it's more powerful, more accurate, and shoots farther than most of your small arms. And I better hope somebody can fucking tell me what the hell this is!" He snapped, tossing a picture on the table.

One of the Admirals grabbed it and blanched. "Where the hell did you get this? These are supposed to be top secret!"

"Not anymore. Ladies and Gentlemen, for those of you who don't know what the hell this is, allow me to re-introduce the LGM-30 Minuteman ICBM Mark 3, which was in service as far back as 1970! It has a yield of 300 to 500 kilotons, and you assholes are sitting on about two thousand warheads stashed away in secure and forgotten locations around the planet. So, here's what you're gonna do – you're gonna talk the Alliance President into releasing the authority to use fusion warheads, and you're gonna blow EVERY! SINGLE! GODDAMN! SON OF A BITCH FLESH EATING REAPER BASTARDS RIIIIIGHT BACK TO FUCKING HELL! GOT IT!? GET TO WORK!"

The man was gone just as quickly as he had left. He didn't show up on any of the cameras, and nobody else remembered seeing him.

Six months later…

Shepard blinked. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me. Some crazy bastard stormed in on a top secret meeting six months ago shortly after your trial and pretty much called all of us pussies and reminded us about a little something of human history." Anderson said dryly, walking through the halls with Shepard.

"So…the Reapers aren't attacking?"

"Oh no, they are. The 2nd and 3rd Fleets are holding, and Reaper casualties are on the rise." Anderson reported optimistically. "I just wanted to ask to see if you had something to do with it."

"You know damn well I was under house arrest." Shepard rolled her eyes. "So what changed? Why are we suddenly on the offensive?"

"What's changed is that every Alliance officer is currently kicking themselves in the ass for forgetting that our ancestors didn't trust each other very much, and as a result, built thousands of nuclear fission and fusion warheads."

"Nukes? I thought they were disarmed." Shepard stated, surprised.

"They were. We spent a lot of time re-arming them again, and it's paid off. We've bought ourselves some time to regroup." Anderson nodded.

"So what the hell do you want me to do?" Shepard frowned.

Anderson handed over a small box. "First, consider yourself reinstated, Rear Admiral. The shit you've been through makes you the perfect candidate to help lead this fight."

"About time." She grumbled. "I only had to die once and save the galaxy twice. What's the second?"

"We get to remind everyone else we fucking told them so." Anderson smirked.

A/N: This one-shot brought to you from the mind of me, BoredZero.