"Send us Mass Effect fanfic," I said last week. "It's for a contest! You could be entered for a chance to win a copy of Andromeda and a nifty remote-controlled Nomad! Come on, it'll be fun!"

We asked, and you delivered—and my inbox will never be quite the same.

Sorting through the entries was surprisingly difficult, because there were so many excellent stories. Some bumped right up at the 500-word limit, telling tales of a post-Reaper universe or of how Sir Isaac Newton really is the deadliest son of a bitch in space. Others were short and succinct. Multiple entries played on the "for sale, baby shoes, never worn" theme (one of which featured krogan baby shoes). Many made me laugh. A few made me tear up. You guys wrote some great stuff.

The winning entry: on calm shores

But there can only be one winner, and that winner is Ars reader Eliza Stone. She is now the proud owner of a new copy of Mass Effect: Andromeda and an RC Nomad, and here's the story that won her the prize:

Mordin has yet to run out of seashells. He has run tests on their chemical composition (CaCO3—calcium carbonate). He has tested their structural integrity (questionable). He has licked them, just to see what all the geologists were on about (utter nonsense). Still, there are thousands. Millions, maybe, spread across an endless beach with a warm sun and a night cycle flush with familiar stars. Science to do, tests to run, things to ponder. Little songs to hum when the world gets quiet. Mordin will question it all, eventually; perhaps when he’s finished with the seashells. It’s a decent sort of afterlife, he thinks—considering he had not been sold on the idea of an afterlife in the first place, he is glad to be pleasantly surprised. No budgets, no peer reviewers, nothing for company but the joy of scientific pursuit. …he probably shouldn’t be as lonely as he is. Then one day he sees red hair in the distant sea and his old lips thin. Too soon, but it was predictable. Should not have expected any other outcome to the war—was naïve to hope for otherwise. Well, no use dwelling, Mordin decides. Another pail and shovel have materialized on the beach and they might as well be put to good use. Besides, scientific collaboration is always more stimulating than working in isolation. “Shepard!” he says, holding out the bucket to an old, tired friend who is finally, finally at rest. “Good to see you. Need a research partner.”

Runner-up the first: out of scope

I wish I could name 50 runners-up, but I've only got space for two. The first is Mr_Hilikus, who penned this piece that started slow but hit me pretty hard at the ending:

“The M-98 Widow is a single shot sniper rifle that can eradicate kinetic barriers and armor from extreme range. The design is originally geth, believe it or not, and without modifications to your personal armor and the rifle itself, the recoil alone can shatter human bone. The Widow is not an antipersonnel weapon—it kills monsters. “For modifications, I personally recommend anything that makes it difficult for the enemy to find you. Suppressor is good. The Widow makes a very noticeable 'thumm' after firing. Heat shielding is also good. Thermal optics are a sniper’s worst enemy. Finally, make room for a lot of thermal clips. You’ll need them. And don’t waste your time or resources extending the barrel for more power. An extra two percent increase in projectile speed doesn’t matter when you’re using a tank-killer. “You need patience to operate a weapon like this. This isn’t a weapon for a Vanguard, an Engineer, or a regular Soldier. You calculate the shot like a firing solution on a frigate. The collateral damage isn’t that different if you miss. You take the time. Double check your aim. Breathe. If you don’t, the wrong person will have a bad day. “Pick a good spot, away from the action. Don’t feel bad. You’re useless on the front lines. Leave that to the men with heavy armor and shotguns. Concrete floor is best if you can find it. Stay away from foliage unless it’s wet. You don’t want an ejected thermal clip setting things on fire. Embarrassing way to reveal your position to the enemy. Bring a partner if you can. Not a spotter—your gear does that for you. I recommend one of those guys with a shotgun, just in case Charlie locates your position and wants to say hello. “After taking out a few targets, take a break and change position. This is necessary. You stay in one place for too long, the enemy will find you. You’re a high value target, so it’s a good bet they’ve got spotters calculating the angles of your shots to find your nest. Stay mobile. Requisition a jump jet so reaching a vertical position isn’t an adventure. They’re also good for making a quick escape if things go south. “You’ll see things more clearly than other people. Faces. Expressions. Don’t let it bother you. Don’t think about it. Don’t let them make you take risks. You’re a killer, not a hero. You can’t save a mother and her child from two clicks away. Even if you managed to hit the husk that was rushing them, it’s just too close. A weapon designed to obliterate heavy armor leaves too big of a crater. If anything, you’re just giving them a clean death. Better to die than become one of those things.” “I’m very happy with your progress, Johnathan. I know this is difficult. Do you want to talk more about them today? The mother and child in London?” “Not today, Doc. I’m just not...Not today.”

Runner-up the second: specter of a Specter

Our second runner-up got me smiling early in the morning, and that's always a sure sign of a good story. Here it is, by Cody Perez:

Struggles of a Citadel Soup Server Scoop, lift, splosh onto plate. That was the daily life of a soup kitchen worker like myself. Down in the Wards was where we did our business, serving the downtrodden and the seedy underbelly lying beneath the elaborate and concealing beauty of the Presidium. The Citadel soup kitchen—or C-Soup, as the locals brilliantly called it—was a haven for the oppressed and oppressors alike to get their breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. It wasn't an overly challenging job, but it came with its fair share of problems. Rival gangs, foul mouths, and trigger fingers occasionally led to fights in a place where all are welcome. Unfortunately, today was one of those days. It was lunchtime when I heard in the serving line an even more obnoxious and loud krogan than most. The target of his harsh words? A timid, shaking volus right in front of me that seemed to owe him money. A quick glance at the krogan's profound scars told me he was a part of Clan Edrix, notorious thugs that specialized in your usual extortion, smuggling, and the like. Right then, the thug picked the poor Volus off his feet and slammed him against the counter, causing dextro-protein goulash to fly everywhere. "Where's my money, softskin?" the Edrix exclaimed. "I...I'm working on it," the volus wheezed through his breather. "I have some ventures that will be lining up soon. Then, you will have all your money, including interest!" "We have rules. You wouldn't expect me to go back on my word like you did, would you? I'm going to show everyone here today what happens when you lie to Clan Edrix. Just be glad you got me and not one of my brothers." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a shotgun was pointed at the volus' head. The whole place was silent waiting with anticipation at a nice show. I sighed. Why didn't I stay on Thessia and help my parents?, I thought to myself. Before I had Volus brains covering me, a voice rang out. "What do we have here? This is a nice establishment. Why ruin the friendly atmosphere?" From the crowd, approached a man in distinguished dark armor with an N7 engraved. Both the krogan and volus turned their gaze towards him as he continued. "I suggest you put him down, grab some food, and enjoy your meal. Or else, I'll have to get involved." The krogan dropped his victim and started to walk towards the galaxy-renowned hero. "You might be some celebrity, but I'm not afraid to punch some sense into you." The thug swung a punch, but before it could land, he was swept off his feet and slammed into the ground unconscious. The hero came to me, picked up one of the fallen trays, and said, "Here's an autograph for all you do." I looked down to see a holocard signed "Conrad Shepherd." I can't remember—was Conrad really his first name?

Parting words

Thanks to the hundreds of folks who took time to enter. I wish I could give something to everyone, because reading all of your work over the past week has been an amazing, joyful experience. If anyone wants to post their stories in the comments below, please feel free to do so—the world's a better place with this much creativity and awesomeness in it. Even you, asari tentacle porn guy. Yeah, your story was great, too, even if I couldn't use it.

I'd also love to do another contest like this in the future, provided I can get some more fun stuff to give away. Based on the response, it seems like Ars readers are happy and willing to submit stories for prizes, and I am totally OK with that. Stay tuned!