The contempt with which Piers looked down at the proffered hand is almost palpable. Raising a brow, he glanced up at the other man, consternation now colouring his expression
Choose sides?
There was no choice. Piers operated under the strongly held belief that he was on the righteous path and there was nothing which could cause him to deviate. Neither threats nor death could derail him and he had faced both.
“No.” His response was curt, bordering on derisive, and the accompanying snort drove his refusal home. The man would go the same way as those before him. All secure in their perceived superiority right up to the last when good triumphed over bad. As it always did. A universal constant.
“I want Redfield,” Piers reiterated, making clear his lack of interest in games and teases. “You’d recognise him by sight, if not name. Big guy. Lots of muscles. Hands that could pop your skull like a grape. Currently detained, I presume, at your pleasure. I’d like for him to be released.”
Would like was usually a weak pairing of words, but when spoken with the coolness of determination and clipped tones which suggested no room for debate or negotiation, they conveyed the right meaning. Would like meant want at any cost.
❝What
if I don’t know Redfield’s whereabouts?❞
He
spoke matter-of-factly, too assertive in front of this boy hero who’s
fresh off the hook. The Illusive Man smelled a lie like a shark
finding blood
in the water. It was coppery; it was tart. Something about Macaulay
was off. Teeth ground down on the flesh inside his cheek. Not hard
enough to drawn out the taste of metal, just a thoughtful act.
❝You
won’t find him here.❞
His
eyes, bright &
pretending
to be celestial,
stared at his open hand. A pity. He retracted the offer swiftly,
allowed his blunt nails to graze the lined palm. He didn’t need his
fortune to be told. Jack already knew it.
❝You’ll
find something else. Something greater.❞
It
was the rambling of a madman, of a strategies who laid out plans from
Day One. Cerberus was more than a company; Cerberus was a revolution.
❝Are
you prepared for that?❞
A
humorless smile appeared, tugged at his cheeks until it became
painful. He offered no solace, no comfort, no help. Let the rat go
through the maze. Find a piece of radioactive
cheese. Crow’s feet wrinkled. A hint of amusement reached his eyes.
His stare is blank towards the hologram that projects from the device in the palm of his hand. Blank first, suspicious second, claws curling inwards and digging into the mechanism, as if he’s weighing whether or not he should simply crush it and move on.
The voice of a formerly indoctrinated Prothean is not a pretty one. It sounds like five different voices speaking at once, each one lower, more distorted, broken than the last. There is barely the semblance of his former accent, despite it only being a mere projection of his technology riddled brain.
Hardly a man. Feelings are a thing he cannot sense through this– a copy, a fake. But he can see the displeasure, as evident as the fact that the blood upon his plating is not his own.
"Worth my smile,” his voice is dry, his irritation easy to see despite his lack of facial features– the reason behind it.
Further, his claws dig in.
“How could I trust in the stupidity behind your primitive organization.” Give me one good reason.
Futuristic
con men pine for the same, old tricks. It doesn’t matter
the year, the decade, the century. In desperation, he pulls out a
million hard balls:
speaks with his hands, holds his head high, keeps his voice
personable. There’s something flat about his tone. It could be the
distance; it could be the distorted
hologram itself.
Men
like Jack are hard to trust.
Their
voices speak in volumes. His eyes, so bright &
blue,
sweep over the Prothean. It’s a floodlight, reflected by the
flickering of the hologram. He’s not a scientist. He’s a former
soldier. He knows what it means to study a threat, to befriend the
enemy only to plunge in the knife when the time is right &
trust is as fresh
as oxygen on Earth.
❝Strong
words.❞
He
doesn’t need to speak
more than necessary, to pull out a flowery presidential speech. It
buys followers, but it doesn’t buy time. He hardly thinks it’ll win
this one over. Despite the distortion, the distance, the Illusive Man
is full of quick moves. He flips his hand out, wags two fingers.
Doesn’t matter if the Prothean can {
can’t }
smile.
❝You’re
quick to assume.❞
His
arms fall limp by his sides. Wet, dead things. He pretends to be
relaxed when he’s all pins &
needles. The fabric of his suit, his uniform, folds.
❝I
know what it means to be alone completely. You lose yourself; you
lose your mind. You need someone who understands. Someone with mutual
interests.❞
While she can’t see his thoughts, Liselle knows she’s hit a nerve by mentioning Cerberus’ defeat on Omega. But any amusement she might have been feeling is wiped clean off of her face, and out of her mind. Her lip curls into a snarl, and if she were stupider, she would have lunged at him. But she knows better and chooses to simply hold her ground instead.
“You did take advantage of her. You used her grief and her anger to get your people onto Omega. You could have told her the truth and handed over the one who did try to kill me, but no, you let her believe Grayson did it.”
She spits the words at him like she’s cursing him. She certainly wants to, but she knows better than to do that to someone of his status.
“You mean humans? You don’t care about the rest of us. Not one bit. And join you?” She laughs, the sound bitter, humourless. “You’re fucking deluded if you think I’d go anywhere near your xenophobic organization.”
Delusional.
It’s a word he’s heard before. In whispers. In passing. It always
began like so:Jack,
you’re delusional.
Back then, all he had to offer was an abrupt laugh &
a
boyish smile. Although the laughter’s long gone, he still manages a
ghostly smile. It tugs at his lips, slants them slightly.
{
coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝Open your eyes.❞
The
Illusive Man’s arms fold behind his back, knuckles grazing his spine
that stiffens. He’s not READY to put down his house
of cards. He’s waiting for that royal flush that’ll send her
stumbling backwards, shocked &
in awe. He still has a good hand.
❝This
isn’t about one life, but many. This is a matter of life &
death between several species. Think about what will happen if you
don’t join me. Your kind will die&
you will have the knowledge that you could have helped them.❞
While
this might have been personal for Liselle, this was strictly business
to the Illusive Man.
He feels not a single shred of sympathy. His mannerisms come across
as a bored child, his head canting to the right. Patience, he had.
Time, he didn’t.
“I suppose asking how your call got through would be pointless.”
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝You’re correct to assume that,
Ambassador. What you should ask is how I can
make your life less pointless& more meaningful.
You could be more than a symbol. You could be
saving humanity.❞
He paces. It’s not nerves that drives him to
do so. He’s a caged animal, waiting to be
released, but patiently biding his time. Or what they have left of it.
❝ To be making contact with someone of my reputation, Cerberus must be incredibly desperate for intel. ❞
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝Cerberus has noticed your… talents. You’re well known for your specific skill-set. It made sense to confront the original source. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse, Aria.❞
{ def. }
the state of being directionally dependent. The property of being anisotropic & having a different value when measured in different directions.
There is nothing CERTAIN
about a man who builds himself up on improbabilities &
uncertainties. A celestial veil dances in front of him, the stars
twinkling brighter than permissible. Not once does he
squint. The lights seldom bother him. That’s what it means to
make a SACRIFICE; he knows, he gave up his eyes not for martyrdom,
but for control.
The Illusive Man rolls
his head back, an arm against his IRON spine. He lights a cigarette,
an action that makes him remarkably human. Smoke fills the
lungs when the little red tip emits a dull glow. This
is Agamemnon’s kingdom, his cozy little throne room. Inhale, exhale.
Nicotine fills him up slowly. Makes him feel realer than real.
Heels click, disrupting
the silence he once cherished. A buzzing sound
reverberates & threatens to shatter his ear drums. His
heart beats steady, then sluggish. Nails scratch his cheeks,
trace the lines that are battle scars. That are medals of valor &
sweet VICTORY.
& she’s a thief in
the night, plucking the vice from his lips to steal a
drag. It’s neo-noir when she does it. Neon colors grace her
face. The lights lick her pretty, red mouth & her
inquisitive blue eyes that say: I AM INSTABLE. SO ARE YOU.
He tells himself that
she’s not a queen, but he yearns to be a king.
The conquest of spaces appealed to him at such a young age. If he
were a praying man, he would call all of this PROPHECY.
Instead, he watches with his eyes that are too bright, too
artificial. He watches the veins twitch in her wrist, the
muscles working when her fingers girl.
He could CHEW it out.
Taste her blood like a
destroyer of worlds.
Destroy her like a Reaper
vanquishing civilization.
Doesn’t do it; can’t do
it.
{
coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝I admire how assertive
you are.❞
COSMOS; an instrumental mix to evoke the quiet curious wonder of gazing into the night sky in search of something greater and finding your thoughts woven into constellations and distant galaxies
one. cosmic love (instrumental) / florence + the machine | two. breathe me (instrumental) / sia | three. ride (instrumental) / lana del rey | four. aurora in faerieland / james newton howard | five. feast of starlight / howard shore | six. evacuating london / harry gregson-williams | seven. sanctuary / james newton howard | eight. a new beginning / alexandre desplat LISTEN
