Oh, how does the Goddess look upon the frame of Aphrodite as she stands before her with eyes that burn and a jaw that tightens. A solid contour of perfection, molded by corruption’s hand, only to be sanctified in the aura of purity that The Illusive Woman offers with such a giving hand.
And here Miranda’s grip wavers with the brush of lips against her knuckles. Buckled knees and a silent gasp from her lips as collapses onto her lap
How helplessly devoted.
Her only only words are that of adoration, such empty doting that The Illusive Woman silences with a finger to those lips of hers. Her reply is bold, demanding. Only meant to encourage.
“Show me.”
Show she does. With kisses against her neck, fingers that tangle in faded locks of silver that Miranda knew had been blonde, once upon a time.
She wears grey so well.
Nary do the words of love ever escape their lips. How foolish would they be should they need to utter their words of servitude to one another -
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Loyalty never looked so good. Miranda Lawson is the PINNACLE of humanity: a prodigy in every way, shape & form. Aphrodite envies the woman that she is. She drapes herself over TIW. Cerberus’ herald is now her throne. She is an intangible idea. A concept that hangs above the heads of many. Imperfect perfection that she is finds herself entranced by the Illusive Woman’s cool blue stare. Slender, pale fingers trace the contours of this living enigma’s face. Smoke whirls past plush lips, a cigarette dangling in-between. Miranda’s thumbs caress a pronounced jawline, a high cheekbone& the arch of her brow.
The Illusive Woman is her God, her Lord & savior. To her, Miranda isn’t some fable. Some fairytale dream. She is real, she is vulnerable, she is HUMAN.
’ I could destroy you. ‘
It’s a murmur against her flesh, an earwig slipping beneath her skin. This, Jack Harper whispers. It’s a promise, ne’er meant to be broken.
’ Or I could control you. ‘
Such a wicked ultimatum.
Use me, use me, use me. Little bird sings so sweetly. She winds her fingers through Miranda’s locks, a raven’s mane that runs wilder than the first day she held her. With a sharp tug, the golden girl’s head rolls back. Teeth leave a kiss on her neck that lasts for days to come. Fingers uncoil from her hair, the silken strands merely ink streaming down her shoulders. Claws for nails press into her spine where she knows the Illusive Woman could easily pluck out her backbone.
& why not?
The Mad Woman – cruel Clytemnestra – already has her HEART.
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Blood transforms into FIRE in her veins. Keeps her warm, burning with hatred. Keeps her alive. She hates him. Hates him for how he destroyed her family. Hates him for how the experiments were never-ending. Hates so much it turns to LOVE { not !}. It’s driven obsession they both feel. She’s a galactic gladiator. Defected, she turns ‘gainst Cerberus. Strives to plunge the knife into the three-headed hounds neck. Cut off the heads like the hydra & stand VICTORIOUS. She’s dreamed of this, you see. For years.
’Natasha. ‘
He says it so effortlessly, so smoothly. It’s scotch on the rocks. It’s a lullaby for you to close your eyes to. Her fingers are the knife plunging into his back. Betrayal is a mark they both know intimately like lovers under covers. He made her, erected her higher than any profound monument. Still, she defected. She wonders what that says about the Illusive Man – that he can’t keep his pawns together in one place. She wonders how ’ NATALIA‘ would sound on the tip of his wagging, lying tongue.
As a ghost, she wanders Cerberus’ darkened halls. They may be immaculate & white in appearance, but she knows the blood that stains the labs. Easily removed by peroxide. Skilled assassin that she was manages to slip into his chambers. His office where all the plans enfold. With her fingers brushing his back, she thinks about the different ways he could suffer. Would he fight back? Something tells her he would – laughing merrily with a mouth full of b l o o d.
’ Don’t be a coward, ’ he demands this much of her. He seeks to chain her, to wrap a leash ‘round her neck. Closes her cold, blue eyes. Ne’er as bright as his, ne’er as corrupt. She feels vengeance & ruin where he senses only the latter. He stiffens beneath her touch, as though she’s a fury of Irish Myth, a living witch that will cast her spells. Sidelong, he eyes her & she catches a glimpse of the frigid cerulean sea. He’s not a man, she reminds herself when she pulls out the gun. Holds it high { justly, proudly }. This is her spear. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom & War, would smile in her favor.
’I’ve got news for you. I belong to NO ONE.‘
Then, why does she do as she’s told? Standing at attention in front of him, their eyes meet. A hand flicks out in a flash, his hand against the muzzle. No grins now. She’s peeled them all away to catch a glimpse of his ugly interior. He closes her hand over hers with a father’s love { another father gone MAD}. Kisses the metal of the gun. It could’ve been her lips. She wonders how that would feel. To kiss a snake. She’s kissed many seedy men to get the job done, but ne’er one as sick as he.
Wordlessly, she blows him away. Tugs on the sweet trigger that promises not the salvation of humanity, but her own. Disconnect, self-destruct. There’s a hole where his throat once was. He’s choking on himself. So damn full of himself. He swallows his blood like wine & she smiles. But it hurts.
Black Widow she is, Black Widow she will forever be.
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Some legends last a lifetime. History will ne’er forget the SHEPARD, but they will forget the Illusive Man. An old, nearly foreign feeling shrouds his with’red, black heart. Jealousy. Envy. He didn’t have Shepard’s fire. Her glory. Her prowess. Her POWER. Selfish man wants it A L L for himself. Not once does he say this, but the look in his eyes speaks in volumes. The way he stares leaves a chilling impression. He hopes that he leaves a stain on her soul.
During every encounter, he watches her like a hawk. The steady nod of his head. The omniscient stare. Such a look matches that of Gods of years old watching from Mt. Olympus. & like a loyal parishioner, she follows. She follows for his decree aimed towards humanity’s progress. For salvation at any cost. The more she follows, the less she believes.
Still, Shepard finds herself tethered to the Illusive Man. He’s nameless – a black hole that threatens to suck her in. Maybe that’s why she stayed for the Suicide Mission. To stay in an attempt to pry off his mask. So, she stays longer & time falls from in-between her fingers. Little grains of sand all but slipping away. Now, she sees him for what he really is.
A M O N S T E R.
Moral acts of indignation rip him to shreds. Gone is Jack Harper, the man she ne’er knew. The marks of indoctrination sully his flesh, real & tangible. She wonders what they must feel like – these fresh scars. They resemble ribbons of ink, swirling with a supernova glow. In her wounded hero’s state, she frowns. She’s got thick skin & an elastic heart. She’ll bounce back, but he won’t. It’s a showdown when he circles her, when he shoots Anderson so mercilessly.
This is madness, this is blindness.
’ You don’t understand, ’ he whispers with the gun pressed into her temple. He caresses her neck where his diamonds could have rested. She flashes a glare that SCREAMS: ’ You will remember me for CENTURIES. ’ With a chortle, he hums. The song of Old Machines. The Reapers’ jarring tune. She’ll grip his heart with a bullet & as his eyes devour Earth once more, he’ll realize—
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It’s a rarity to catch Jack Harper in the flesh. He hides behind blue curtains as a grand parody of Oz. The yellow brick road leads to a False Shepherd by his name & his alone. Illusive Man stands in all his glory. Fingers wind ‘round his clear glass: a crystal goblet for all the world to see. A cigarette dangles there. No rings adorn his fingers. He doesn’t need them to assert his power. Smoke masks his face, disguising the rough lines of age. Life hardened him, humanity hardened him so much that he fell for humankind. He’s become a diamond, crystal cut. If you dare to touch him, you’ll B L E E D.
There’s an old song that plays in his head, a type of howling that infects the soul with clairvoyant madness. It’s the hum of old machines. This will be Jack Harper’s undoing. Poor fool thought he could save himself. Had the scientist not been enthralled, he would have laughed at this mortal’s fall.
A man in black is the Pale Rider incarnate. He’s there – watching, waiting. Shades hide the supernatural quality of his eyes: eyes so red they’ll ignite a fire in even the coldest of hearts. The Devil reanimated doesn’t drink because he has to, but he wants to. Brandy rolls ‘cross his tongue. Bittersweet. Albert Wesker wears a golden crown upon his head. A never-ending game begins, as immortal as the serpent that nibbles its tail. When he walks, he glides. Dripping in black, his suit whispers the song of ancient Gods. Of old triumphs & successes. His blood is divine, preserving him for centuries to come. Faux-humanity is this tyrant’s dress with a calculated madness that stomps on Emperor Caligula’s tarnished image.
Golden man rolls his head, full of smooth movements. He is liquid grace, he is fluidity anew. Mere inches away, his half-smile seems to say: ‘I can be your God, Jack. I can be ETERNITY. ‘ Jack laughs & sips his whiskey fix, a terrible hollowness spreading from within. Mesmerized, he’s been robbed of speech. This FALCON, this SERPENT { blasted, damned CHIMERA }, has taken everything from HIM! The Illusive Man clamps a hand down on the broad shoulder, muscular despite the confines of clothing. He feels a raw, hellish heat there that threatens to scourge him.
Fingers { skilled from years of pulling the trigger } curl sharper than talons. He worships in reverence through touch. His hand glides across the expanse of the God King’s back, searching { for what ?}. Yes, the Morning Star is b e a u t i f u l, but humanity is not meant to be blessed by such savage beauty. It leads to corruption. He feels for wings that are not there.
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Witness the caged bear struggle ‘gainst his bonds. A behemoth of a man confined by iron shackles. It’s laughable. The BSAA sends out dogs in armor with guns a-blazing. Now, a weathered hound struggles to come to terms with his sacred humanity. Poor Atlas has fallen far, the world crushing his spine & turning his bones to dust. The Illusive Man watches pitiable Gulliver{ your travels lead you to ruin; this is no Odyssey } with the chains of fate keeping him trapped in one place. A red right hand waves through the air, wrist flicking in its own semblance of grace. Fingers caress Christopher’s throat where he swallows the air & gnashes with his teeth. Sometimes, it takes awhile to train a dog. To break him in. He’ll choke him out, watch that halo slip down, down, down.
Enough is enough. Chris Redfield has devoted his life to the job, his cause, his path to self-righteousness that has lead him deeper into the dark, winding woods. Now, he gives in.
' You & I are alike, Chris, ’ Jack Harper says. He smiles, too close for comfort. His temple to Redfield’s, as though all thoughts can carry on this way. Can transfer to each man’s neurons. Their eyes meet: both blue, but one more ethereal than the other. Reminds Chris of innocence lost, of purging yourself of humanity for greater glory. A name carries a wicked haunt that serenades him in his solitude. Albert Wesker. A man of colossal failure. A man led astray by his grand motives. Thin lips grace a cheekbone in his whisper. ’ The only difference, ’ he muses. ’ – is that you’re BROKEN. ‘
Not defected. No, no; Jack Harper can fix that! He can fix anything. He’s PROMETHEUS with torch in hand. Pulse quickens, breath hitches, lashes flutter. The VIRUS yearns to assume control. This, he knows. Indoctrination is the solution. The Illusive Man will make Chris loyal to his cause: a die-hard martyr reborn. Saint Christopher. What a marvelous sight to behold. There, he pinches the jawline & savors the way the soldier convulses. It’s a death grip, if he’s not careful, but he’s come so far. The Lazarus Project would bring his pet back. Again & again to suffer death tenfold.
’ Do you feel the change? Witness your m e t a m o r p h o s i s. ‘
Madness infects his voice, saturates the silken tone completely. Saint Christopher’s pupils dilate. The irises are now discolored. Mutation. The virus will destroy or resurrect him. Make him grateful for a man playing God. He tests his boundaries & pinches the poor fellow’s wrist, plucking at the pronounced vein with his nails. Seems to say: BLEED FOR ME.& with his lips ‘gainst the crown of Chris’ head, he will draw the ’ hallelujah ’ from his shallow breath.
