There’s fear in her eyes, clear as day. But beside that fear, there’s anger, hatred, all mixed in one. It’s a weird emotion to feel, but Liselle won’t let the fear consume her. A flicker of malicious delight crosses her face when she sees the discomfort in his own. He is right of course; she should be dead and six feet under right now.
“Royalty doesn’t die easily. And your attack dog might just not be as good as you think he is.”
Fear is a powerful emotion. Ever the Machiavellian, it had been the Illusive Man’s strategy to spark such a
strong feeling in the eyes of his enemies. It brought a smile to his
face, thin & cruel. All the humanity he once possessed had
been poured into his cause. Bled him bone dry. He was a shell of his
former self. Cold, hollow. The stuff of nightmares, a warped caricature
of a fairytale villain.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝I always admired resilience. A trained dog learns to get back up for his master. You can’t win this war. ❞
His presence here is strictly off the books. Covert, under cover, however you want to put it; he’s not supposed to be there and the official response, should one be sought, would be that Lieutenant Piers Nivans is not acting under any authority given by the BSAA.
"Chris Redfield…” The man requests a name so Piers gives him one. It’s just not his own. “Ring any bells with you, sir?”
By reputation alone, the man is familiar to Piers, but as a person, he’s a mystery. Still, Piers is not concerned about any of that. All he wants to know is what happened to his captain. Nothing to be gained by indulging the flashback in time the mention of Edonia invokes, so Piers ignores the bait.
Years of practice made his mask near impenetrable. As a stoic, little emotion dared to flit across his aged face. His composure was stony, absolutely frigid. Those electric blue eyes threatened to damn the BSAA operative that dared to enter his fortress unannounced &
unwelcome. Despite the eerie calm that settled over him like a thin
veil, his nostril’s flared. His jaw clamped down a little tighter.
❝Curiosity killed the cat,❞
he shot back as coolly as possible. Idioms, riddles, contradictions.
What next? He was beginning to sound like a proverb — difficult to
digest.
Movement was a rarity. He
kept himself poised, reminiscent of classical sculptures trapped in
naturalistic positions. How difficult it was to brush off the plaster
cast facade. The Illusive Man was simply a negative copy of himself,
artificial to a fault with good intentions now sullied by greed. By
desire. By the errs of man.
He knew the name, refused to let it show.
❝The only bells I hear are the false alarms that you choose to ring, soldier. Your name.❞
alma cared little for it now, her ownparents had abandoned her in this dreadful place, they allowed these complete strangers to harm a little girl that wanted nothing more than to be with her family, recieve the love that every child craved. her hope for humanity had been completely drained, bit by bit, the more time she spent trapped here. like a bird in a cage.
small hands clench at his response, she would make her anger known to them. though the psionic was blessed (or in her view, cursed) with great power, she was still just a child; children were often prone to fits when not granted what they desired. in alma’s case, it was freedom.
❝ I don’t want to be a legend. ❞ she repeats, much more sternly this time, almost as if she’s warning him. the room then begins to lightly tremble. this is her own doing, it doesn’t frighten her.
One day, little Alma will grow. She’ll blossom into a Mother of Monsters. A futuristic Tiamat. O, how the Illusive Man vows to bear witness to this miraculous moment.
And so, the world comes crashing down. Tremors assault the cramped room, shuddering from burden. Grounded, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. His fears are few & far in between.
Bracing himself, he steps forward { provokes fire & the wrath of GODS }. A hand is offered.
They twist their head to the side, taking in every minuscule twitch and motion of the man before them. A secondary language to be translated by a mind not yet cognizant of every meaning - lacking a Rosetta Stone for how humans move and act. They learn what they can through minor moments and interactions.
( An ancient whisper in a voice that echoes theirs warns that they have not learned enough to know all that this man is. )
How confusing humans could be. The man that they harbor pheromones and mind within reels with hatred towards the very man before them, no matter how similar in genetics, in existence they are. It is a sensation no Rachni has felt towards fellow sisters or children, not without the sour poison of old machines in their minds.
They press against his hatred. Shake their head, the movement just off from natural.
Caught in a snare, he does his best to remain composed. Clever, but naivety came with inexperience. The Rachni Queen was but a nymph – green still behind this puppet’s ear.
A politician is an actor – a poor player strutting across the field – on the stage. His motives stretch on to infinity, dropping off into the inky abyss of the unknown. Let the universe think him a tyrant or a strategist. In the future, his name will be recorded for history’s sake, if not his title. Allow it to be uttered in hushed whispers of reverence alongside Pompous Maximus.
Humanity’s speaker.
It nearly brings a smile to his face. He basks in the glow. An old machine hums within his skull like prophecy: You will succeed where others have failed.
❝Humanity’s future lies within the palm of OUR hands, Your Highness. I speak of hopes &dreams. Of what humanity will become.❞
He’s a false shepherd.
The smile fades when revelation crawls from the harmonious albeit discombobulated voice of the Rachni. A deep breath is the calm before the storm. Pupils dilate. Behind his back, a hand grips his wrist. Had there been a dagger, he would have made for the perfect Brutus.
Deception ought to be his name.
❝Where there have been victories, there will always be a few lives lost. The cost of living is high. Sacrifices are necessary.❞
A pragmatist to a fault, he sees the world in one way only: his vision. He feigns sympathy, pinches the bridge of his nose like he actually cares. Long ago, he had a soul, but traded it for prosperity. The gesture’s as fake as can be. Everything about him is.
“I hardly consider any of it to have gone to waste.” Pale eyes are void of an emotion. It, of course, had been trained out of her by the others who had worked for this man. She doubted he had expected much of a reaction — and if he had, he would be sorely disappointed. "I more than make do with what I still have. Believe me, my talent can still be put to use elsewhere.“
Some words were merely well-practiced lies that she had gone over and over should this day have ever come. When her past would undoubtedly come back to haunt her, Monica had decided that she would be ready with a mouthful of falsities that she had almost deluded herself into believing. Every mistake she had made since she had left could be covered up by the illusion she had created to make it seem as if she were now better off.
Even if she wasn’t.
"What do I have to owe for the… pleasure?”
Where there was once fire, there now lies cinder. Vibrant colors paled with humanity’s plight. The job changed you — a
slow death from the inside out. Briefly, in the tart exchange, he
reflected on his mercenary years — days growing colder &
colder the more you pulled the trigger. The more you used biotics. Even
the laugh of a killer sounded hollow, robbed of vivacity. He smiled, but
it was instinctual. Habitual.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝You belong with Cerberus. This organization is your fate, your magnum opus. You’re making a grave mistake.❞
His warnings were never empty. He had a handful of believers { dogs !}, willing to sacrifice for the cause. She wasn’t worth his personal presence.
His appearance or lack there of resembled a false shepherd, a false
idol destined to lead poor lambs astray. Yes, there had been a cause
once, but now there was rot & ruin. What might have well been the plagues.
A brisk sigh puffed out his lungs, made him seem tired, as though he hadn’t slept in centuries.
❝If you don’t return, then you know how this will end.❞
had james been a lesser man, the cool, calm hiss would have seeped beneath tingling flesh, piercing his ever impressionable soul. ( but he’s seen & heard enough falsehoods to last a lifetime ) has fallen so far from grace as to be willing to tear apart the one thing he’s claimed to stand for. i think that question should be pointed inward. take a look in the mirror. ❞ holding his rifle steady, he questions how someone [ a M A N] { the rights of humanity are nonexistent in the hands of mr. illusive } ❝ that’s rich — especially comin’ from you. [see what you’ve become]
Lieutenant James Vega had a stained glass soul. A menagerie of vibrant colors. Anyone could see it.
{ How many stones to break his heart of glass? }
Military grunts are all the same. This, he knows. Men are beasts, succumbing to their passions with a red veil over their eyes. Once, Jack Harper had been that naïve. Gone are the days he fell victim to anger. He’s made too many sacrifices. Now, he pays the price.
Ever the observer, he watches. There’s something unnerving about his stare { beyond the glacial cybernetics} – it’s the look of a kid holding a magnifying glass above an anthill. Watching, waiting. For that eminent destruction.
❝Getting philosophical, are we? You’re full of surprises, Lieutenant.❞
He chuckles, the laugh belonging to a man that’s too far gone. It’s a game of cat & mouse. This time, there will be only ONE survivor.
{ ‘Who?’ He asks himself daily. }
❝What I see in the mirror is the same as you. Failure, success, progress. Or do you see the blood that will never wash away?❞
Illusive Man. He remembers that name, barely, remembers the mission briefing in the most vague manner but doesn’t remember finding him or how he wound up decorating a cold metal slab, restrained like a wild beast ready to be dissected.
This man is the type he hates the most, political, calculated. There’s no emotion to pick up on - not like Chris, all that stone-hard armour for skin but still so easy to pry away. All that strength and it doesn’t make a difference. The smoke from the cigarette burns his eyes - odd, he notes, his own usually never bothers him and for a moment he muses on what exactly has been done to him in his state of unconciousness. A worrying thought.
Cereberus. Where Umbrella had fallen, it gave birth to new terrors. Il Veltro, Tricell, Neo-Umbrella - Cereberus. Too long had he tried to get inside, to find some evidence against them. Beureaucracies were never his forte, and so he pushed on alone. Someone had to.
So how did he end up here?
“I don’t want your gift. You’re making a mistake here.” For all of his strength, his body did not act accordingly, did not shatter iron and tear apart restraints as he wished and instead remained still - leaving him only to spit venom.
What made a king successful was not the strength of his hand, but the pawns there. It was the making of a good politician. The Illusive Man knew this. Better to use wit than the might of one’s fist. Meticulous planning went into his actions. For everything a reason, he so rationalized.
He wears a brittle smile, the kind that will likely chip away if you prod at fresh paint a moment too soon. The cigarette reminds him that he’s alive – that this existence is real, authentic { or as authentic as one can attest to }. His lungs shrivel & shudder from the smoke, but he continues to take long drags. Could be a pacifier, could be his calling card.
Part of the mystery of the Illusive Man lied in the enigma of his deeds. He could have spun some elaborate tale for how Chris found himself strapped to the medical slab, but he saw no point in characterizing himself as a cartoonish villain. Plenty came before him. Plenty played the Machiavellian & failed, but not him. Ne'er Jack Harper.
❝A mistake.❞
He sounded horribly disappointed by this, as though he expected Chris Redfield to agree & grow complacent with his warped agenda. The CEO hardly differed from the rest, just another tyrant with an appetite for utopia. Despite the caged bear’s thrashing struggle, he stepped forward. Allowed for ashes to sprinkle on Chris’ hand. Let him dismiss this not as a dream, but a brand new reality.
❝Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes. Do you know who said that, Christopher? Oscar Wilde. Brilliant man. You’ll accept, because you have no choice.❞
Without further ado, he slammed the butt of his cigarette down into the poor man’s hand. Poor Atlas. The world sought to crush him.
