i. for the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the spirit will from the spirit reap eternal life.
She was everything he could never be, everything he wanted to be. HASHEM was cruel for planting the desire in the man’s heart, but denying him the right to glory, refusing him the divinity needed to become the harbinger of a new age. Look at his cybernetics! They are hideous! Flesh seared away to reveal the machinery underneath. Without elegance, without grace; the songs the Shepard heard from them were sour and disgusting, they created such awful notes, the sounds of a bow being poorly drawn across a violin’s strings. Because they were made by unworthy organic hands and undeserving organic minds, the product of a poisonous arrogance that had been his downfall.
But she has made him perfect, his mind a conduit for an symphony dedicated to her, the Immortal Emperor. He stood tall before her seated figure in a room made of strange angles and a throne no words in mortal tongues could describe, a throne made from the First Reaper. He remained dignified even while leaning on a gentleman’s cane to hold up his weakened body, the irony of this moment not lost on either of them. Indoctrination was a healing gospel that pulled viciously at every part of him, bones singing the old songs, nervous system becoming sound once more after years of trauma. She makes him realize that he was a fool for thinking he could master control over ancient, sophisticated, and marvelous technology.
He was a false prophet and she put him on a path to redemption, one that is under her thrall, an agent of her will. He was alive because she deemed it so and where she could have easily turned Cerberus into ash, she made them serve the people. He realizes that divinity and terror go hand in hand. Holiness was not a golden alter, but a black void teeming with billions of eyes.
Punishing and alluring, her form was an otherness made of supermassive black holes, pulling him closer, tearing him asunder at the molecular level. She puts a skeletal hand around his throat, her bejeweled talons sinking into his skin, her thumb trailing the line of his jaw. He sinks to his knees, her extreme cold seeps into him, she gives his veins frostbite before shocking them with blood; she is an architect rewriting his very soul. Empress of Heaven receiving the Corrupted Shepherd, he seeks absolution from an entity crowned in nebulae and collapsing suns. Words left parted lips of cherry dark onyx, distorted phonetics reflecting her nightmarish essence of celestial power; a bone-shattering amalgamation of Sovereign’s elegance and Harbinger’s harshness, molars crunching on glass shards, a swarm of whispers from those harvested over countless cycles, Cassilda’s song of Carcosa, the sound of abyssal oceans and the death of stars.
Rebellion ought to mean that paradise is crumbling with the people disillusioned, disenchanted, jaded. More & more of Cerberus’ elite begin to stray. They go rogue. They become defectors. Once a formidable sniper, this woman’s no different. The cycle must continue. So, he ought to rid himself of her.
Cheeks twitch, giving way to a ghostly smile. It’s the kind of grin the Grim Reaper will flash before he brings his scythe down — only, the Illusive Man is a million miles away.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝You had talent. It’s a shame to see it go to waste.❞
His tone is masked by cool indifference. He can’t afford the risk, the element of surprise these days. Too many talk, ceaselessly wagging their tongues, and he all but grimaces. The discomfort present in the way his nose wrinkles, accompanying the slight furrow of his brow.
❝You’ve an impeccable knack for survival. How are you still standing?❞
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝War does not determine who is right — only who is left.❞
It’s an old quote, one that’s been locked away in the chasms of humankind’s history. For all it’s worth, the Illusive Man thinks himself right. Cerberus’ cause is just, but dogs of war are blind. Only loyal to their master, the one that holds the leash & issues command: Shepard.
He makes it a habit to get under someone’s skin, even as a projection of a man, illuminated in a frigid blue veil.
❝This is the point of no return. You can’t go back now. Lieutenant, have you lost sight of yourself?❞
Christ, it’s a good thing the Suns ain’t breathin’ down my neck.
With an expression that could have easily been seen as an ‘Oh, it’s you’, Booker shoved himself up to step in view of the comm link, already shaking his head.
“I’m tryin’ to get outta the damn Suns an’ this is what I get?”
Sure, he stayed in for the benefits, but a job at C-Sec could bring more peace than running cargo on Omega every solar week. That and he wanted to avoid sudden news like this. Booker was ready to slip out of the group for good this time, though it seemed like each chance he had was just another reason to stay put.
“Why’s is such a shock to you ‘bout human rats in Cerberus labs? Ain’t you ever hear the rumors?”
Mercenaries have an appetite for destruction, an insatiable blood lust. Credits can fill the void temporarily, but
they’re big spenders. Quick to throw away their credits at Purgatory or
any other low-key bar. A drink to silence the screams of the dying,
another drink to forget it ever happened. He remembers those days, of
wars waged over petty means. Booker DeWitt & the Illusive Man aren’t so different after all.
Despite his claims, he doesn’t quite seem human.
His blood’s been replaced by ice, his eyes prosthetics that are as
omniscient as the Gods of olden days. Golden days. Mysticism ruled the
masses then. War rules them now.
❝Cerberus could protect you. I could protect you.❞
Charisma rolls off of him in waves. He will always be an enigma, the stuff of legends that’s forgotten over time.
❝I’ve heard the rumors. My suspicions were confirmed. Ignorance is not bliss. If you do this for me, think of what you can gain.❞
He flashes an icy stare, immobile. He strikes with the Hand of God & that’s the Illusive Man’s ignorance coming back to ruin him.
Oh, but the power that comes with such revered ferocity. Its very implications are what drives them to notoriety, and within good reason. CERBERUS earned its reputation from the roots of utter savagery and its generous doling of ruthlessness.
The galaxy reflects off her skin like a dying ember, only warm compared to the frigid contours that make up her visage. She stares on momentarily, listens to his words, and turns her head to face him.
❝ Shall I get a hired hand, or do you want to make this personal? ❞
Personal meaning by her hand alone.
Prometheus sits atop his modern throne. Each move he makes is well-calculated, well worth the risk. A cigarette dangles between his fingers — humanity’s finest — smoke oozing out in curvaceous ribbons. He takes a drag & feels the heat ignite his shriveled, frozen lungs. It’s the most alive he’s ever felt.
Aphrodite stands before him, the infinity of space reflected on her black & white suit. Cerberus’ colors. There’s no grey, aside from the age that taints his mane. The Illusive Man, for as long as he can remember, has been an amoralistic bastard. Let the many die so that the few survive. C’est la vie.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝Make it personal.❞
He doesn’t return the smile. His jaw does something short of a convulsion, as though his empire has turned to dust, his bones hollowing out to make room for a glorious change.
❝You represent an ideal, Miranda. Show him just how far humanity has come.❞
