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.