A manifesto - they recall reading over the words until their mind blurred with them. Tucked deep within files stored by this vessel. Out of fear. Out of terror - the man with golden skin never wishing to forget where his brother was swept away to in the tide of justice. ( Or the sibling of a Drell woman, large eyes and deep breathing as she recites the memories of enemy bullets tearing through the green flesh and dark red blood of her people. )
These are promises of horror. In comparison, this man seems beyond warm, and beyond kind. …With… They cannot be sure, but there is an undertone to his song. And it sets the teeth of their vessel on edge.
His hands remain constantly moving, shifting. Part of them wonder if it is a distraction. Is he attempting to hide what and who he is? How small and strange they must be in comparison. Wavering in their stillness, little more than twitches to fingers and their neck.
There is no use in useless motions. Only foolishness.
In the land of Gods & Monsters, Jack Harper sold his soul. He never believed in Faust,
literature from centuries ago. He never cared for devils wrapped up in
charming ruses. Somewhere along the way, he managed to become one
himself. Civil blood stained his hands. In his fiery youth, he pulled
the trigger countless times. He laughed when he saw the light fade from
your eyes & there’d been something metaphorical about it. One life for another. One so he may live. So he would prosper from their death.
It was in the past.
❝That’s altruistic of you.❞
He shifts &
twists to make up for the wolf inside this human skin. A beast is dying
to break free. He cannot have that. So, he vows to SEIZE the day { carpe diem ! } with a ghostly smile. May all his words go up in smoke.
❝I speak of those who side with us. Who stand by Cerberus & what we fight for.❞
The
Illusive Man is as mad as Roman emperors with tainted blood in their
veins. Even Caligula would shy away from the phantom he has become.
❝My men are fond of those are complacent. I’m fond of the Golden Rule. Surely, you’re familiar.❞
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.
They do not respond. A natural, human response that they carry from memories of the stiff silence The Shepard carried when her eyes fell upon their body that very first time. A fragile CHILD born by lab, raised by scientists with no care to pain or fear. And yet it was a woman with eyes more cold than the icy plains of Noveria to release them. She who had slain men and women without doubt in her mind for the consequences, because of their risk.
Yet here the Rachni Queen stands, vessel strong - his muscles not yet atrophied from illness that allows her pheromones complete control.
”ᴡᴇ. ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴇᴘᴀʀᴅ’s ᴅᴇʙᴛ.”
Humanity will come another day. When the Machines return to sing their sour note across a galaxy. And yet, they have heard the tales. Seen scars carrying light orange and strong trailing across formerly smooth skin. The Rachni are hidden, but they are not blind. They know WHO this man is as well as they know WHAT he has done.
Commander Shepard is the patron saint of their DEMISE uprising. He has ne’er witnessed such a holy endeavor. Indeed, she’s one in a million. & her sacrifices will not go in vain. He will make sure of it.
The vessel he greets personally wears a human skin. Cerberus’ scientists would have loved to pick it apart, to see what makes the body tick & the spirit so willing. Alas, there are some things science cannot COMPREHEND.
He fancies himself a creator, proud of his work, but with pride — there will be a tumultuous fall from grace. His arrogance blinds him, his reputation precedes him. The Illusive Man sins with a wicked grin, a small chortle.
The Rachni are in his debt. No one man should have all that p o w e r.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝The pleasure’s all mine. Shepard’s done more than I could have hoped for. She’s the messiah &you’re the future.❞
He plays humility’s cards down to a tee though he’s far from humble. What a crook!
It’s the first word to leave his lips, akin to a scientist studying a specimen. Akin to a worshiper falling to his knees before the Holy Ghost. Awe infects his tongue, but his voice sounded jarbled from the start. Synthetic. Fabricated. As though he’s not really there. Never has been, never will be.
He bows his head in reverence. Authority commands respect. He admires the Rachni: their colony, their legacy. Arms fold behind his back, his spine stiff. Rigid. The Queen is much more authentic than he.
