send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed.

     i. In modernity, Cerberus is a massive pharmaceutical company, invested in humanity itself. It’s a similar niche to Umbrella: humanity, life. Aren’t the two the SAME? He smokes in a gallery with not a single soul around. Late at night, he has connections that provide him access. He has reasons for being there. The walls are white to bring out the macabre or vivid colors of each painting, each sculpture that is firmly grounded in place. Magritte’s Not to be Reproduced doesn’t stare back at the Illusive Man. The lad in the mirror looks at a fabricated version of himself, his shame turned away from the world. He takes another drag from his cigarette & wills for the smoke to slither past his lips in endless spirals.

    The click of heels means he’s no longer alone. It’s cute – the way she comes in like Carmen Sandiego. She studies the piece with almond eyes & a red appetite, wrapped up in a dress that showcases both curves & muscle. Lady in red asks him: Why this one? It’s a touchy subject. Terror & tragedy infecting the soul. It’s postmodern, it’s post-apocalyptic. It’s a lie. He lets out a rumbling chuckle, a reverberating hum that echoes within his chest. She calls herself Ada Wong. Then, I’m Titus Andronicus. He kisses her on the back of her hand. ’ How cute. I thought chivalry dead, ’ she says. ’ God’s dead, ’ he quips, but does he BELIEVE IT? ’ Oh, that’s bold. Let’s talk Nietzche sometime. ’ She makes it dinner conversation.

    He mentions Project Lazarus in passing.

    She’ll be back.

    ii. ’ You’re involved in bioterrorism. ’ These are the words she utters when they meet again. Carla Radames comes & goes as she pleases. She reminds him of the fine smoke that exudes from his cigarettes, disappearing on a whim. Together, the dogs of war hide in plain sight. A bustling cafe in France. He’s a million miles away from home & she assumes the role of nomadic drifter, traveling from place to place while spreading havoc. The Illusive Man sips his coffee, but it’s not black – he takes cream & sugar; she picks at her croissant. Pretends to eat. She asks him suddenly: ’ What DO you believe in, Jack? ’ He smiles. Many things you wouldn’t believe. He doesn’t say it.

    ’ I’ll outlive you. ‘

    He rises out of his iron throne to lean over her, his shadow coming down like the hand of God. He has a secret to tell her. Whispers with his lips brushing against her neck, her cheek. He might be a nosferatu with the way his kiss lingers on her pulse.

    ‘ I don’t believe so, Wong. Everything dies. ‘

    iii. She thumbs through the files of his office at his desk – his desk where photographs of the galaxies stretch on for infinity. Lazarus, O Lazarus: she reads about one called Shepard, brought back from the dead. What good it would do for a hundreds of thousands of soldiers. A holy war of the undead. She laughs. It’s already been done. The Illusive Man appears & a part of her wonders how he does it. He’s all smoke & mirrors; she sees through the veil. Peering into the arctic tundra of his eyes gives him away. Makes him just another lunatic, another megalomaniac whose thirst is too great.

    ’ What’s it like to be a GOD, Jack? ‘

    ’ I wouldn’t know, ’ he replies in earnest.

    He kisses her as a distraction, but he’s so cold. They feed each other small death on a platter. She chalks it up to poor circulation or a first death. So many mad men, mad women, bite the bullet to be reborn anew.

    Madness is a common trend they share.

    iv. Clytemnestra sprawls herself out across King Agamemnon’s throne. She’s no Mother Mary. She’s far from holy, but comes across as an apparition dressed in black. A penknife in her hands is a divine rod. A manicured claw taps the frigid curve of the blade. This blade had been a dagger, used to stab a man in the throat. In the jugular. She knows it, watched his video feed. Now, she dangles it over Jack’s head. On his knees, he winds his fingers ‘round her leg. He kisses her calf. Muscle spasms. Who is she really beneath the paper-mache skin?

    v. Thumb & forefinger pinch the vial in his hands. Inside, the glass forms the shape of a double-helix. He kisses the exterior, eyes the cheap imposter while doing so. Her skin is translucent paper pulled taut over her brittle bones. Years will pass & her body will collapse in on itself. No fortress stands tall forever. Wordlessly, he slips the vial into her hands. The key to Lazarus isthere. She vows to pick it apart, to use it against the world { her personal vendetta }. He kisses the corner of her lips when she asks about his thoughts on Machiavelli.

    ’ Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are. ‘

    He infected himself. How poignant.

    She laughs at his indiscretion.

    He might as well have put on Agamemnon’s golden, poisoned robe.