"I should have brought that Quarian in by force. I told you, this is why I wanted to put in a control chip."
He'sa cigarette smoking man who sits &watches while waiting for worlds to burn.The Illusive Man prefers to calculate where each movement will landhim in this grand chessboard called ' life.' Calloused fingers, worn out from an old war, touch his chappedlips. He takes a drag.Lets the smoke kill his lungs slowly, softly. The burn's familiar.Reminds him of how alive he is¬ how synthetiche's become.
❝Miranda,you know as well as I what outcomethat would entail.❞
Anelbow comfortably resides on top of his arm rest. He swipes past asequence of controls, a list of names&dates &placesthat will not matter in a few years time. The orange, cybernetic glowdevourshis face. Leaves something less to be desired.
❝Hadwe done so, we would violatewhat Cerberus stands for. A control chip destroys a concept that you&I both call freewill.By erradicating this concept, we would be no betterthan the Reapers.❞
