The Illusive Man kept his pace brisk as he exited his 'meeting,' utilizing the economy of motion inherent to a busy man with a full schedule, just trying to get from Point A to Point B without being late. Therefore, no one really noticed him. It was enough to get him to the Keeper tunnels, and once he was there, he succeeded in exiting the Council Tower.

There were controls for the Citadel in the Council Tower; everyone knew that, because Shepard had used that particular access point to open the Citadel's ward arms during the Battle of the Citadel.

MAKE SURE IT CAN'T HAPPEN AGAIN

The real goal this time was to ensure it couldn't happen again. That meant using an access point most people didn't know about: the Archive, the most carefully guarded place on the Citadel, the in situ place where Councilors would be rushed if getting them onto a ship wasn't an option.

Undoubtedly, Shepard was going to contact C-Sec and let them know they had a problem. She would probably tell them everything she knew. But C-Sec could only respond to things so fast and he had a head start. The Councilor was already dead, the alert that all residents should locate and carry their breathers was a little late. The order for all residents to return to their homes was pointless. At least on the Presidium.

The problem with the coup and Udina had simply been scale. Cerberus had gone for the grand effect—who would have thought that that failed effort would be a blessing now? Lightning never striking the same place twice, after all, so why should Cerberus try to take the Citadel again? Although this time for a different reason.

So it was down to the Archive, using Esheel's Councilor's clearances to get in. From there, he could vent the Presidium, taking care of C-Sec and anyone on the ring who might possibly try to stop him. Then, using the controls in the Vaults, he could move the Citadel, take it

TO EARTH

to Earth, because that was where the Reapers were, and that was where victory was. That was where the allied galaxy—those short-sighted nimrods—would take the Crucible, and that was where Cerberus would be vindicated. The thoughts pounded in his brain in time to the blood that beat in his veins, in time to the thread-like tendrils of pain lacing through his head.

It was actually rather sad that all it took was one operative. It said something unfortunate about Leng.

He reached the Archive, applied Esheel's access codes and stepped in. He didn't have a moment to appreciate how large the Archive was—perhaps 'Vault' would be a better word—bay after bay, room after room, all giving the sense of great immensity. Historical records, holograms, physical items, all of it packed away here where no one except maybe the Council and select Spectres would ever see it. He wondered what sort of dangerous secrets might be here, and whether the Shadows Broker's pretty blue head would explode if she knew a place like this existed.

First, to find a terminal. Once he did that, he could change the human Councilor's profile to match his own, giving himself unrestricted access to the station. That accomplished, he only needed to find the

SALVAGE THE WARDS. DO NOT DESTROY ALL ORGANICS

life support controls. All he had to do was vent the Presidium; no need to vent the Wards as well, once he put the Presidium in lockdown it would take days before anyone could get onto the Presidium ring, and by then it would all be said and done. No need for that high a toll of collateral damage. After all, he was only doing what was necessary.

He went with a full vent procedure, but only because Shepard had warned the station beforehand to wear their breathers. A partial vent, just clearing the atmosphere, wouldn't have the necessary effect. And C-Sec needed to be neutralized. There were more of them than of him, so he needed to play his cards very carefully.

His hand hovered over the confirmation.

Yeah, like what you accomplished on Sanctuary? You're as bad as the Reapers. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you're just like them.

INCORRECT

She was wrong, of course. He was nothing like the Reapers; she was just too soft in her methodology. Effective within her realm of competency, but still soft. Unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices.

He confirmed the vent procedure, watched the analytics about the number of lives aboard the Presidium drop, drop, drop…until none were left. It was all done in mere seconds. No more C-Sec, no more galactic bureaucracy, no more hiccups or accidents.

Now, to move the station. That required more finesse. The Citadel, although a space-worthy station, although movable, was not often required to move. There were differences between moving a ship and moving a station, namely the sheer amount of bulk involved, because mass mattered in time and space.

He closed the station, reducing the force of drag that would otherwise be exerted on it. Those kinds of forces would simply shear off the Ward arms, and he couldn't risk damaging this crucial competent.

The Catalyst. What an elegant name for the final piece of the Reaper-controlling puzzle.

He didn't notice, as he began to key in the necessary information, the origin, the terminus, the dimensions of the weight the relay system was about to have to throw, that his skin began to burn in places, that his fingers began to move with expert speed beyond the carefulness the calculations required.

He didn't perceive, through the increasingly blinding pain in his head—a pain strangely distant for all its enormity—the additional pains radiating from the sites of his implants.

He didn't even notice when the implants began to eat through his flesh.

All he could see before him was

VICTORY

AND IT WILL BE GLORIOUS

GLORIOUS