A/N I hope you have all been well dear readers. This chapter is out a bit faster than usual (I had to make up for my previous delay!)

I am very pleased with the amount of follows and fav's I have gotten thus far. Very pleased. I think maybe my pleas for reviews may have had some effect! Tell me what you think about this chapter. As previously stated, I love feedback.

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People of late, have looked and viewed me with expressions of horror and disgust. Directed towards my murderous tendencies, I'm sure.

I've never understood it personally. Why people, particularly humans, view murder as so wrong. On the whole, we're a murderous race. According to Genesis, it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand, and the first murder was a fratricide. Genesis says that in a fit of jealous rage, the very first child born to mortal parents, Cain, snapped and popped the first metaphorical cap in another human being. The attack was a bloody, brutal, violent, reprehensible killing. Cain's brother Abel probably never saw it coming. Whenever I ponder this first murder, I am often filled with a sense of empathic sympathy and intuitive understanding.

For Cain that is.

Why is my killing any more invalid than even yours?

In all of history men have been taught that the killing of men is an evil thing not to be countenanced. Any man who kills must be destroyed because this is a great sin, maybe the worst we know. And then we take a soldier and put murder in his hands and we say to him, "use it well, use it wisely." We put no checks on him. Go out and kill as many of a certain kind or classification of your brothers as you can. And we will reward you for it.

But society has always had a fucked up view of serial killers.

They've never understood that you can't just stop murdering people. Murder is like chips: you can't just stop with one. The addictive thrill of killing someone.

The even more addictive thrill of letting someone live, when you know you didn't have to. Because you had the time, the place and the means to kill them.

Even though you really… really…want to kill them.

I desperately wanted to kill the administrative nurse in charge of your ward.

She had kept me waiting for two hours while she processed my request for access to your room.

Apparently security was still an issue at the time. Apparently so, given the fact that you had nearly escaped four times from the hospital, but still, one would have expected given my top level security clearance (albeit fake assurance) that I could have been through a bit faster.

And yet the stupid man had the audacity to glare at me. As if I was to fault for his inability to process a simple request.

'You really couldn't have arrived at a worse time.'

'It's not my job really. I'm just doing you a favour.'

'Couldn't you come back tomorrow?'

And his incessant clicking as he browsed through his GalacticBook page.

The man was begging to die.

But before I could administer my fully formed plan, involving mild anaesthetic, a bedpan and his selfie obsessed face, the computer finally pinged in completion of its task.

With a short sigh, the drell nurse reached across to read the statement it had issued.

'It seems I can let you go through. That way, to room 2217

I cracked my back and resisted the urge to reply back, but merely nodded and walked towards the direction he indicated.

'Be careful with her! She's a real livewire!'

The biggest understatement of the centaury no doubt.

Passing through two more security checks, I finally made it to your room.

It was decidedly normal looking, no fancy marks or nameplate to indicate your presence. Not even the sound of a music or a vid screen. And yet, I hesitated before knocking on the door.

That was strange at the time, before I met you I never hesitated.

'Come in.'

The door opened silently and I was captivated by you.

You were laying back on your bed, a real book rested in the crook of your arms and surrounded by flowers.

Romance isn't lost on us psychopaths.

You lifted your head and crooked an eyebrow at me.

'You just gonna stand there?'

I lurched towards you suddenly, arm outstretched.

'Special Agent Lex Styx ma'am. I'm here to-'

'Write a report on me. Yes, I remember meeting you on the roof.'

You regarded my still outstretched hand for a second.

'Please. Take a seat.'

I was dismayed by the lack of interest in your tone.

I am not easily dismayed.

That day was one filled with many new emotions.

'Thankyou ma'am.'

'And don't call me ma'am. I'm not your mother.'

Your smile quirked as you said it, but I couldn't help but be struck by its significance. You were not my mother, but you were pretty damn close. I'd never felt this feeling for someone else after my mother died. A feeling far greater than my fondness for Emily. It ached in my heart, as if reminding me of some long lost emotion that should have been there.

It intrigued me.

'So… Mr Styx. What is it you would like to know about me?'

I stared at you for a second in preparation for the start of the answers I first sought, when I first saw your eyes.

You coughed loudly and awkwardly. An obvious statement about my lack of noise.

'Sorry ma'a…errrr…..Commander? I've been tasked to have conduct a range of interviews with you to discuss your personal history, your history in the Alliance, covering broadly the events on Akuze, the missions on the SR1 Normandy, your death, Cerberus, your missions on the SR2 Normandy, your captivity and finally; the Reapers.'

You gazed at me, while I caught my breath, before pinpointing me in a laser like glare.

'Captivity. Why did you say 'captivity'?'

'You were locked up by the Alliance, pending court marshal were you not?'

'Yes, but you said… captivity. Not jailed pending marshall. Like you knew what it really felt like…To be locked up.'

I paused for a moment shocked, but your gaze was unrelenting and I was compelled to answer honestly.

Another rarity for me.

'I do.'

You paused again, still regarding me with your icy glaze. But for some reason, it softened.

'Yes' You stated quietly your gaze trailing off.

'It looks like you know more than even I do.'

Your illogical trailing of thought confused me, was it that hard to remain on topic?

My next question came out rather snappily.

'Where were you born?'

Your gaze snapped back to mine, and this time it was you who looked annoyed.

'Really Special Agent Styx. If SAIS wanted to know where I was born, all they had to do was access public records. I highly doubt those were the sorts of questions they really wanted to be answered. If, indeed, they wanted any questions to be answered at all. Which leads me to question; why are you here Mr Styx?'

Your flipped question gave me pause, before I answered hurriedly.

'I'm here to ask you questions-'

'Then when you come back again, ask a serious one.'

Cutting me off, you returned to reading your book, effectively indicating the end of our interview.

But I was not to be put off so easily. Instead, I remained in the chair I was sitting and stared at you for a good five minutes. It produced the desired effect of annoying you, as your eyes began to dart around sporadically and your mouth tightened before finally…

'I want you to leave!'

I took the time to fold my arms smugly at your expression of ire.

I was starting to enjoy myself.

'I want to ask you some questions. Looks like neither of us are getting what we want today.'

Your eyes narrowed and you fingered your book dangerously, as if preparing to throw it at me.

'Fine' you muttered bitterly raising your finger.

'One….REAL….question….Then you leave me alone for the day.'

'And you promise to answer it?'

'Yes.'

I let the offer hang in the air, before nodding.

'Agreed.'

You adjusted yourself on the bed to face me, before resting your hands against your thighs.

'Ask your one real question then…If you can think of any.'

I pondered for a moment. It was my opportunity to ask you any question. Any question at all.

I didn't have a single question.

I was so obsessed with meeting you. Of finding you, I didn't even have anything to talk to you about. Something to talk about that was….real.

The problem was, that I have never been real.

But you were waiting patiently for my answer.

'What….'

You leaned in to hear the rest of the question.

And as I stared the question that came to my mind was one I was asking myself.

'How do you know you're in love?'

I regretted the half whispered question the second in came out of my mouth, but you didn't laugh or look at me strangely. Instead, you leaned back and pondered it seriously.

'My mother once told me, that love is like the wind. You can't see it, but you can feel it.'

'You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not. It's like a mirror. The other person shows you all of yourself, even the parts you don't like. But the very fact that they know what those parts are shows how much you loved them, to trust them with it. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.'

'You know you love someone truly and deeply, when you make the decision to never look your heart away from them. Even though it could get damaged.'

Your answer left me without air. And you stared at my face with a glazed expression, as if your mind was in a far off place.

The sound of me sucking in oxygen again, snapped you from your revere.

With a pondering look, you issued a final statement before returning to your book.

' Now that; was a real question.'

I exited the room quietly. That feeling in my heart larger then when I had first walked in.

Did I love you?

The administrative nurse stopped the elevator I had caught to exit the hospital.

Hopping in, he released an exasperated sigh.

There was blessed awkward silence, before the idiot ruined it with his rambling.

'Did you remember to sign the final exit security papers?'

I closed my eyes in frustration, before allowing the call to take over.

The remains of the drell were found the next day. The police concluded suicide.

Really, I was doing the Galaxy a favour.

My father never believed in wasting an opportunity. Where others saw a means to destroy, my father saw a means to control-to dominate and to harness. But he always knew, that humanity's place in the universe was more fragile than we liked to think. Strength for Cerberus was strength for every human. Cerberus was humanity.

An ideal. A vision.

And I was to be the weapon that rose us above everything. I was the sacrifice towards ascension

And I was sacrificed.

Torture covers many things. My father's favourite torture for me though, was guilt.

Guilt is cancer. Guilt will confine you, torture you, destroy you as an artist. It's a black wall. It's a thief.

But I found strength in the midst of all the shit.

Sure, its kind off fucked up that I retained my sanity by becoming a murdering psychopath. But it helped me compartmentalize and helped me learn a valuable lesson about the power of my mind. In the end, my father could chain me, could torture me, could rip apart my body, but he could never really imprison my mind.

I found a room, later that night, in a dark a dingy motel that was somehow still standing and operational. But I found that I couldn't fall asleep, and was left staring at the ceiling.

I'd never felt like that before.

There was of course, the lingering after effects of the kill, but that wasn't what kept me up.

No...It was the thoughts of love and life.

And your face.

And your eyes.

I am Alexander Harper.

I am the son of the Illusive Man.

And I have problems confronting my feelings.

A/N REVIEWS! REVIEWS! REVIEWS! Sorry...I just thought maybe some people are skipping the A/N's, so I thought I would make it blindingly obvious about how much I enjoy getting feedback on my writing! Regardless of whether you review or not. Even if your one of those people who never reviews, fav's or follows but still diligently reads the story (come on, we've all done that!) I still appreciate it.

Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.