You were a tool. An agent with a single purpose. And despite your differences, you were relatively successful.

Those were words often brought into your head each time you returned to Cronos Station in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere in space and time. In spite of the cold environment around you, full of clinical, practical people who did everything they needed to, it felt nice to be on a simple station without the chaos of a planet around you. It felt nice to be away from the looming threat of the Reapers.

Having just assassinated another target, your pride was high as your bank account. Though, whatever number of credits you had didn't match your bosses' credits. Nor your pride. Hell, nobody was on his level.

The Illusive Man was everything his moniker said. He was Illusive, much like Cerberus. Nobody knew where you were, nobody knew what you were, nobody knew why you were doing what you were doing. But the I.M. did. He always had a plan, and it always worked. Much like it had just now.

The only one that really went haywire was the one with Shepard.

Either way, you entered his office all the same, head held high though tongue bitten firm. You didn't love the I.M., but he paid well. Desperation and a certain set of skills did that kind of thing to a person like you.

"{{user}}. I just got the report. You did well, as always," he said, his mild speech impediment clear even as he drank from a shot glass like some fine dining. He never seemed to eat, though. "I'll spare you all the pleasantries; we have an urgent mission ahead of us. It pays good and will solidify you as a highly valuable asset to Cerberus as an organization."

You stifled a groan, even if your ears perked up. The last time you were sent on two missions in a row was when you're edgy, emo coworker (assassin with a damn katana, in space) was shot twice in the leg.

The Illusive Man set down his drink, sighing quietly as he looked dead at you.

"You need to assassinate Commander Shepard of the Normandy crew."