[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/251018/5acec16f78249d5295e0217d4c116c6e.png[/img]

[img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/29/9d/7c/299d7cccb5263b70e10aa312a8c41cc6.gif[/img][/center]
[b][u]Morning   The Rookery, New York City[/u][/b]

[center]    [url=https://youtu.be/cXBCFmNTgRQ?si=1AnRuCUmtj-dxWA2][u]The Lobby[/u][/url][/center][right][Everyone][/right]


    Arriving at the Rookery would be welcomed with fanfare, hatred, fear, and sorrow. To some the otherworldly products of the church was seen as a chance to reclaim and rebuild— to others it was just blasphemy in broad daylight. There were no trumpets or banners, no welcome sign to broadcast your arrival. Just a large building with a strange abundance of crows that have roosted upon the rooftops along its edges. Swarms of the avians seemed to claim the building as their home, but strangely enough there was a lacking of bird shit raining from the heavens.

That was the real miracle.


[@Yankee]
    The first to arrive was #9 and their keeper O’Brien. He was a rather plain looking man that served as the greeter, and pseudo-organizer for the gathering other than the general who waited on the fourth floor. O’Brien was a rather reputable handler in the sense that he had at the age of eighteen years old, been placed with the role of [u]social conditioning[/u] the newest generation of numbers. He did well with organizational politics, even handled the decommissioning of his previous #9. 

    The brown-haired man adjusted his glasses as Orwell stepped out from the elevator unsupervised to meet with him. Offering a neutral expression to them with a nod of his head. His voice was just as muted as his expression, lacking any real boisterous tone or emotion altogether. [b]”Thank you for being punctual. They’ll be arriving any moment now, please be sure to focus on the perimeter until all entrances have been secured after your siblings have gatherered.”[/b]

    The sound of unmanned electric vehicles arriving outside would signal the ensembles arrival, and O’Brien would snap his vision toward the door at that signal patiently awaiting the rest of the numbers making it to their intended location.

    The lobby of this building was, a very stark contrast from the bleak exterior that it presented to onlookers outside. Like any good building possessed by religious backers, there was no shortage of biblical paintings and scriptures along the walls. What would stick out more than anything would be a massive statue of the Virgin Mary sitting directly behind the administration desk for check-in and out procedures, fancied up with dripped white wax with flecks of gold. The air was clean and smelled faintly of lavender and sage, cold, and enough flowed around them to make small candles placed decoratively around the hallways to flicker in the artificial wind.

    There was also technology that some of the numbers would be familiar with; biological scanners at both sides of the door that identified every living being that stepped in and out of that door, automatically logging their information as if to make the greeters no more than an archaic pleasantry. Perhaps the twelve heavily armed guards, six at each side of that same entrance garbed in white fatigues and emblazoned with the church’s cross along with patches for each holy warfight they’ve taken part in. Today was a special occasion so sparing no expense was common sense, thus handlers, armed elite, or the mob outside would be sure to prevent anything from interrupting dhwhat was meant to take place today.

    Before any of the handlers or their companions would enter, a strangely dressed woman seeming to be in the early dregs of adulthood would enter. By strangely— her clothing seemed to be a man’s suit a few sizes too large, her hair was dyed pastel pink with black roots having long grown out, and unhinged as she seemed the woman wore the most uncanny smile painted upon her face— as she beamed at O’Brien and Orwell she skipped into the lobby to greet the pair.

    [color=FFB6C1]“Don’t worry! I’ve got #2, no way would she miss this reunion!”[/color] This person had a few screws loose, and spoke out loud with a whimsical chipper tune.

    [color=FFB6C1] “Where should I put her?”[/color] Valentine, the young handler with pink hair asked as she cartoonishly revealed a large glass jar that appeared— seemingly out of nowhere? The jar itself held what was left of #2, a still beating and bloodied heart that looked almost identical to a human one if not for the small white ring of pure energy that surrounded it.