It was just another beautiful day on the frontline. It wasn’t often that a painter would be given such a broad canvas to lay red stains upon, but a starving artist wouldn’t complain about such a thing. Would they? The hiss of rifle rounds whipped through the air from east to west, screams followed their brief bouts of silence but again, they were brief. There were no tanks, no plains, oil was rare and sparsely used in warfare in this day and age— which meant that the drones and ordinances were in full display this evening.

The crash of missiles upon long broken concrete and soil wet with blood sounded like the ancient drums of war to the Taxiarch as he was dubbed. A few black and red ornithopters sped quickly towards #3 but even as their countless micro-rounds emptied towards him, not a single one would hit their mark. The American soldiers watched the man as if he was some sort of superhero, whisking past unimportant targets with a blank expression. Soon he would reach his target, a makeshift bunker lined with reinforced steel welded together— the singular entrance being split open before the insurgents within had anytime could react.

The Taxiarch would exit without a drop of blood on his figure, covered only by the dust and gunpowder diapered through the air. The exchange of gunfire continued even as he patiently made his way through the enemy lines and back to the village of quickly placed tents and his handler who patiently awaited his return. The Warhawk looked much like someone with that title would; a flat top buzzcut of silver hair, a grisly scar coming down from his left brow to his cheek, but he was not in military fatigues like those around him. Instead the handler wore a pristine suit with a small American flag pinned on his collar.

“Shit, we’ll be back in D.C ‘fore sunrise if I can get this dumb ass paperwork shit done. Fuckin’ should have a desk ass pencil pusher doin’ this shit for me.” Warhawk grumbled, not even taking the moment to await #3’s response as he closed his laptop and folded a small stack of documents up to tuck under his arm.

“Gather up yer things, I’ll do it on the way back. We’re ‘pposed to meet with that General in New York about this terrorist organization that keeps attacking the north border. S’go!”


The air felt off, as if all the life had been sucked out of it. Perhaps it was the smell of death vapid on the wind, sticking to the back of your throat. There wasn’t much life left along the mangroves of the Carolinas, most people and animals fled upland into the mountains of Appalachia. But the handler of #7 was here for a very specific reason, and she knew that her unhinged monster was nearby as well. Close enough to monitor from a distance with the scope of her sniper, far enough to avoid direct interaction.

From the hip of her jeans she would pull an old school pager, checking to see if the number had responded yet— she did not. Embers of anger would begin to smolder in her stomach, sizzling against the sides of her ribs and swelling up with nausea. An unlucky mosquito would land on her shoulder just in time for that anger to be directed upon it, smacking it in an instant.

Mo Ye, as her alias was claimed, would angrily begin clicking the small letters on the pager, crunching them down with the as she stomped over to a tree that was bent by wind or water some time ago and began to climb it. The long rifle at her back would be unclipped from its harness and protective cloth before putting its stock to her shoulder and looking further towards the shoreline where #7 walked.

There the old bloated corpses of dolphins and hundreds of fish that had washed ashore would be seen as #7 slowly made her stride through the death-soaked sand until her pager would begin to vibrate. From her pocket it would dug out and it would read.

“𝗡𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.
𝗪𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸.
𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀.
𝗕𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲.”


”It is quieter than usual.” An imposing man standing nearly seven feet tall looked down from the top of a cathedral wall with #11 at his side. He was older, with his long white hair tied in a ponytail.

Kursk was a lot emptier than the capital, which meant the pair were able to move around a lot more freely. And freedom was quite rare, handler or number, though Dimitri didn’t mind the restriction placed upon him. Unlike some handlers, he rather enjoyed the company of this strange not-quite human girl. A Gyrfalcon would come swooping in along the horizon with a small leather contraption wrapped around its forebody. Within a small cylindrical tube a parcel was tightly wrapped.

”O. O. 9.2 7.9 0. Submarine departs from Silver Rock at 2100. #13 will be at the arrival location with Matriona.”

Dimitri would snap his fingers to create a small spark and from it the parchment would ignite until it was ash then dust. He would look to #11 with his dark green eyes and nod his head to her with a warm smile. From the side of the wall steps would extend out from the stone so they could casually make their way down.

”Come, Miya..” The words were as soft as they were cautious, but still he extended a gloved hand out to her so the handler may escort the number he was responsible for. The streets below had less than one hundred people wandering throughout them, it was a shell of its former self like most cities in this day and age. That wouldn’t stop Dimitri from offering passing merchants and tradesman a smile and nod as they quickly moved through the streets making their to the cliffs just outside the city.


Twelve thousand.

That was the number of Russian soldiers that remained along the border of what was once Finland. Destabilization rocked the smaller Eastern European countries worse than many others as grabs for power, along with the rich oil reserves nearby led the entirely of the east to become a war zone. Russia existed as a cruel iron fist that kept many of these former war powers in check, with many simply dispersing to simply be another territory for mercenaries and soldiers to occupy.

”Progress report,” Matriona coldly requested to a senior officer that stood at attention in front of her desk within the cold iron facility she and #13 had occupied for the defensive effort.

”Border should be secured by the end of the week!” His nerves wracked through the man’s body, not only because of the handler who worked alongside the state security force, but also because of the smaller younger creature that stood just behind Matriona.

”And the construction unit will be arriving soon for repairs, correct?” She asked with that same tone, dropping a pen to some paperwork in front of her to scribble something in idle as she waited for the soldier to respond.

”Yes ma’am, and the convoy to take you to the docks to meet with Dimitri will be here shortly!” He froze upon those words leaving his mouth, snapping his eyes closed at the thought of two of these creatures meeting at the same location. Terrifying, that’s how he would describe it.

Nonetheless he would open the tent and hold the forest green mesh wide open for the pair to be escorted to a transport of eight all-terrain vehicles parked near the dirt road attached to their encampment. Matriona would stand from her desk, tucking in the chair behind her before looking to #13 with a warm smile upon her face.

”Shall we go meet your older sister?”



While most handlers and numbers would be out in the field, working undercover, or utilizing their resources to gain some territory or whatever else for the church— #8 would be in a white room filled surrounded by masked figures in lab coats. A singular door and a massive glass window for her handler and the large number of onlookers on the opposite side to watch safely.

“Element 118 stabilization has been successful. All researched may now leave the test chamber. 8 please remain inside until it has been successfully rendered dormant.” Her handler’s voice came from the number of loudspeakers hidden throughout the chamber, and upon their command, they would raise their hands up as they exited single-file to be hosed off in the wash room.

The element sat at the center of the room atop a long rectangular steel table, it floated on a carefully designed platform that hummed in rhythmic sound that echoed along the walls and filled the inside of your skull. Its appearance? A vantablack liquid that seemed to ripple at the reverberations emitted by the device underneath it.

Columbia, and South America as a greater— was slowly becoming the staging ground for most of the experimentation in this age. The land was rich in untapped resources, and the previously lower population areas were now abandoned for resistant life to flourish and retake the land that generations of humans worked to make suitable for industrialization. Now? Sparse buildings hidden in the vast jungles, hidden from prying eyes, and free to break laws and guidelines without a whisper from governments over your shoulder.

The number wasn’t here for their mind though, even if their input was accepted to some degree. A safe means to dispose of or repurpose the countless tests was needed, and after the nuclear explosion in southern Mexico it was deemed that accidents of that variety simply could not occur again. So she was left to do what she does best, and dispose of something volatile and dangerous. Once she was finished, her handler would activate the microphone from behind the glass a final time.

”Very good, now make your way to the wash room. Our plane to the states will be here in the morning so be sure to head directly to your quarters to pack.”


Rome looked a lot like New York City in its prime. Of course the culture, and the clothes, and the language was different— but in truth the catholic church’s home city has become the new age melting pot due to the city’s security. And a lot of that safety was due to the very number and his handler that discretely walked through the canal district this evening.

”Mi dolcezza,” Sister Maria would start to speak just as a small drawbridge began to lower for the pair. ”the American Wing requested we leave the city for a short time.”

The words came wet with the tinge of sulking in her tone. Maria didn’t hide her emotions very well, but outsiders might have seen it as performative. There was also a sense of urgency about it, and the nun stirred right where she stood— rocking on the heels of her shoes before letting out a loud and exasperated sigh. Then an open hand would be offered to #5, which would earn the ire of an onlooking official if they were to catch it.

”Let us try and get there early. I hear they might even let #1 leave the Vatican for once!”



”Ein schmerz im die hindern— pick up the fucking pace, god damn.” A tall, bad, and beautiful blonde woman spat in a mix of her broken native tongue.

”I’m going to dome one of these laborers if they don’t finish this silver shipment on time, we’re on a schedule!” She claps her hands directly in front of a sweaty German man with graying hair, and the look of defeat dripping from his face with each bead of sweat.

”#12, I’m going to have you send one to heaven if they’re not finished by five o’clock. “ This handler had the face of an angel but the heart birthed from hell’s deepest layer.

The state of Germany wasn’t destabilized to such a degree that there was no structure or governance, but out in the mines and quarries where precious minerals were still being harvested, oversight became a myth. That worked both, for, and against Aschen’s directive. Which she saw as grunt work, overseeing working men was a foreman’s job, not a handler’s. Truthfully the only reason the pair was sent here for the month was to babysit the shipments as pirates had raided a number of them in the past weeks— and the church had less and less faith in the German military with each passing year.


BOOM!
Soil, stone, wood, all ruptured as a crater opened up in the earth where a small patch of trees kept insurgents hidden. Unfortunately, hardly anything can hide from the heavy ordinances dropped by Catholic death from above. Spain was, increasingly becoming one of the worst places to live. Failed countries were lawless no-man’s land, but there was hardly any need for large scale incursions within them. Mercenaries were easy to manipulate, they were motivated by money which the church had endless amounts of.

But even with Spain’s Catholic roots, in the years leading up to the world’s downfall their religious systems were slowly evolving into something of their own. The Pope couldn’t have that. So a lot of their resources have been spent here, even getting neighboring counties like Portugal involved to spark flames to surround and destroy it. Unfortunately for them, a lot of other rogue governments supported Spain in its fight, so the war raged on even to this day.

”Fourteen, we need to get to the border quickly and we’re probably not getting a transport. Please-please-please, I know you’re probably loving this.. but we need to get out of here.”

It was a split decision in the moment, but she would need to comply either way— he was her handler after all. She changed her form, warping into a chimera of feline and all other sorts of animals to best suit a sprint far-far from the battlefield. The entire squad that had been sent with them was wiped out, not that #14 struggled on her own, but it wasn’t the time to revel in the gore. Their destination was a small hangar hidden at France’s southern border, hopefully that wasn’t being raided by the time they arrived.

---

“When are they supposed to be arriving sir?”

“They’re already here Lieutenant, did you expect them to be unspeakably grotesque?— No, they might’ve passed you on your way in.” The bald-headed general remained leaned against the wall with his blue military cap clasped closely to his chest.

His brows were tensed with his lower lip raised to tuck over the upper, he chewed on it anxiously with a quiet grumble within his throat. The man’s dark brown eyes would veer to the younger officer at his right, leaned similarly to almost emulate her superior. She would raise the brim of her own cap upwards to meet his eyes with her own, emerald in color they reflected the darkness in the general’s eyes. She could see it deeply in that deep void hidden within his sockets.

Worry. What did he know that she did not?

---

Morning The Rookery, New York City



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 social conditioning 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. ”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.”

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.

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

“Where should I put her?” 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.

---

Morning The Rookery, New York City


Three took one last drag of his cigarette, the sparks contrasting his graying beard before he flicked the ashes away. The ride over was mostly uneventful, with Warhawk running his mouth between the debrief and the mountains of paperwork he complained about. It was all noise to Three in the end as he had seen his mission was already complete. Instead, what was on his mind was the lives he had taken just moments before, a group of lowly rebels who fought for some lofty ideals of freedom.

Three thought about the horrified expressions of the insurgents as he murdered them one by one, the look of terror on each of their faces as they saw their brothers in arms- and perhaps in blood- cut down like mere chaff. He wondered briefly if they had families, brothers or sisters, fathers or sons. It wasn't something Three had thought of before, but he couldn't help it given what was to come.

After all, what sort of older brother would he be if he wasn't excited to see his siblings?

When they finally made it, the middle-aged man had no time to waste as he stomped his cigarette out, walking into The Rookery without a second thought as he marched into the lobby rather plainly. He was wearing a long black coat suitable for combat dirtied from his previous exchange, yet surprisingly not with a single drop of blood on it. Underneath his coat was a set of tactical fatigues complete with a vest, a pistol holstered at each of his flanks and a blade at his hip. He didn't bother disarming himself when entering the premises, and would all but ignore anyone who attempted to accost him of his weapons. After all, this room would soon be flooded with living weapons.

Three didn't bother waiting for his handler to announce their arrival or come in first as he made his way into the lobby. The way he moved was unassuming, yet he conducted himself with utmost efficiency even in a setting as "casual" as this. Without a wasted movement, Three would simply find his way to the meeting point. It wasn't anything strange to most, yet to the Warhawk who had overseen Three for decades, it was clear that Three was uncharacteristically eager for this meeting.

Three first took a look at his "older sister" and the childish handler assigned to her. Three could never recall his sister's face, yet he still recognized her in some way. Perhaps even with his memories muddied, those who were raised to face the same ordeals would grow an instinctive connection to one another. Three wondered to what extent the Church would maintain his body for but a brief moment, dismissing the thought before it became intrusive. To be maimed to such a degree would be seen as a failure of his mission, an impossible thought that three would not dare waste his prescience over.

Three then glanced at the much younger Nine. The old man thought about how far the experiment has gone, how young his siblings would be compared to himself. After all, he was already old enough to be "Orwell's" father, almost their grandfather. Out of everything, Three could intuit that it was those haunting eyes that was the most dangerous. Even a passing glance was enough for Three to be on guard with the much younger sibling. A monster under the guise of a mere child.

Of course, this is exactly what Three expected, and why he had come into this meeting with an unnatural sense of purpose. An excitement to see his siblings, yet not one out of love or warmth. After all, a mission that involves the gathering of them en masse is bound to be complicated, and given that they were all living weapons with mental instabilities of varying degrees, it meant that it was a possibility that one or more of his siblings could be a threat to the mission. Threat assessment was one of his specialties, after all, as well as dealing with those threats as they come. It didn't matter if they were connected to him by flesh and blood, by circumstance, or by purpose.

Three had come into this meeting with the resolve of learning how to put down each and every one of his siblings if the time were to come for it.

The old man didn't bother to introduce himself as the hums of the scanners announced his presence, simply moving out of the way from the entrance with his arms crossed. He considered lighting another cigarette, but envisioned the headache that would come from doing so in a room full of children and decided not to.

Location: New York. Morning Hours, A Reunion Among Numbers.

---

Fourteen wished she had more time in Spain. Poor, Poor lass had enjoyed the sights, the adventure, and the fun of it all in Spain. Despite the unholy amount of violence she committed while in Spain, and Dolittle stopping her so they can leave, and that explosion earlier. She huffed at the thought, as he was such a party pooper about them leaving, as things were just getting started. The young-looking Promised Child looked out of the windows, staring at the passing buildings out of impatience. The plane ride was fun earlier, except for Dolittle trying to stop her from crashing the plane cause of her overwhelming curiosity. It was a fun journey from there with nothing else to note.

Clad currently in a dark dress with light red ruffles, and white and red stockings with the finishing touches of her short-heeled Mary Janes. It was a bit dusty, but she didn't mind.

What's on her mind right now is the excitement to meet her older siblings; her leg thumped against the floorboard of the vehicle as she was impatient, as it was steadily getting louder from the clack of her heeled Mary Janes. "Fourteen, calm down... Don't want to exhaust yourself... or break something... by accident." The older handler called out to her, interrupting her excitement. Her crimson eyes lay on the older male across from her, his grey eyes a bit stern, like an older brother, as his arms were crossed, as he was dressed in that familiar dark suit. Important or not, she couldn't keep her own excitement away as the leg shaking grew less erratic.

"Why should I stay calm? I'm meeting my siblings, it's been a while... I think..? Since I'd seen them... I don't know, Whatever!" Fourteen answered, crossing her arms as she thought. Her memory isn't exactly great, especially about her siblings, as they're vague and fuzzy. While thinking her ears shifted into more fox-like flicking in tandem with her thinking. It's hard to say for her as she knows she hasn't seen her older "siblings" in a while, but it sucks she didn't remember much about them. But it's a good thing she gets to see the other numbers. She wonders how they'll feel about little fourteen and if they've missed her. They probably did right?

But as the vehicle neared the rookery, both ears perked up at the sound of outcries. Protests of fear and terror, and she could put is outrage from them. Sounds like that's one fun crowd, but she looked away from the window for a moment, her ears drooping, matching her slight hesitation. Honest here, she's also a little nervous about meeting her siblings, as she doesn't know what she'll say, and she wants to make a cool entrance. The question is, how would she do it? She can't exactly make an entrance by transforming, which would cause a ruckus and reprisal by the higher-ups and Dolittle, which is a headache she didn't want. It would even mean she'll be in timeout for a while. And Timeout sucks. She really didn't like timeout. But she thought of ways of making some sort of cool entrance; most of the ideas that came didn't stick.

"Fourteen your ears," Dolittle called out, his tone soft, snapping her out of her thoughts completely as her leg completely stopped shaking. The little girl immediately patted her head as her ears just went back to normal, and she sheepishly chuckled, quite embarrassed of almost going out without hiding her ears, as that would've landed her in trouble.

"Oops!~ Silly me."

"Don't cause any trouble, Fourteen, and please keep your curiosity in check...." Dolittle warned cautiously as the vehicle made it stop at the rookery. She let out a laugh with a confident grin. "You know I don't cause any trouble, Dolittle. After all, I'm just a little angel~"

"Yeah, right angel... More like a little demon," he retorts. By the looks of it, Dolittle couldn't hold back a smile as he ruffled her hair, earning a giggle.

But Fourteen was going to try to keep the promise, as her curiosity was almost always getting the better of her, aside from her hunger. Both exited the vehicle and made their way towards the inside of the Rookery, with the others already filing their way inside. To say she was excited to be here was an understatement, as she was beaming on the inside with joy despite her face seemingly giving away that she had no thoughts at the moment. Despite that it was important to know there was a reason for her and her siblings to be together along with their handlers, it was another layer of being on your best behavior. With him already reminding her that not too long ago, it's time to shove that curiosity down for some time.

Inside was less like a church and more like one of those government buildings. She knows there is some slight religiousness here; her shoes make a slight sound on the floor as her eyes look around, soaking up all the details as much as she wants. Looks like there are the scanners, the guards with some nifty guns, the bunch of paintings, and that pretty statue. The small sound of the scanners announced both Fourteen's and Dolittle's entrance in the rookery. She didn't care about the sound as it was busy, as it looked like the staff was doing stuff and working hard, as her eyes scoured around for anything else of interest for her.

The staff and other agents were around, some paid no heed to Fourteen, some had evident disdain for her. She didn't pay any heed, as from the looks of things, there were already some others here. From the look of things, there were some people already here from that guy in a trench coat with a cold look in his eyes; he must have some issues on his hands at the moment, which left a guess that he's probably a handler to a number. There's a white haired number and her handler talking to another girl with pink hair, that's a clown? Or something? carrying a beating heart in a jar. Which she had a feeling was a number. Her guess it might be two.

"Hello everyone! It’s so nice to see you all. I promised Dolittle, I won’t cause any trouble… unless something happens."

Fourteen just curtsies in the middle of the lobby afterwards, like it's nothing much, as she was being polite. But saying that aloud was enough to get looks from most staff, from bewilderment to surprise; it was also fun to catch those kinds of expressions from them. She had a feeling Dolittle was holding in the urge to facepalm from that antic. But Fourteen here didn't care it she just thought it would be a cool way to make an entrance like that, as she may not keep that promise. She strayed away from her handler, minding her own business, and may get to strike up a conversation with a fellow number.

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｉｏｎ　ｏｆ　ｋｉｔｈ　ａｎｄ　ｋｉｎ

It was romantic, wasn't it? Long walks on the beach--though she lacked a beloved to share in this moment. The rot didn't quite bother her. It would be a lie to say she didn't care about it. She just wished that she could embrace the sand and feel every grain. The layer of caked rot had told her that it was, unfortunately, a bad idea.

A familiar vibration. One that she kept in her breast pocket, close to her heart. Were they going to be words of disappointment? Words of what could be praise? She could never tell.

But the message--

Ah--her siblings.


Morning--The Rookery, New York City

Her arrival was strangely quiet. An unmarked black sedan, like many others, drove to the entrance. From it, two women moved past the mob and guards--one following by watching the feet of the first. This wasn't by choice or nervous affect, of course. A fabric veil over blinded Seven as though she were some kind of perpetrator. Though maybe she more resembled a horse.

The thoughts filled her mind. Her siblings--what would they be like? In truth, she was quite excited to see them. What she knew of them was... difficult to recollect. It was impossible for her to tell when the memories ended and the dreams began. Maybe she could rely on what she had written down, but her journals were equal parts feelings and delusions. She was taught never to write the truth--but her thoughts were okay.

"Ah..." the words stumbled as she did, a result of no longer following the steps of her handler. She had moved off track in the lobby and tripped over the feet of one of the guards. Before he could absent-mindedly help the child back up, Mo Ye had moved in front of him to place her hand on his chest. Without a word, she began to move once more. Seven lifted herself up and once again followed her feet.

Inside the rookery, the veil was unceremoniously removed. Seven wore a simple black mask that covered her mouth. Unlike the fragments of the childhood she could remember, this mask didn't have the bitter spray that singed her tongue if she was not careful. She was too old for those kind of accidents. This mask was merely an assurance--something to make others worry less about the words she spoke.

Mo Ye gave standard greetings to the other handlers. Nothing of importance--simply words that were as obligatory as they were trite.

Familiarity washed over Seven as she saw her siblings.

A twinge struck her chest as she saw Two. To lay oneself bare in the truest sense.

The observant look from Three; it didn't fill the void, but the attention was still pleasant--despite the hidden truth of why.

Though his attention was nothing compared to Nine's. That much she could intuit.

Seven could feel a certain kinship with Eleven as both of them remained rather silent. Though, unlike her, Seven did not have the assurance of her handler as Mo Ye kept her distance.

Fourteen was cute. Seven was much too old to have such an entrance.

No, she restrained herself. She was an adult. And adults would simply stand and wait, unfortunate as it was.

---

Uriel was composed.

Azrael was giddy.

Number Twelve was humming.

She adjusted her habit with a bright smile on her face, smearing a faint line of red across her lips and swiping it off with her tongue. Yum! It was an important day today. She had to look her best when meeting her family again. It's been so long, and it wouldn't do for her to look dishevelled in the house of God. No, no, no. That was deserving of at least a hundred floggings! Maybe even two hundred! But... she didn't want to ruin her new habit so soon. Blood was always so hard to wash out. And Miss Müller was always so weird about it, too. She even threw away flesh-render the other day. Twelve didn't understand. Did she not cleanse her sins that way, too?

People were so strange.

Twelve idly twisted a small, lumpy, pinkish ball between her fingers, humming tunelessly as her eyes searched for–

Oh! There she was.

“Good morning, Miss Müller!” she called brightly as she skipped over, “Have you praised our Lord this morning?“

The blonde handler seemed to flinch slightly, though Twelve noticed nothing, blissfully soaking in her handler's presence with a radiant smile. Miss Müller—or, Elise as most people knew her by—did not seem to return the sentiment. She stuffed her phone into her pants pocket and stepped away just slightly from the beaming teenager. The movement was involuntary, but she made no move to step back into the small nun's orbit.

“I told you not to–ugh, never mind,” Elise's shoulders slumped slightly in defeat, “Let's just go.”

“Yes, Miss Müller. May I purge the filth first?”

The question gave Elise pause, and a disconcerted look briefly flashed across her features, smothered immediately by years of practised apathy. She gave the “filth” Twelve had mentioned another glance, and if she wasn't already used to the sight by now, she would have almost certainly been spilling her guts over the pavement. Fortunately, her stomach was made of sterner stuff. Unfortunately, that didn't make the scene any less disturbing.

A... “tree” was off to the side. Though, to call it a tree wouldn’t be quite right. It was a complete perversion of the concept of flora. A gnarled trunk seemed stretched-thin and distorted over a pulsing mass of squishy, gooey pink. Its branches stretched unnaturally long, twisted and mangled with five smaller growths at the ends, tipped with sharp, claw-like points. Twisted white structures stuck out at odd angles from its main mass. A thick, dark red liquid oozed from deep gashes in its bark, soaking the grass with its “sap”. The grass at its base seemed to flourish as it was bathed in red.

Elise tore her gaze away from the sight.

... She was definitely going to skip breakfast today.

“... Sure. I'll go ahead. Don't take long.”

She could not get out of there fast enough without being obvious.

“I'll do my best!” Twelve chirped as she waved Miss Müller off. She waited until her handler was out of sight before turning back to the odd-looking tree, her bright smile still intact.

“Oh, Mister Heretic~! Have you repented yet?”

The tree did not respond, of course. It was only a–

^{“Glurgehrbgrbhnnmrrgghh...”}

“Oh? What was that? You haven't?” Twelve clicked her tongue in disapproval, a pout forming on her pink lips, “Tsk, tsk. How disappointing, Mister Heretic.”

She knelt in front of the “tree” and reached into an opening in the trunk to pull out a sticky, red, leaking, pulsating mass of flesh. From a distance, it could almost be mistaken for a human heart if you squinted. At a second glance, the opening even seemed like... an... open ribcage...

“Bye bye, Mister Heretic~! You’re going to burn in hell now~”

The organ in her hands stopped pulsing and went deathly still. The tree itself seemed to wither as the mass in Twelve's grasp started sloughing away like mud between her fingers, staining them red. The sun illuminated her figure as she knelt in prayer.

Ah, what a wonderful day.


When Elise and Twelve arrived at the Rookery, the habit-clad girl was almost vibrating with excitement. She couldn’t see outside the vehicle, but she didn’t need to. She could feel them, every single living being that was outside. Oh, how blessed she was! There was a large group of people just outside, seemingly waiting for something, or someone? Not all of them seemed happy about it, though. Why were they there, then?

Twelve frowned slightly.

For a brief moment, her eyes bled.

“Alright, we’re here. Let’s go.” Elise’s voice snapped Twelve out of it, and she blinked once, her eyes turning back to normal. She stood up and brushed off her dress.

“Coming, Miss Müller!”

By the time Twelve hopped out of the vehicle, she had taken notice of a few signatures that were different from the others. Other Numbers had already arrived before her, not that she minded. Of course, she made sure to give her best smile to everyone she passed by; meanwhile, Elise simply kept moving without acknowledging any of them. Briefly, Twelve wondered what the others would be like. Their auras told her quite a bit without needing to talk to them, but their personalities were still a complete mystery to her.

She’d met them before, though. It was strange that she didn't know what they were like.

Hm. That was odd. Oh, well!

The hum of the scanners inside the Rookery announced Elise’s entrance, but when Twelve passed through, it was silent, and then hummed three times in quick succession. She paid it no mind, her eyes curiously sweeping over the lobby as she followed behind her handler. She waved at the armoured guards and the rest of the staff with a serene smile on her face. The reactions were far from reciprocal. Most ignored her, but several of them flinched at her actions.

Huh. Why did people always react like that?

As the rest of the Numbers and their handlers arrived, Miya kept silent, waiting nearby Dimitri. Despite her care to not show any obvious acts of affection towards her handler, the fact that she stood nearer to him than other Numbers did from their handlers was still noticeable to those who paid enough attention, even if it was something Miya herself did unconsciously.

Twelve clasped her hands together in delight as she laid eyes on the gathered numbers and handlers, particularly the clown-faced woman holding a jar with a beating, bleeding heart that Twelve didn’t make! Not all the numbers were there yet, but that would change soon enough.

“Good morning, everyone~! What a blessed day this is for us all!”

Thirteen liked it on the border. The weather was nice and the no man's land was vast enough that it was quiet most days too. When he had first arrived, there were attempts made, but once those attempts failed, only intermittent efforts remained.

He supposed the reason they did so was to test out the limits of the Miracle that had visited them. Being generous, he let them be for the most part, at least until they misunderstood magnanimity for weakness. Most days, he would be allowed to go out for walks on his own. Maybe listen to the radio in his hammock. Drink some hot tea while the rain pitter-pattered against the tarp. They got fruit jams every month or so, and setting up a nice board of bread and different jams was always a bit of a joy. Sometimes, he would sneak about and watch a couple of the soldiers play various card games. A few times, they may even end up drunk enough to invite him. He won, of course. It was kinda easy, but he found it fun to watch their expressions go up and down.

Matriona scolded him for fraternizing with those rough, foul-mouthed folks afterwards. Always, without fail. Something about not wanting bad influences such as gambling and alcoholism to take hold of him. Something about how he missed her storytelling session again. Which was like, c'mon. He was thirteen years old. He didn't need to be tucked into bed and coaxed to sleep with a book on fairy tales anymore. He wished she would treat him more like a man, really. But he also heard that Three was the most man of them all, and that guy basically never had a single moment to himself, having to run from place to place to kill one den of insurgents or another.

Must suck, being first-generation. He didn't even really need to be here. He just wanted to be here, outside of the Vatican or any other great institution and building. Comfortable in relative isolation and quiet. Being able to put a face to the family would be nice, but that was the extent of his feelings towards them.

When the summons came, he wasn't really feeling it. But orders were orders, so he came anyways. Made sure to wave goodbye to everyone on the way out.

...

A young boy, shepherded by a middle-aged woman, entered the Rookery. The woman's gaze was straight ahead, marching towards their destination, occasionally turning back just to make sure the boy was still there. The boy himself found his gaze wandering to and fro, as if marveling at the architecture of the Rookery, the Vatican's finery at full display. Amongst robes of white and gold, amongst the crosses and religious paraphernalia, his dour but comfy outfit looked like a pile of dirt-colored rags. His jacket was oversized, his hat was pulled low over his eyes, and his hands remained in his pockets as he shuffled about, the hem of his pants dragging against the floor.

This continued all the way until he entered the meeting room. His handler snapped into a proper introduction, of course, a crisp, "Matriona, reporting in with Thirteen."

Meant he didn't need to do much more than nod and find a wall to lean against.

The heart that was Two was interesting, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Five must be a nice sort though, to so nakedly express sorrow over it. Eleven he had met in passing, so that was already taken care of and didn't need to be revisited. The woman who looked too old to need a handler must be Seven. He stared at Twelve for a length of time, then blinked and cast his gaze towards Fourteen instead. He was older than her. He should do something nice for his little sister then, like a proper young man should. He heard she ate, in a way different from Eight. Maybe he could see if Matriona would let them go to McDonalds? For now, he settled for a shallow nod in her direction.

Then, of course, there was Three.

He extended his arm out towards Three, palm up. Then crooked his fingers into his palm, once. Satisfied, he lowered his arm and placed his hand back into his pocket.

The movement caught Matriona's attention, but she did not act, for nothing happened in the vicinity.

^Morning

The Rookery, Lobby

[Everyone]

---

The other handlers, and by extension their numbers - they all arrived in style. Fancy cars, chauffers, body guards, even the dignity to walk to the meeting place of their own volition, all status symbols of those under the influence of the Church. They had to flaunt a little for the masses.

Unfortunately for that ever-important image, one handler was very, very insistent on doing things themselves, and their charge really, really did not have much say in it.

The last to arrive was no car but a scooter of sorts, one with a large cargo box attached at the back, thin windows on its side. It puttered past the assembled mob and parked with all the proper cars. The driver ignored whatever praise or vitriol the gathered mob spat at them as they opened the back compartment's door.

This handler, known only as Pequod by all but the highest of Church intelligence, was an oddity. Painstaking lengths had been taken to keep their identity hidden, from burnt fingerprints to redacted credentials, stuff you could only manage knowing the right strings to pull. Pequod never held themselves with much reverence, and all their antics with autonomy still rubbed the brass the wrong way, so it's not like they were anyone special to get away with it.

Maybe being a mystery was just a game to them.

"Time to get going," Pequod said, voice tinny and muffled through their gasmask. They reached into the container and led their assigned number out into the open by the hand. Number 8. She was dressed down, counter to the professional importance of this meeting, in little more than a form-fit halter and sweatpants.

This was also Pequod's doing.

8 took a deep, shaky breath, her hair still covering her face. She wasn't used to city air. _{"......sulphur dioxide...CO.."}

"Let's get inside before you start breathing fire, huh?" Between Pequod's petite build and 8's lanky height, you could almost see them as mother and child crossing the street while holding hands. If you squinted hard enough. But, no, it would be more accurate to call them a kid and their balloon. Pequod strode with purpose, practically pulling 8 behind them. Her arm was limp in their grasp, the other folded beneath her chest, her legs moving only to keep herself upright.

"Well? What do you think?" Pequod asked as they entered the lobby. It was more familiar for 8 in there, at least with the chill, the stark whiteness, the relative quiet. Not that it made her seem any more... present. She was muttering under her breath the entire walk up. And now she brought her free hand up to her face, idly chewing on two of her own fingers as she stared at the walls, biblical texts and stained glass, with wide eyes through the strands of her hair.

8 swallowed a glob of saliva, and replied, "...linalyl acetate..?"

"Lavender, is it? I never liked that stuff." Despite the casualness of the conversation, Pequod never took their sight away from their front, and to any trained ears it was clear that the friendliness in their tone was almost forced. Or, no, not forced. Exaggerated. Cutesy. "You want some?" 8's response came in the form of a deep, loud rumbling of her stomach, followed by a low groan as she continued to gnaw at her fingertips. "Oh sure, I'll get you some to try. If you're nice and friendly!"

Once they were past security and began to gather with the rest, Pequod released 8's hand and wandered off to meet their fellow handlers. All 8 did with this newfound freedom was to start chewing on her that hand as well, front teeth scratching her fingernails while her molars gnawed at her other pair.

"No need to worry about her," Pequod said in way of greeting, "she just hasn't had breakfast since... snrk, forever, I guess."

Before the elevators opened, the ninth child hummed lightly and swayed on the balls of its feet. Its hands were clasped casually behind its back and its eyes were closed while it watched the security staff move in and out of the monitoring room through the little camera in the corner of the elevator car. They were all so serious today, scampering around like mice in and out, in and out, throughout the building and over the grounds. Always looking over their shoulders for the cause of the chill on their backs. Nine looked a little closer, glancing over the screens in the room of its mind's eye. It saw corridors and meeting areas, entrances and exits, the lawn and the roof. It saw humans and other animals, lined up neatly or congregating in rough crowds outside. And if it looked really, really hard—

Ding. The car's doors slid open at the same time the ninth child's unsettling eyes did. They stepped out of the elevator as Orwell, dressed in tweed slacks, brown shoes, and a slightly rumpled light dress shirt. A bow tie that matched their trousers almost as well as the shirt matched their messy hair tied the whole outfit together. Orwell made a motion like they meant to hook their thumbs into the straps of overalls, but given there were none they just blinked and frowned lightly.

Right, that's what they'd forgotten this morning. They could still clearly see the overall clips sitting on a bureau in their assigned quarters. With so much work to be done they'd been distracted. At least there would be time to play soon. Hopefully.

Orwell smiled at O'Brien as they approached him, giving him an enthusiastic nod of their head. "Aw, like I'd be late today."

They shuffled over next to him, a good head shorter than their handler. They glanced up when he mentioned keeping an eye on things and rolled their eyes briefly. During the action those eyes seemed to glow for a moment.

"Not a problem, but..." Orwell stood on their toes, pressing their mouth to the shell of O'Brien's ear.

They lingered there for just a moment before whispering, "...just don't forget what you promised~"

For his part O'Brien did not seem phased. As Orwell let themselves fall back onto their feet he spared them a look. "I haven't," he told them.

Both of their attention moved to the front of the lobby as the esteemed guests began to filter in. Orwell beamed at Valentine, happily closing the rest of the distance between them as they pulled the jar out from somewhere. "Awww, look at her! She's beautiful!" Orwell cooed, putting their hands on their knees as they bent over to be eye level with the heart. Their gaze traced the ring around the organ a few times. "Here, let me-"

"Orwell," O'Brien said, a hint of chastisement in his voice. The ninth child slowly stopped reaching out to the jar and sighed. They looked over their shoulder at their handler with a pout that they couldn't convincingly keep on their face for long.

"Fine, fine. Perimeter. I'll be back soon." O'Brien watched his charge go, headed for an adjacent hall. He knew that they could technically keep an eye on things from here, but with the rest of their siblings about to arrive it would be a big distraction. Even... people like the miracle children were not infallible, after all.

It was back to watching now. Thankfully it liked watching. Its ethereal gaze catalogued every face reflected in its eyes until the final armored cart pulled up the Rookery's gate.

It wasn't until all of the other 'Numbers' had arrived and the building was locked down to prevent any uninvited guests that Orwell reappeared in the lobby. Once more alone, unattended, Orwell entered from the same hall they'd left from and rejoined O'Brien at the back of the room where they could see everyone and everyone could see them. It really was nice to be able to focus on all of the 'siblings' at the same time, that way no one had to be left out!

They could see Three's subtle shift in posture when he looked at them, and turned from O'Brien to set their actual eyes on the older man, along with a spreading grin. Orwell may not have met any of the other Numbers before, but they knew them. Their ages, code names, miracles, and especially their faces - Orwell had memorized all of them as part of their research long before this gathering was conceptualized. How many knew the other Nine, Orwell wondered. How many different relationships had they inherited?

Or, perhaps, were their reactions meant for this current Nine? It was nice to be recognized, they guessed, especially as it was the older Numbers whose attentions lingered on Orwell. Their smile grew and their eyes twinkled before their eyes -if not their gaze- moved on from Three. They really didn't need to move their head to see everyone, but since it was their first meeting with the rest they figured they could at least do this, as a courtesy. And so they looked over the quiet ones who stood off to one side and waited or brooded or huddled close to their assigned humans. They looked over the more friendly ones who were glad to make the acquaintances of their siblings, and to these Orwell smiled even more brightly.

"Good morning Twelve, Fourteen~" Orwell said, raising an arm to wave at them. What nice kids. While keeping their gaze on the younger girls they greeted the rest, if only to be polite. "And... Three, Eleven, Seven, Thirteen, Eight, and... Five!"

Counting Two there were still a couple missing then. Ah well, in time. As Five approached to greet Two, Orwell's eyes trailed him, bright and curious. At the same time, the cold feeling of being watched that had clung to every handler as they entered had grown uncomfortable. Not quite harsh but not gentle either, almost like if it was possible to be picked apart with a stare it would have already happened to them.

Morning The Rookery, New York City



The family gathered quickly, duos entering the lobby one after another until the large room felt small with mass of individuals now standing in acknowledgement of one another’s presence. Some were formal, others were not, but the fact remained that many of these people hadn’t been in the same location for a while. While the commotion happened at the base floor of the Rookery, the bald-headed general that was tasked to brief the rambunctious family slowly made his way down from the stairs at the furthest end of the hallway opposite to the entrance. He was not garbed in fanatical white ensemble that the guards at the door were, instead he was in your standard American Army blues with a dress cap being held in one hand. He had ribbons up the wazoo, a silver chain, and of course a medallion to symbolize his rank over the right breast pocket.

^{Click…
Click…
Click…}

The general reached for the pocket watch dangling from a silver chain at the waist of his coat and raised it towards his face, pressing a small button upon its face to open it and check the time. His snow-white brows furrowed as the man’s green eyes danced from one individual to the next, counting heads and coming up short. The Archbishop said a few would not arrive, but this many absences would likely raise red flags not only for him— but the men in suits who called the shots. It was turning out to be an increasingly horrible day, magnified by the fact that not one but two of the numbers were close to touching subject #2’s heart.


”I wouldn’t…” The general began to speak, but it was swiftly cut off by the strange handler dressed up like a clown drawing a butterfly knife and waving it around like a mad woman.

“Do not touch my property! It’s going back to the island with me, and then I’m getting a new and improved meat shield! M’kay?..” The threat was empty. There were multiple individuals in the room that could take her out, even with her magical pull things out of her ass witchcraft.

”Wouldst thee compose thyself, Valentine?” Came an older voice, which might have drawn eyes towards the general. But he remained silent, and instead came an elderly figure from the distant stairwell.

The silhouette was feeble, walking with a tremor as each step was supported by the quivering grip of a polished ivory cane. Black robes of silk and suede fluttered from the wind of intense air conditioning passing through the empty areas of the garments, and around his waist a white sash. His hair thin as it was, long and white making the archbishop look a bit more like a Tolkien wizard than a holy man. But could he not be both? The air around him had a stillness, and each soldier turned to stand at attention as he found a spot to lean beside the general.

”Archbishop Geal,” The general nodded his head.

”General Roth, ‘t seemeth as we missing a few.” The holy man scanned his eyes along the numbers with tired squinted eyes, but the pale dilution to the color within them would probably indicate the man was blind.


Ding~
Ding~
Ding~

With all of the moving parts in the Rookery, whatever chitchat might’ve been happening, all would come to a standstill as some sort of timer in the building activated with the quaint chime of a clock’s hour striking. Machinery could be heard in the walls, grinding iron and steel gears, the buzz of electricity through thick copper wire. Scary as it might’ve sounded, Warhawk and O’Brien knew that this was simply the building’s field generator turning on.

Field generators weren’t normally in buildings like this, typically they’d be on military bases to ward off large munitions and aerial vehicles. But many of the handlers had witnessed the recent increase in defensive technology on church grounds. But the numbers and their handlers in Russia knew that this didn’t stop some of the strange new weapons that have been developed in the east. It was a layer of extra safety nonetheless, to help those inside feel more secure while discussing what need be discussed.

”Right, let us not get stuck in the weeds. We’re taking the stairs in case we need to power down the building; Valentine drop #2 off on the third floor and then meet us in the War Room. Floor 5, you’ve been in there before.” The general would first look to the archbishop before tiredly meandering from the wall towards the stairwell at the northwestern corner of the room.

“Ok but yo old fuck, is this about that guy on the northern border that’s turning people into zombies— with that stolen bow from the Vatican?” Before the general could respond to Valentine, the woman was gone?.. As if she was never there in the first place, along with the jar containing 2’s heart.

The general was shook. The archbishop didn’t seem too phased. Either way, the order was up the many-many flights of stairs to reach the fifth floor so that’s exactly where the two individuals of leadership would begin to move. The bishop struggled with the stairs, grunting and cursing to himself with each floor’s ascension, perhaps they should have let him take the elevator with his station and import but he took the stairs like everyone else. It was kind of admirable?

---

Objective: Gathering Information
The fifth floor was quite different in both atmosphere and in the people that walked around. Men and women in lab coats, other military personnel, and anonymous men in black suits. None would really stand out as being familiar to the numbers or their handlers, not even to #3 and Warhawk. A few lower ranked personnel stood and saluted the general as they passed, but it almost seemed as if the rest of the people here completely ignored the numbers and their attendance here entirely.

The room they would be meeting in was intended for conferences with leadership, a map of the northeastern United States and Canada’s southeastern provinces was laid out on a massive table where ten seats per each of its four square sides . The map itself was picked with little flags, figurines with national flags on them to make their affiliation, and a semi-transparent layer projected as a hologram over the map allowing numbers and small units to be moved around.

Further observation would find the position of a singular figurine of a knight on a white horse with a bow and arrow positioned along the very end of Ontario.

The general would sit at the end of the table that faced the door, and the bishop would sit directly next to him. They chose seats at the very center of that side so the numbers and their handlers might have an easier time seeing and speaking with him. It seemed that the chair was already planned for him to be there as he reached beneath it into a little shelf department and pulled out a folder with a wad of papers, unfurling it before spreading them out for himself and the archbishop to review.

”This is in regards to the deaths of numbers 2 and 4, as well as 4’s handler Sioux. Approximately forty-eight hours ago we instructed Sioux to meet with the tribes that have reformed along the border and attempt to earn their trust. As some of you are aware, 4’s capabilities were that of [emotional manipulation] and they were designated in the Canadian territories so the fit seemed to work quite well.

Sioux gave us an update at 0900 after meeting with the leaders of these tribes and while they weren’t aggressive, they were also not interested in assisting the United States in combating the uprising insurgencies on our outskirts. Intelligence command requested they activate 4 to accelerate the talks. Sioux received this order and then communication went silent.”

The general reached forward to push a small button along the war table, changing the configuration of the hologram to reflect a video in real-time captured on the scene.

Spruce trees, no signs of buildings but still there were still cameras here to capture this footage somehow. On the ground was a group of twenty or so people on horseback, wielding swords and bows against a small soldier troop with modern rifles— maybe one-hundred American soldiers? They fired at the men, and sprinting at the front was #2, a capable promised child from the first generation roughly fourth years old. Her short black hair helped keep it out of her face as she instantaneously projected herself from one location to another, and she made short work of many of those horse riders. Until suddenly she stopped as a man amongst them aimed their bow at her, upon his white horse she dropped to her knees and kneeled down to him. An arrow was fired from his bow and the arrow fired from the bow created a light so bright that the surveillance cut out— the footage ends.

”2’s corpse was recovered, but Sioux and 4 were not. We wouldst liketh half of thee to findeth those folk, and the oth'r half to track down the white horseman.”

ａｎｄ　ａ　ｆｕｎｅｒａｌ　ｗｒｏｕｇｈｔ　ｓｅａｒｃｈ

Morning--The Rookery, New York City

Twelve and Five gave a loud introduction. Nor was Valentine's outbursts something she was comfortable in observing. Seven wasn't good with these types of people. Or that was what she was told, at least.

When Seven's eyes met Eleven while the faux-angel smiled and waved, a warm feeling filled Seven's chest. She couldn't help but smile back--though, the mask hid everything sans her tightening eyes.

Seven didn't quite care for the arrival of the general or the archbishop. Though, it wasn't out of a personal preference. She was supposed to know, but she had forgotten who they were. Important, she knew--but they eluded her understanding.

The bells chimed and gave her thoughts reprieve.

She looked toward Mo Ye. Her handler didn't pay any mind to Seven and was already walking towards the stairwell. Like a pet, Seven followed her handlers footsteps.


Seven took a seat at the conference table.

How tragic it was when she watched the video. For people to die as coldly as that was always morose. She bit the inside of her lip when she saw a knight riding a horse. Mo Ye coughed which caused Seven to look over to her handler--though Mo Ye still refrained from looking at her ward. Seven pattered her hands behind her as she sat. Ah--she found a cheap ballpoint pen nestled within the chair.

The archbishop's tasks were at least things Seven could do. Finding things was something that Seven was good at. She had plenty of experience--though the majority came from necessity rather than duty. Such was life when one was forgetful.

"Seven can assist in either," she said to everyone except Seven as she volunteered her ward, "though I would hesitate to use her in any sort of combat--especially with these tribesmen."

Whether it from being bashful or some other affliction, Seven had found herself getting up, quietly moving away from the table, and resting in a narrow squat facing the wall. With her newfound pen, she repeated the same motion--placing the pen perpendicular, holding it with a single finger, then releasing and watching it fall in a random direction.

^Morning

The Rookery, Lobby -> Fifth Floor

[Everyone]

---

Mingling would have to wait, it seemed. Well, it was on them for arriving late in the first place, but that wasn't here nor there.

8's handler returned to her side as the mood of the room shifted, the building itself coming alive to stoke the flames of anxiety in those gathered, as if the architecture was in league with the Arch Bishop, which wasn't out of the question. Pequod led her up the stairs after their much adorned general, a hand at the small of her back as her head whipped around, trying to track the machinery in the walls by sound alone.

And so the meeting began in earnest; maps, video, briefing, everything one would expect out of secret police herding you into a war room. Pequod sat closest they could to the center, perhaps even bumping down by order of importance some of the other pairs that worked closer to the Church than they did. There was work to do, and they were there to do it. 8, by relation, was placed in a seat directly next to them, and every so often they had to reach out to stop her from snatching one of those plastic flags from the table - this wasn't a time for snacks.

Though in spite of their vested interest and rapt attention, Pequod's first reaction to everything was a loud sigh and a slump in their chair. "This stinks." They let the thought linger for a second, if only to let the next part land a bit harder: "This whole little play you have going on, I mean, General, sir."

Pequod raised a finger in the air and flicked it back and forth as they rattled off their next few points. "Middle of nowhere but video evidence that near perfectly captures the incident. #2 can move faster than anything on that battlefield but surrenders herself with no resistance once she's actively threatened. The white horseman left himself open long enough to make that fact stick when it would make more sense to fire once 2 stopped dead in her tracks, not like he wouldn't know he's holding an artifact." Pequod jammed the flat of their foot against the side of the table, still showing the blinding light that cut the video off. "I think even 8 would puke trying to swallow this horseshit."

8 glanced over at the mention of her name, and let out a small chuckle of agreement.

"See?" Pequod pushed off the table's edge and rocked forward to a standing position. Blasphemy and insubordination aside, this was just how their thought process worked, a walking Think Tank of one, not that it endeared them much to their superiors even now. "Best way to know why is to find the guy, so me and 8 will be on that half. Doubt these tribes are good enough to fake a corpse so 2 was killed, that much is obvious. Any information you got from her corpse?" They cleared their throat and tilted their head in a slight bow. "...Your Excellency?"

Some Numbers were more pleasant than others, but all of them kept Orwell's attention. They were glad that they'd come - not that they'd actually had a choice in the matter, not if they wanted to keep dearest O'Brien in the organization's good graces. It wouldn't do to be too naughty and skip out on such a momentous event in person, even if they'd have been able to see it all remotely in one way or another. No, Orwell was glad they were here and getting to learn all of their sibling's little quirks first hand. Their was a sort of satisfied look on their face that contrasted with the spark of something else in their eerie eyes. Longing, perhaps? Or simply the hunger that all Numbers felt in one way or another?

Either way, it appeared Orwell was in a fine mood even when O'Brien's eye twitched every so slightly at Valentine's crassness. And when the Archbishop arrived to greet everyone and lead the way up to the war room, Nine and its handler were among those at the front of the pack. Even so Orwell kept watch on the group at large, their demeanor making it seem like this was a casual stroll, thumbs hooked into their trouser pockets and all.

As they all slipped inside the war room, O'Brien moved forward to let the rest in knowing that Orwell would be on his heels. He elected to stand, though Orwell had claimed a chair and dragged halfway towards the wall before plopping themselves down into it. They pulled one foot up to rest on the edge of the seat, folding their arms on top of their knee and nestling their chin in there. The general gave everyone in the room a rundown on recent events, and the Archbishop laid out his wishes for a response from his Numbers.

Throughout it all Orwell's countenance hadn't changed from the one they wore downstairs, as if none of what they were hearing surprised them. Rather than the hologram their gaze -physical and not- was focused on their 'family' and those currently in charge of their siblings. Watching, analyzing, recording expressions and reactions.

How interesting.

Even those that didn't appear to be paying attention at all piqued Nine's notice. Without turning their head, Orwell's eyes flicked to O'Brien at their side. The man stood there dispassionately, his hands clasped together behind his back. He did not look back at Orwell, just staring ahead at the footage that both he and his assignment had already seen.

He did not volunteer Nine for either mission. Nine, too, did not speak up. They already knew where they were needed. Their eyes flickered back to the room at large before coming to rest on Pequod, a strange little smile budding on their lips. "Oho~?"

Location: New York, The Rookery, Floor 5; War Department.

---

She stood there in the lobby watching the others with a contented smile. For Fourteen, it was an interesting dynamic firsthand to see almost all the numbers and their handlers together here. Seven was just there, wearing her mask, and it left with Fourteen's curiosity about the mask. She really wanted to take it off, but she isn't going against Dolittle at the moment. Besides, she already has to deal with a headache like hers, which will cause the tiniest bit of trouble if given a chance. Twelve was just an energetic ball for an older sibling; she couldn't help but wonder what ran through her mind. Five's here, he tried to touch two's heart only to get threatened by a knife from two's own handler. Sucks to be him.

Thirteen's here. Her big brother! She kinda was happy to see him. He didn't seem to say much as that's a bummer. Eight's here and so is Nine! Well Nine said hello, so Fourteen gave a wave back.

It was in this due time. The Archbishop was here. She heard Dolittle's footsteps approaching her side and his stare with a little plead "not to do something stupid, as it's very important" type look. By the time these two reached inside the war room along with the others. From the sounds of this meeting, Both Four and two were killed along with Four's own handler. Fourteen left out a little pout before sighing.

"Man and here I thought, Four and Two were like supposed to be one of the stronger ones." Fourteen spoke, and it earned a slight cough in the background from Dolittle. But from the other numbers chiming up including about the artifact and light. From awarance of them talking about Two's abilities and with a couple of Handlers whom as she sighed. "But that's a little weird, now I think about it. Command on accelerating the talk, and then things get cut. Call that peculiar thing, It sounds like something I want to figure out."

She eyed Dolittle's direction as it seems the latter was focused on the meeting at hand. She let out a sigh.

Morning The Rookery, New York City

Objective: Gathering Information
There were plenty of responses within the room, some on-topic, others not as much, but the fact that a number was killed with relative ease in a nearby territory likely sent chills down many of the handlers’ spines . Maybe some simply watched on with disbelief, but the strange artifact seemingly stolen from the Vatican was an entirely different topic. Which the bishop would speak upon with 11’s handler, Dimitri’s question.

”Four artifacts were stolen: a bow, sword, scales, and a spear. The bishop’s eyes would then trail over towards 5 and Mary, frowning deeply before answering their question.

”The bow wast one of many gifts from god. T’ is said when the drawstring is pulled, all art madeth humble ere our lord. A vague description for an esoteric relic capable of deleting a number. Perhaps not even the bishop knew that exact details of how the weapon functioned?

The general seemed more unsettled than angered by Pequod’s rambling, with his silvered brows raising and wrinkled forehead deepening as he squinted at the figure. A pause would follow, giving time for others to speak before he would take the time to give 8’s handler a response. The general would reach forward once again, pressing another set up buttons along the table’s console before pulling at a small drawer out to type upon a keyboard— click-clacking until a final press of the enter key transitioned the hologram into something different.

”Her head was removed, the method was a cut with surgical precision above the neck that seemed to be cauterized or acutely burned to preserve the area of removal.” The general would then look to 7 and her keeper, offering the pair a more relaxed expression but his tone remained serious.

”We would like 7 and 9 to focus on the larger organization rather than hunting the horseman. We have intelligence that leads us to believe a terror attack may be planned for the city, and we believe the pair of your specializations would work best for preventing this atrocity from happening.” Following this request, the general reached down to a metallic box that was set at his feet and set it on the flat part of the table in front of him.

”We’d liketh 5 with 7 and 9 h're as well, security of the city shall be’est critical.” The bishop’s gaze upon the pair with warmth, smiling at the two for an uncomfortable amount of time before turning back to the general.

”We disagreed on where 12 and 14 should be dispatched, so we had a third party determine their designation for us. They will be hunting down the horseman up north, with 2 leading that group.” He then glanced over towards 13 and his handler, frowning as he did so.

”As much as I’d like 13 to remain in the city, higher ups have decided he’s better suited for the battlefield. I’ll have to catch up with you later Matriona.”

The last to be directly spoken to was 11 and their handler, which the attention of caused a bit of tension between the bishop and the general. They looked amongst one another a few times, silently communicating with gestures and facial expressions before finally the wizardly bishop stood up and beckoned the pair of Russian assigned church personnel to follow him out of the room. Before they would leave; the general would raise his voice to be certain they heard him as they left the war room.

”Once you’ve briefed them with Lieutenant Hawthorne, have them meet with the others at the Empty Vessel.”

As the Orthodoxy Duo and the bishop exited the room, they would notice Valentine standing outside perched along the wall with a distant look on her face and her lips drooped in a deep frown. The bishop wouldn’t so much as acknowledge Valentine, instead walking right past her while guiding 11 and her handler further down the hallway towards a smaller office where dressed down military officials seemed to linger. The door would swing open for the bishop who took the lead, and inside sitting at a small desk with a laptop was a younger woman seeming to be in her early or mid twenties dressed almost identically to the general minus the many war decorations. She was an officer but, green, very new in her role but with enough respect to have more than enough responsibility hewn onto her shoulders.

”Ah, you must be 11 and Dimitri! My name is Tatiana Hawthorne, or Lieutenant Hawthorne— whatever is easier for you.”

Thirteen remained quiet, observant, deferential.

It wasn't like Three responded in any meaningful way, so the old man probably didn't understand. He should make his intentions clearer next time. Though it was fair that any further conversation, any possibility of interaction, was cut away once the Archbishop arrived. Feeble but still, that one. The young Number felt a twitch in his index finger, though he willed it to be still. Intrusive as they were, thoughts would remain thoughts.

Though with so many people there, it was horrifically, intensely tempting.

He was nothing if not quiet, observant, deferential though. It was almost possible, with more high-profile, more explosively-colorful Numbers present, to forget that Thirteen was even there in the operations room. His one visible eye turned from one human to another as they spoke, lingering only briefly on 2's heart, before finally closing as the verdict was given. A small smile formed over his face, interrupted only by a quiet cough from Matriona. He placed his hand over his mouth when he heard that. It was disrespectful. He should remain stony-faced. He could've just worn a cough mask though.

Ah, but...

"Before my assignment begins, could I be granted a few hours leave to visit the city? I would even go and recommend this request to be granted to my fellow brethren as well. An opportunity to bond over casual activities would be of benefit if we are expected to work together."