[center][color=9e0b0f][h2]8[/h2][/color][/center][sup][b]Morning[/b][/sup]
[sup][center][u]The Rookery, Fifth Floor[/u][/center][/sup]
[sup][right][Everyone][/right][/sup]
[hr]Now that their questions were being answered - sometimes you had to be okay getting half of what you need out of the Church like this - Pequod settled in their seat and remained silent for the meeting to follow.

Anyone who knew them would not be relieved for their silence.

Their obscured eyes were locked on the mutilated visage of 2's corpse, long after it had vanished in place of the war map once more. Their fingernails scratched at their wood armrest as ideas rolled over one another, this new train of thought kept from their compatriots.

As the Bishop and General left, with a less-performative bow of their head this time, Pequod tilted their head to one side, the side 8 was sitting.

[color=d8a530]"You know what I'm thinking, Eight."[/color]

[sub]"........the head."[/sub]

In the post-meeting din, before that Hawthorne entered to continue the brief, handler and number held a quiet conversation, almost conspiratorially.

Or, well, very conspiratorially.

[sub][color=d8a530]"They never retrieved it."[/color][/sub]

[sub]"M-mm-maybe kept by the tribe. A trophy."[/sub]

[sub][color=d8a530]"It's a good chance. If we got to the brain..."[/color][/sub]

8 smiled, manically.

[sub]"I've been practicing..."[/sub]

They had to keep it quiet, just had to. Attempting to [i]play God[/i] under the Church's nose was the height of blasphemy.