^Morning

The Rookery, Fifth Floor

[Everyone]

---

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.

"You know what I'm thinking, Eight."

_{"........the head."}

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>"They never retrieved it."

"M-mm-maybe kept by the tribe. A trophy."

"It's a good chance. If we got to the brain..."</sub>

8 smiled, manically.

_{"I've been practicing..."}

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

Morning The Rookery, New York City

Objective: Gathering Information


The handler of 13’s request finds the ears of the general, and while the bishop exits the room with 11 and Dimitri, the general remains to correspond with the remaining numbers and filter them where they are meant to be. The general simply smiled weakly to Matriona with a slight squint to his eyes, nodding his head and offering a confirmation to their request.

“There is a bar a few streets away from the Rookery. The Empty Vessel is owned and operated by a former colleague of mine, it has better security than most of the city.” He reaches down to pull out a stack of off-white business cards and slides them along the table to each handler, but wouldn’t protest if one of the numbers grabbed the cards instead.

5’s reaction would spark some curiosity out of the old general, as his facial features twisted and tensed while a proper response was being produced in his mind.

“You would speak to me, or 9’s handler within the time of their transient stay here in the city. In truth, our president prefers the cities be protected with our own means. We had a quite traumatic incident not too long ago, where a number went berserk and devoured a few thousand people before it could be neutralized— but if you’re adamant, coordinate with the handlers.” A long-winded response would be offered this time around, with some curious bits of information not made public for the country’s safety. No reports of a number going berserk in the U.S were ever released, and if the handlers knew, they withheld that information from the numbers themselves.

Meanwhile, in the office where Lieutenant Hawthorne and the Bishop reside.

”We know that the Orthodoxy has been capturing Italian soldiers and experimenting on them to try and recreate the numbers, or whatever else the desired result might be.” The Lieutenant didn't seem to twitch or frown upon speaking this accusatory statement, rather she remained warm and her tone hardened with a firm determination.

”We are unsure of how much [the pair of you] might have known about these projects happening within commie territory.” This time her attention snapped away from the pair to the bishop who this entire tine remained silent until Hawthorne's eyes met his.

"Thee seemeth to beest able to handleth this on thy own." A knowing look is exchanged between the two before the bishop sets his attention to the handler and his charge and turning to return back to the War Room, escorted by Mary, exchanging cursory glances between her and Valentine on their way to the war room.

”Sticking your nose into everything as usual, eh?” The old English melts away as he speaks to the familiar figure, being sure to keep his voice low for only the two to hear.

Lieutenant Hawthorne would then turn on her swivel chair to type a few things rapidly on her computer and stops only when her small Lexmark printer began to hum to life and spit out a few pieces of paper lined with black text. The low-ranked officer scoots over and hands the sheets over to them, two or three pieces of paper each it seemed. The documentation would list missing people being found mutilated in landfills or shallow graves scattered throughout the Soviet territory; spies had seemingly confirmed the majority of these individuals were soldiers of neighboring factions or traveling personnel from the Vatican. One name might have spark Dimitri as strange as he saw the person alive not all that long ago, Rhea Harkov. It was only a few weeks ago that she was dropping off intel from Italy while explaining the latest cloaking technology that allowed her to sneak around from Kyiv to Moscow without issue.. and now she was dead?

”We don't expect the two of you to be able to jump on this project immediately, but once the issue with the horseman has been dealt with.. you'll return north with a new objective, understood?”

---

Number Twelve’s eyes were wide as she watched the recordings.

She murmured a prayer under her breath for the fallen, praising their sacrifice. Her murmurs paused as the rest of the briefing continued, and her eyes snapped towards the bishop, her gaze intense yet void of emotion.

... Four stolen artefacts.

Four. Stolen. Artefacts.

They stole four of His gifts.

This could not stand.

Twelve didn’t react visibly, but the air around her seemed to thin, making it difficult for anyone around her to breathe.

More specifically, it made it difficult for Elise to breathe, considering she was, unfortunately, the only person who didn’t have the luxury of avoiding the tiny nun like she carried the goddamn plague.

A strangely apt description, her dying brain helpfully supplied. Since when did she start using words like apt? Since her brain started running out of oxygen, probably. Or she was just being overly dramatic. Both were equally valid options.

“Twelve. Simmer down.”

Elise’s voice was a harsh whisper that snapped the fuming number out of her episode.

Number Twelve blinked and tilted her head at her handler.

“Hm? Miss Müller? Is something wrong?”

Everything, Elise wanted to say. She did not.

“Nothing. Just... focus, please.”

Eventually, the briefing reached its end and missions were given out to the gathered numbers.

Twelve clasped her hands together, the beatific smile on her face utterly at odds with her next words.

“Of course! I will make sure to slaughter the heretic and bring you their heart, Your Excellency!”

Elise’s facepalm was audible.

ａｎｄ　ｈｅｒ　ｄｕｔｉｅｓ　ａｓ　ｅｓｔａｂｌｉｓｈｅｄ

Morning--The Rookery, New York City

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

The pen quietly fell as Seven continued to place the pen upright and let it fall.

The archbishop and his associates--could they be called clergy--continued and Seven was told what to do. It was always easier that way. Though, she never quite personally enjoyed as broad of a mission as this. It was much easier when she didn't have to think and make choices. To be a tool whose only purpose was used--ah--wasn't that romantic?

Of course, thoughts of what she would have to do were already pervading her mind. The pace of her playing with the pen continued to slow as her thoughts slowed her down. To dowse the land with poisoned words--to sing a song that poisoned the mind. But that was complex and required forethought. She didn't want to think about it. She wanted to give herself to the wind and live in the moment.

The pace of the pen picked back up again.

Mo Ye had taken one of the business cards. In general, it was a bad idea to directly hand things to her ward. But it was a business card and those had a habit of being useful.

Until bothered, Seven wouldn't move. And they hadn't told her to start, then she would simply continue to play.

But she would keeping the pen. After all, an orphaned instrument was surely not to be missed.

Meetings like these rarely dragged on, even with such... prominent attendance. Even then, this one was wrapped up in near record time. Orwell supposed that having so many creatures like them stuffed into such close quarters was giving the military men goosebumps or something. They blinked, tried to catch the gaze of a few of the stoic, silent soldiers that did nothing but stand by the door, but gave up quickly when it became obvious they were going out of their way to ignore everyone in the room. Instead Orwell looked over at the Archbishop just as the old man's eyes glanced at them, flashing a small but toothy smile at them.

Which was when the orders were given that Nine was to stay in the city for the time being. So there was no change from those early plans, then. Orwell saw O'Brien finally move, just a shift of his weight and a twitch of his face in acknowledgement of the orders, even as they closed their eyes and hung their head backwards, letting out a low groan. "I always get all the boring stuff..."

There was some saving grace though, and that was the fact that they would not be the only one of the Numbers left behind in New York. Seven and Five were going to be along for the ride - or whatever the opposite of that was in this case. Orwell observed them from their casual sprawled position. The were so very different from each other. And from Orwell too.

Nine was looking forward to getting a sense of what they were really like.

While Orwell half-dramatically lamented their role (lately they had really been playing up their pretending, O'Brien had noted), their handler turned to one of his colleagues. Calmly his gaze moved from Mary to Five, and then back again. He gave her a short nod.

"Of course," he told her. O'Brien had been at this job for a long time now, and he was at least passingly familiar with most of the Numbers, including Five. He very much doubted the man would get up to much trouble in the time Mary dealt with whatever her business was. He would come to know it sooner or later whether he wanted to or not.

He had his own business to attend to as well, but most of it could wait. As the general moved to leave, granting Thirteen's request for some downtime (which surprised both O'Brien and Orwell enough that the latter abandoned their acting), O'Brien cleared his throat to get the man's attention. "Sir, a few packages have been prepared for those heading to the border. In the east wing's conference room, for collection at your earliest convenience." A simple reminder.

He turned his attention then to Five, but Nine had already gotten up out of its seat and wandered close to its 'older brother.' Abruptly his gaze snapped to Orwell. He could already picture the words forming in their mouth, what kind of game was taking shape in their mind. He clasped a hand on Orwell's shoulder, knowing that Orwell had let him do it, and gently spun them away from Five. "Not now," he said.

Not now. That was permission for later, as far as Nine was concerned.

Orwell smiled, little bit of their tongue poking out as they let O'Brien gently steer them away from the table. He could tell the expression was not as innocent as it looked, but... Resisting the urge to shake his head, O'Brien pulled out the chair two down from Five, and gestured for the golden haired man to retake his seat.

"Patience, Number Five," he said, purposely neglecting the familiarity of using the name Five had been given. "The threat has yet to be confirmed, and patrol is more than covered at the moment. As soon as we confirm an attack is imminent and determine the targeted area, we'll need your power. I'll go over a few key defense points with you and Mary as soon as the next report gets back to me."

O'Brien collected the business card and pointedly handed it to Five. "And in the mean time, why don't you two take up Number Thirteen on his suggestion? Get to know the city you'll be protecting."

Not that the Empty Vessel would actually reflect much of Big Apple, and he doubted it would dull Five's edge, but it was either that or keep the man cooped up here, anxious and unguided. Once Mary returned, he would speak with her and Mo Ye about immediate plans whether at the bar or at HQ.

Speaking of Mo Ye, or rather not of Mo Ye, after being turned away from playing with Five, Nine drifted toward Seven. It ignored the handler completely as it crouched in front of Seven, though of course it was watching even without looking. Orwell mimicked Seven's pose, though with their arms hanging down in the space between their knees. They tilted their head, more curious than friendly for the moment.

"I've been wondering about the mask," Orwell said to her. "Can you speak through it? It looks loose enough, but you haven't said a thing! And you've still got your head."

Even the shyest Numbers had spoken up at this point, even if only a word or two. "Take it off," Nine suggested. Then, a pause. A lowering of its voice, playfully conspiratorial. "Want me to?"