The latest Number had been especially gruelling, and in his still-convalescent state after the roof top and the missile strike Reese had found it utterly exhausting. He had gone home to his apartment and slept for a full day, got up, showered and gone back to sleep for another thirteen hours. He was deeply asleep when his phone chirped next to him: an incoming text.
"Mr Reese – please come to the Subway immediately," it said. Was it his imagination, or was there an extra flavour of urgency about the short message? He pulled on pants, shirt and suit jacket, tucked his gun into his waistband and was out of his apartment within five minutes.
There were protesters on the streets downtown, the sound of sirens in the distance. Reese turned his collar up and took a side street, heading away from them and ignoring their chants and signs. Why couldn't people just be happy they were alive, and safe, and ordinary?
He reached the Subway station and made his way towards Harold's computer desk at one end. Harold was seated in front of it, the monitors in front of him filled with numbers scrolling upwards in an unending stream. As Reese approached, Harold turned awkwardly to meet his eyes. There was a look of horror on his face. He gestured towards the screens.
Reese's brow furrowed. "What the hell is happening, Harold?" There were numbers there – nine-digit socials. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
Finch found his voice. "The Machine has so far given us eight million, two hundred and ten thousand, nine hundred and seventy-two numbers. And counting. Everyone in New York. Maybe even the whole country."
"What? What suddenly put everyone in the country in danger, Finch?"
"You've been asleep, you wouldn't have heard..."
"You must be kidding. They elected him?"
Finch nodded slowly.
Reese sat down, blinking a little. Bear came over, and licked his hand but the tall man did not respond and the dog wandered disconsolately back to his bed.
Together, Reese and Finch watched the lines of numbers scroll up the screens.
They didn't talk much.