On the screen Number Two watched as the new arrival climbed those dark stairs out of her forced slumber. She opened her eyes and looked at her surroundings. Recalling, no doubt the moment of her capture and wondering how it was she awoke in her own bed. Perhaps it had been a dream. She sat up still sick from the drugs, her movements as slow as her mind. Unsteadily she got to her feet, looking for answers the familiarity of the room could not provide. She went to the window. Now for that delicious moment when reality as she understood it would be torn from her. She did not keep him from it long. She pulled back the curtains and looked out at The Village. Confusion poured its toxic brew into her. She looked back at the room which could only be a lie and then again at the world beyond her window.

He reached for the phone.

She startled as the phone in her room buzzed. Then picked up the receiver.

"Number Seven?" He said.

She looked down at the phone. Saw the number on it and said, "Yes."

"Come for tea. Number Two. The green dome."

"Who is this?"

Already a spark of resistance.

"Green dome." Two said. "You can't miss it."

He hung up leaving her to her confusion. She would come. They always did.

Two switched the view to Number Six's room. The camera's spying eye found the man getting out of bed. He moved slowly. The usual defiance dulled by the after effects of a night he wouldn't remember.

Yet another wasted effort to crack that indomitable will. If it were only a matter of breaking the man he would have done with it. It was the mandate placed on him by his masters that tied his hands, restricted his options and insured his failure. And yet he alone would be held accountable.

Feeling sour, he opened the intercom to Six's room. "I trust you had a good night sleep, Number Six."

Those accusing eyes found the camera. "You would know better than I."

"No call to be testy, old man," Two said.

"Isn't there?"

"Whatever you may think of your treatment here, you bring it on yourself," Two scowled at the face on the screen. The man was made of stone and he was expected to break him with a feather. "Give a little and you can find peace."

"Peace is something I will never know in this place."

"By your own choice," Two said.

"By yours."

Six turned his back on the camera, only to be picked up by another. There was no where for him to hide.

The yellow phone buzzed. Two reached for it, his attention still on the screen, where Six went about his morning routine like a caged lion.

"Yes." Two listened, "of course. Show her in."

The huge steel door at the top of the ramp slid open and the girl came through. She spun round as it closed again behind her. Trapped, she turned back. Momentarily her attention was drawn to the restless man on the huge screen. Another mystery for her to ponder.

"Good to see you, my dear."

Her gaze fell on him. Face to face with the enemy. She was ready for a fight.

"Do come in." he said pleasantly. "No, need to be frightened."

She came on then mesmerized by the rest of the room. The spotlight caught her. She squinted up at the source in puzzled irritation.

Two stood and held out a hand in greeting.

She looked at him, looked at the hand. Her face was full of that wonderful shock and confusion. He enjoyed it.

His hand hung unaccepted. No matter, in time she would accept anything from him, without question. She had a weakness, he only need discover and exploit it. Her past was not without tragedy. At a young age her mother had been murdered. An event she witnessed. Her father then abandoned her. Plied correctly such emotional damage can be used to great advantage. One only need understand the mechanisms.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"I ask the questions here," He said.

She disregarded that. "What country is this?"

He choose to let her insolence pass, instead smiling amiably. "This is The Village, I am Number Two."

"You're English," she said. "Are we in the UK?"

"Such a questioning mind, my dear. We will have to see to that."

He pushed a button, bringing up the chair. The chair emerging from the floor predictably surprised her.

"Please have a seat," he said.

His kind offer was met with another question. "What do you want?"

"Your cooperation. Please, sit."

Her eyes grew hot, burning with that fire he saw is so few. She didn't like to be pushed.

"Would you like some tea?" Still congenial. A friend in a frightening place. "Or perhaps you would prefer coffee?"

Nothing yielded in her. The compulsion to respond to social politeness failed to emerge. Conditioning only goes so far. She walked round the desk, eyed the penny-farthing bicycle curiously.

"Of course," he said. "You drink neither tea nor coffee. Though you do have a fondness for orange juice."

Again the surprise.

"Your file is quite complete, I assure you."

"A thrilling read?"

How quickly she adapted to this new insight. Like a cat, always landing on her feet. At least for the time being.

"One area in particular," he said.

Her face seamed to close over. It was worth bearing in mind she'd resorted to violence rather than submit to her former masters. She would require a firm but delicate approach.

The door opened and the Butler came in with a tray. Two raised the table. The girl watched suspiciously as the table was set and the tea poured. A glass of orange juice was set aside for her.

"Come my dear," Two said. "Join me."

She came back to stand in front of the desk, her face bathed in the blue light. She made no move towards the table. She was waiting for an explanation.

She could jolly well wait. He dismissed the Butler and sipped his tea. His attention went back to the screen where the cameras followed Six. The man was taking his morning walk. Moving purposely through the Village, greeting those he met sarcastically. Two looked back at Number Seven, she was watching him intently. He switched off the screen feeling as if he had been caught in a guilty pleasure.

"I believe you have guessed why you are here," he said.

She said nothing continuing to look at him with that quiet air of contempt.

"You have something we want," he said, feigning patience. "The sooner you give it to us the better for you," he paused watching her, then went on. "For those who cooperate life can be quite comfortable. However, for those who refuse, it is unpleasant and often short."

"I don't cooperate."

"In the past," he said, "you have not. But seeing as you do now that it is the only favorable option, I trust you will reconsider."

Those eyes held him, "No."

"You're not being very amenable."

"And you're not being very imaginative. I know this game. Try another one."

That was a challenge. She thought herself brave.

"Imagination is for children. We are not children," the irritation rose in his voice. "And neither are we playing games."

"Games are all you have."

"This is an opportunity," he said. "I suggest you take it. Continue to resist and you will find that there is nothing we can not do to you."

That chilled her mood. For a moment she dropped her eyes.

Her file was quite explicit as to her rebellious nature. In light of what they hoped to obtain from her it hardly seemed worth the time. A more suitable subject could easily be found. Still he must make the effort.

There was a white button laying on his desk. He picked up. It bore The Village logo and the number seven. Her number. He handed it to her.

She took it as if it might be a snake. "What's this?"

"It's you. Number Seven."

"I have a name. I intend to keep it."

"Here we are all numbers," he said. "We find it removes the troublesome burden of ego. Allows us to understand our place."

Those hot eyes flashed at him.

"Give it time, Number Seven. You will come to appreciate our ways."

"No amount of time will make me appreciate subjugation."

"That's a very dangerous attitude," Two said.

"Dangerous for who? Those who pretend at being in control?"

"Make no mistake, we are in control."

She stared down at the button in her hand. "You will never control me."

And yet another challenge. He met it. "I assure you, we already do."

To his surprise she threw the button at him. It caught him between the eyes with a stinging blow. He staggered back, his hands flying to his face. His fingers came away with a stain of red. He held his rage as he took out his handkerchief and dabbed the small wound. The humiliation was far greater than the physical damage.

"Foolish girl," he said. "What did you hope to gain from that little outburst?"

"Satisfaction."

"I certainly hope you are satisfied with the consequences of your disobedience."

When she looked at him, he saw the fear he desired. She might now be persuaded, if he tread carefully. The balance between despair and hope is a delicate one.

"Aggression is a state of mind. The mind can be changed," he picked up the yellow phone. "Get me Number Forty Nine." He was enjoying the panic raising in her eyes. She was not as hard as she pretended. The cracks were already beginning to show.

He addressed her. "Number Forty Nine, is a doctor who specializes in re-socializing through medical introversion. We call it social conversion. Inelegant, but effective. After his treatment you will like it here." He allowed a smile. "In so much as you will have the capacity to like anything."

She moved away, up the ramp towards the metal door, seeking escape. She wouldn't find it. For her there would be no escape. He was her only hope of reprieve. She would crawl to him, begging.

The doctor's voice came over the phone drawing his attention back to it. "Yes, doctor," Two said. "I wonder if you might come to my office?"

The girl slammed herself against the door.

"I have a new patient for you."

He put down the phone and stooped to retrieve the button which had fallen beside his chair. He tucked himself comfortably into the seat, and held the button, letting the light play off the image on the glossy surface. It was rare to encounter such strong resistance at this point. Most accepted the loss of identity as an almost trivial matter. The assigned number they accepted in its stead was just part of this new world. A world in which they desired to find a place; with as little pain as possible. If there was any resistance, it came latter, on matters they considered to be of greater importance. Of course by then they had already conceded. One concessions leads to another.

That was all he required now. The first concession.

The girl was still pressed against the unyielding door. If he were ever so gentle, she might in desperation, willingly allow herself to be deceived.

"There is no need for all this unpleasantness," he said. "This is all new to you. You are understandably in a state of shock. The occasional misstep is expected. It can even be forgiven."

She hesitated. Fear was weakening her. He had played it well. She longed for a way out. The survival instinct is almost always stronger than conviction.

He held out the button. "Come now, let's be reasonable," his tone was almost pleading. He wanted after all to help her. "Simply make an effort to fit in. That is all I ask."

She stood away from the door, turning to face him. He saw instantly that he'd misjudged. What he'd taken for weakness was the hardening of resolve.

She laughed.

"You find this amusing?" he demanded.

"I find it ridiculous," she was fully committed to her rebellion. "You expect me to take a number over my name. To deny myself. To become nothing. So that I can be destroyed piece by piece." Her eyes were bright, she might have been crying. "And I'm supposed to pretend you're doing me a favor."

"You're being a bit over dramatic, don't you think?" he tossed the button on the table. "You've only been asked to accept your place in this society."

"As a willing slave?"

"Willing or unwilling. For you, the end result is the same."

From the top of the ramp Number Seven looked down on him. "No. It isn't."

Even as he leaned back in his chair, knowing he held absolute power over her, she made him uneasy. He found himself locked in a foolish staring contest. Her will against his. He dared not look away, least she win some unspoken victory over him.

Mercifully the phone buzzed, breaking the spell.

He picked it up, grateful to feel in charge again. "Yes. Very good," he glanced her way almost tentatively. She still glared down at him. Willful to the bitter end. "Send him in."

He set the phone down and reached with the tip of his cane for the button that would open the door.

"The good Doctor is going to come through that door and take you by force to hospital." He said. "When he is finished with you; whoever it is you fancy yourself to be, will be gone forever."

"Why not just kill me?"

So to the point. So like him. Like Number Six. It was almost jarring to realize that was the reason he wished to destroy her. She was like Six. Insolent. Self assured. Relentlessly unyielding. Ready to die rather than bend. An individual.

But she wasn't Six. She was Seven. There was no mandate to hold him back. She was not valuable.

"Of course termination is still an option," he relished the thought of it. "But we find the opportunity to experiment extremely beneficial. One can never know too much about the inner workings of the human mind."

He hit the button. The door slid open behind her, revealing the Doctor and his orderlies.

"As you can see, your allegiance is a mere formality," Number Two said. "We don't require it to make use of you."