Number Two leaned back in his chair, resting comfortably as he listened to the voices of his masters, His ease was no pretense; though he was at a loss to explain it. Perhaps it was the peace one finds when coming to terms with ones own mortality. His proposal had threatened the very foundations of Village power and the men from the shadows were displeased, dangerously so. Yet he found himself unafraid. The hand cradling the red phone was relaxed. The voice that spoke into it calm. Every protest and rebuke shouted back into the ear disregarded.
On his screen the subject of this heated dispute was just now being ushered into the ante-room by the silent Butler and motioned to wait. While the angry voices hummed in his ear like a disturbed hive, Number Two considered his prisoner, feeling an odd kinship with him and an almost regret for what must be done.
"Number Six is ready to confess to the girl." he lied easily into the interval between berating and threats. "But he simply will not do it in the presents of our cameras."
The response to his persistence was vitriol, bordering on hysteria. The mere thought of allowing Number Six out of their sight terrified them. Stripped of the ability to spy, to see what was done in secret, they were mere mortals. And he discovered within himself a sense of incredulity. Those he had obeyed in blind fear seemed little more than children, peeking at him from behind mother's skirts.
When again he was granted permission to speak he said simply. "My methods, which you characterize as reckless, have produced undeniable results."
The part of him that clung to a reality wherein they held power over him gaped in horror at his boldness. But that reality, had incomprehensibly, shifted, and he found himself in this strange, exulted state. He would do as he pleased or he would die.
The man on his screen had begun to pace, annoyed to be kept waiting. It was the prisoner's proud insolence that had first stirred his passion for murder. Or had it been envy? A captive seeking to destroy a free man out of jealousy? In his cowardice he had made an enemy of a man who might have otherwise been an ally. As if aware of his thoughts, Number Six smiled coldly.
He realized, without much interest, that they had been speaking and he had not been listening. It was of no consequence. It was only what he had to say to them that was of import.
He said into the pause intended for the display of his contrition, "If you do not permit me to run this experiment my way, it will fail."
The shadowy voices yelped at him. He brushed them aside like a man shaking a Chihuahua from the cuff of his pant leg.
"I have a unique understanding of Number Six," he caught the eye of his prisoner, glaring back at him through the veil of technology. At long last he truly did understand the man and knew why no force in the world could break him. The secret of Number Six's invincibility was his, if he could only hold on to it. He felt the slightest tug of his former self. Slight, but persuasive.
"He may not yet realize it, but he has been tamed." he smiled again, knowing how greedily they gobbled up this fiction, like swine at the trough. "Even unfettered he will return to us of his own volition. He can no longer do otherwise."
More protest buzzed in his ear, expected, but none the less irritating. He waited, knowing they would soon yield. When they again subsided to allow him to give account, he said simply, "I have brought him to heel for you. Accept your victory."
This last was delivered as a command. His rational mind gasped in sudden horror at his reckless arrogance. No such behavior was to be tolerated by them. All confidence was swept away. He had come suddenly to the cross roads. He could persist in this foolishness and press on towards his own destruction or turn back in the vein hope of forgiveness. In that moment of decision, he like Lot's wife, looked back. Fear gripped him and he felt his former state resurrected and himself again a slave to it. He had been a fool to defy them. They held over him life and death. The many torments they would subject him to filled his mind to bursting as he slipped easily back into the comfortable familiarity of cowardice.
There seemed a long silence, like a dark ocean, tossing dangerously. He was adrift in it. For a moment he had abandoned reason, and like his adversary, granted himself the liberty that comes only to those who refuse to kneel to mortal fears. He had known what it was to be free. He searched for that elusive freedom in the dark waters of terror, now rushing cold and deep over him, but he could not lay his hands upon it. He recalled fleetingly its sweet taste as he sank into the gloom. But there, hidden beneath murky depths, he found something else, glowering hungrily with luminous eye and gleaming fang. And though he still trembled at its presence, he knew that insanity was to be his final refuge.
They were speaking again. He came forward in his chair, his hand strangling the phone. He could scarce hold back his groveling to allow them to pass judgment. But it was not, he realized, in confusion, a death sentence. They were granting permission. In near as much fear as a pronouncement of his execution would have brought he listened as they assured him of their every confidence in him. Praised him for the boldness of his technique and declared the full support of the Village. He would find no more resistance. The way before him was clear. Nothing would hinder him in the realization of his dark plans.
He set the phone aside and looked at it for a long wondering moment. He had won. Yet the courage that had earned him this victory eluded him. He wished even now to claw back his every word. To force them put a stop this madness of his own making. But now only a confession of his true motive could end it, and he with it. He thought wildly of a means to sabotage his precious scheme and knew he had not even the fortitude to do that. He would, as he always had, give way to his fears and allow fate carry him along to where it willed.
His eyes jumped to the man on his screen. Cold blue eyes met his. Eyes that knew the weakness at the core of his being. For a moment he had glimpsed the mystery that made Number Six powerful, a man that would not be broken. Death was the only means by which he could be conquered and even then... Those cold eyes still seemed to hold him. Even then…
.
.
The steel doors slid aside to admit Number Six. He had intended a display of dominance over the man for the benefit of his master's but now found he was unable. It was as if he had faced him in a contest and been defeated. By sheer force of will made himself assume his tattered disguise of power.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Old Man." He said in forced alacrity. But the pretense was enough to stir the false pride of his position. He assumed his role, which like a mask, concealed behind it his true nature.
Number Six, bathed in the hard blue light, came down the ramp to stand before him.
The intensity was enough to dull the man. But only a little. Fingers drummed his desk. Impatience washed over it. "What do you want?"
Not even a sliver of feigned contrition. How they must be sweating at the thought of letting such a dangerous man off his leash.
"A progress report." he replied, still playing at pleasantness.
Number Six did not trouble himself to return it. "Get it from Number Seven. She's your spy, isn't she?"
"She pretends to be."
A hint of interest. "Don't you trust her?"
"I trust no one, Number Six." Now his tone was as hard as the man's eyes. "You know how it is."
This was met with a smile. Two seasoned soldiers of intrigue sharing the common bond of perpetual vigilance and suspicion. They were of a kind, he and Six. And yet so very different. The awareness of what it was that separated them soured his mood.
"Well, get on with it." he snapped.
In answer Six sat himself, with exaggerated arrogance, on the edge of the desk and said. "You've been watching and listening, draw your own conclusions."
He restrained himself from leaping up in an impotent rage. Held back, he growled. "I want your opinion."
"Do you?"
So deliberately antagonizing. "Yes."
Six allowed him to witness a pleased expression. "She shows great promise. Quick study. Still…"
A tiny seed of doubt planted absently, like an apparently insignificant move on the chess board. A move that would later, in its hidden cunning, prove devastating, were the game to be played to its conclusion. But there was no danger of that. He was about to sweep all of the pieces from the board.
He felt the thrill and fear of anticipation as he dutifully made his next move. With only a hint of impatience, he asked, "What is it, man?"
Number Six shrugged. "Something in her character. Could be nothing. One never knows about these things."
Whatever Number Six's plan, this foreshadowing was meant to bend perception to his favor. It was almost artful how well it served his own. To have missed so disastrous a warning, however subtle, was unforgivable. But it was not a crime for which he would be severely punished. He would escape with his life.
He kept the pleasure from revealing itself as he snorted the insinuation away. "She'll do. Now," he stood and leaned over the desk so he looked Number Six in those cold eyes of his. "Tell me what you're playing at."
"I'm playing at nothing," Six barked as if in sudden aggravation. "I'm keeping my part of the bargain. See to it that you keep yours."
A threat. How charming.
"I know all about your pathetic attempts at spying on me, Number Six," he said curtly, "You're every move is being reported. I want to know what you have been whispering in that girl's ear?"
"What have you?"
He might have been slapped. He nearly reeled back, but caught himself in an iron grip. His face did not change, save for the knowing smile he willed upon it. Least those watching grow curious as to Number Six's charge, he pressed the attack. "I don't have to give account to you, prisoner." the smile became cruel. "You on the other hand have no choice in the matter."
Six rose, leaned towards him. "Haven't I?"
The battle line had been drawn.
"No, you haven't." He did not shame himself by shrinking back. "The sooner you accept it the better."
"Never."
They were eye to eye and he could feel the danger. He wanted nothing more than to paralyze the man beneath the light and call for the warders to drag him away.
Yet he heard himself saying. "You will obey me."
"That day you will never see."
And to his utter amazement he laughed, "You delude yourself, Number Six."
The challenge came up like the blade of sword to deflect his thrust and seek an opening, "it is you who are deluded."
"You have already given into me."
"Have I?"
"Yes," the moment was close now, his blood was loud in his ears, "I will prove it to you."
They stared at each other over the desk. Number Six would never be beaten. His decision had been a right one. Though he alone would know that truth of it. They, his constant judges, could not accept the failure of their technological superiority. With it they conceived to bring all of humanity to heel. They would never see its fatal flaw.
Yet, in their greed they had given him dreadful liberties. He nearly shuttered, but now he must test both the resolve of his masters; and of himself. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached for the control that would blind them. He felt the dread of it. but Number Six must be made to believe he was trusted. He must believe his deception a success.
Surprise and suspicion shown in the man's face as he turned the control and he felt at once the loneliness and vulnerability. It was as if he had stepped into the lion's cage and locked the door behind himself.
The lion regarded him silently.
"Now we face each other as equals." he said in a voice that wanted to shake.
In answer Six glanced up at the light that sill held him.
Was he to unchain the lion as well? His hand reached and hesitated. The fingers quivered. He had felt so sure as he plotted in his own head, but now, alone as he was with Number Six, he faltered. As with the girl on that dark hillside, he suddenly came face to face with the weakness in his plan. Once that switch was thrown there would be no borrowed power to deliver him from the man's wrath.
"Can't do it, can you?"
There was goading contempt in the tone of the challenge, warning him that he dare not fail, for to do so was to see his plan fall to ruin. And amid the debris his master would tear him to pieces. For him there was no turning back. Yet he could not move a muscle to do what must be done.
"You're afraid." Number Six growled, still the lion and he a gazelle.
Impulsively he leaped to the defense of his ego, "I'm afraid of nothing." A brave lie.
"You're afraid of everything." the man's smile was wicked. "You're afraid of me."
Rage rushed in to fill him with false courage. He lunged for the control as if the act proved Six wrong. But inwardly, when the light snapped off, he shrank. His mortal enemy was freed and he was without help of any kind.
Yet Number Six did not strike. He did not move at all, save for that restless dance of his fingers. An indication of strong emotion, only just held in check.
Number Two made himself relax. To appear at ease in the deafening still of his naked impotence.
"why?"
He nearly started at the sound of the man's voice. It was only the careful rehearsal of his role that brought words to his lips. "A demonstration of my confidence in you."
Open suspicion, "confidence?"
"You may not yet be ready to accept it, Number Six, but you have already proven your loyalty," he replied in a voice surprisingly calm, like the master magician casting an enchantment."Now it's time we prove ours."
Number Six gave no outward sign of having been won over. It was only his prolonged abstention from violence that gave Two any hope that his ruse was believed.
"What about them?" Six demanded.
"Never mind them." he said with a dismissive air.
The awareness that he was free to express his true feelings began to stir, just under surface of mortal dread. They were not able to punish him for that which they did not know. And Number Six, though an enemy, would never betray him to them. He felt himself as unchained as his prisoner. But the loosing of his bonds brought him no comfort. That wonderful self possession that had graced him during his conversation with his masters evaded him like a phantom, forcing him to effect calm with every fiber of his being.
"I wonder, what it was you've told them, that they would willingly permit themselves to be blindfolded?" Six mused cynically.
"The truth." He smiled, "I've accomplished more than anyone before me even dared dream of."
"I can assure you," Number Six said with a bitter laugh, "your predecessor's dreams were every bit as ambitious as yours." he motioned gently, "Step away from the desk."
This he did, still managing to keep the smile on his face. The terror was elating. His nerves sang with it.
They faced each other in front of the huge screen, now dark. The room which lent him so much power was disarmed. But the man standing before him could kill as easily with his hands as with a weapon. He tried to ignore the quickening of his heart. So much had been done to Number Six. So much to give him cause.
"You surprise me, Number Two," Six said. "I didn't think you had it in you."
"Trust breeds confidence." Two replied, his tone mocking. The man stiffened under it, perhaps remembering another time when he had been brought close to surrender. He wondered that he should goad Number Six. There was reason enough for the man to see him dead without tearing at old wounds.
Number Six's eyes went to the places from which men with billy clubs might emerge. Still the wary man, ever on his guard for the trap. But he would not find it here. The power of the Village would not be brought to bear against him. In this moment he must be convinced of his victory no matter the price. Only then would he relax his vigilance enough to deliver himself into the girl's hands.
"I must say, Number Two, this little trick of yours is most impressive." Six said insolently, "I wouldn't have thought your bosses could bear to take their eyes off me for even one moment."
He snorted contemptuously, thinking of the faceless men who ruled over him and sneered, finding in their absence, false courage, "I've told you, Number Six, you have the complete confidence of the Village."
"I'm free to go?"
"Not just yet." he said too quickly, like a man rushing to slam a cell door, "There is still the matter of the girl's training, which must be completed. Proof of your commitment to us, you understand," he smiled, "But I think you will find the circumstances of your stay more pleasurable."
"No more surveillance?"
"In our modern age I'm afraid no one can expect to escape it entirely," he laughed softly, easily, delighting himself. "But I have seen to it that you receive VP privileges. The cameras in your room have been deactivate and you will not be restricted in your movements."
"What about the rats watching me from every crook and cranny?"
"They won't trouble you any more."
"I might run."
"You might," he replied as if it were a trivial matter. "but that is a risk I'm willing to take, considering the stakes."
All of the tension went out of the man. He smiled. Two found himself truly relaxing as well. He had won Number Six's confidence, perhaps only for the moment. But a moment was all the was needed. One concession leads to another. Once Six tested this new liberty of his, he would convince himself of it's validity and walk boldly into the jaws of death.
"Your appetite for risk is unexpected." Number Six said and slapped him hard across the face.
He fell back under the blow. Cowering more from the sudden rush of long anticipated punishment than the pain. The man was right to kill him and there was no one to stop him. Mewling, he collapsed at his prisoner's feet, like a slave prostrating himself before a cruel master. The words that poured from him were unintelligible, a mere babble of supplications. He lost all sense of himself. Body and mind quivered convulsively. He wept and screamed in turn under blows that never came.
Then a single word formed coherence and became a sobbed mantra, "Please, please, please..."
Through the wretchedness of his tumult he heard Number Six's voice commanding him.
"Get up."
As desperate to obey as to get escape the wretchedness of prostration, he rose unsteadily, shaking with a violence that threatened to send him to the floor again. He could not meet the man's eyes. The horror of his display was more terrible than any beating. He had broken under a single blow, and that no more than a slap. His hand went to his face compulsively to rub at the hot numbness.
For a long moment Number Six stood looking at him, silent and unmoving. Studying him as if he were a strange insect. A worm found buried in the dung heap. He wanted only to crawl away and hide in shame. But he was held in the quiet contemplation as if bound by chains.
When the man spoke again he convulsed as if struck.
"Leave the girl to me." the voice was soft, almost gently commanding. A father speaking to a wayward child. "I've been charged with her reeducation and I'll have no more of your interference."
His voice stammered when he spoke. "Of course, Number Six. She is entirely in your capable hands." He dared to bring his eyes up to meet the man's. He found no murder in them, just quiet amusement. And something else. Satisfaction. It stung what remained of his pride, but he said in a conciliatory whine, "I trust you completely."
A cold smile met this and then Number Six was turning away. Number Two stumbled in a panic to the controls and opened the door, lest the man have to slacken his pace; least he turn back to finish what he had begun.
The open mouth of his chair offered sanctuary. In profound desolation he crept into its concealing shadow. Number Six reached the top of the ramp and stopped. Two felt the bubbling fear swell. He could not recall a time when he had prayed. But he prayed now. It was a fervent scream echoing in the dark chambers of his soul.
The man standing before the open door was still for a long agonizing moment then without so much as a backward glance went out. The door slid shut behind him, sealing Number Two in bitter solitude. He rubbed at the hot pain that seemed to swell the side of his face. A face still wet with tears. He had been as helpless as a babe.
Darkly Two recalled how he had dawned the mantle of power, believing he would succeed where all others had failed. Such hubris had led him ruin. The man he had thought to break had broken him. The image of himself face down on the floor came back in a sickening wave that churned his innards. How superior Six must feel himself, knowing yet another Number Two been defeated at his hands.
Suddenly a smile twisted his lips. A man who feels he has nothing to fear from his enemy becomes complacent. His pathetic display of submission, which a moment ago had shamed him, became a brilliant act of deception, one sure to lull his victim into a false sense of security. If he had any doubt Number Six would go quietly into the trap, it fled away.
He who laughs last, laughs best. And he was laughing, uncontrollably.
.
.
Number Six stepped out of the house and stood for a moment on the portico. He felt the quiet of the world. Number Two had been true to his word. There were no anxious eyes watching from the behind every hedge.
He walked the streets, bustling, as always, with activity. But no one followed. The cameras he passed recorded him with the passivity of cows in a pasture. None tracked him. When his experimental wondering finally led home the door of his quaint cell opened obediently. He stepped inside at once aware of the change. His eyes swept the room as if looking for something out of place. Nothing was, yet something was missing. He smiled. The watchers were no longer watching. For the time being, at least, his keepers had sacrificed their omniscient. Whatever Two's game, it was a bold one.