Sleep had sent the monster back into the shadows. Upon waking, he had even found the will to dress and comb his hair. Rested, Number Two felt nearly human when he entered the control room to resume the game. The familiarity of the setting was a comfort. He was once again in his proper role; a powerful man overseeing an important mission. As he descended the steps the Supervisor joined him, unruffled, ready to do his bidding. The small, efficient crew manning the monitors was busy about keeping Six and the girl on the enormous screen like a pair of insects under a magnifying glass.
They were going to dinner. The mood was lighthearted as they walked together, greeting those they met with smiles and salutations. Number Seven seemed refreshed after a day of rest. She glided along at Six's side, her arm through his, a picture of contentment. She might have been a princess on her way to a ball, already in the company of her prince.
Though her attire was all wrong. She still wore the custom given her upon her arrival, along with the crude shoes she had stolen from the General Store. He wondered that her shabby appearance should troubled him. Given the opportunity he would have arrayed her in decay. A desire that had not all together abated.
The camera picked them up again inside the Cat and Mouse. They seemed to enjoy the festive atmosphere of music, lights and swirling crowd. So unlike either of them. They were far more suited to skulking in the shadows. Observing from the fringes of civilization like wolves. They were never caught up in the activities of their fellows. Any participation in society was mere act, crafted to achieve a goal. Yet, as he watched them now he could almost believe that they had at last accepted the allure of the Village. Surly his Masters believed it. Fools that they were. They thought this artificial paradise of theirs irresistible.
A phone buzzed and the Supervisor moved efficiently to answer it. Even before Number Two turned to see him pick up the red one, the hair at the base of his neck prickled. Anger at the intrusion over ruled fear. What could they want?
He watched, seething, as the Supervisor spoke to those hidden voices. Listened to the man's clipped response. "Yes, of course. Right away."
With a smooth motion he returned the phone to its proper place on the pedestal beneath the rotating boon.
"You are to see the doctor." was the crisp pronouncement.
Every eye in the room seemed to turn on him, though not a soul dare move. Number Two had been summoned.
Instinctively he sought to restore the illusion of his position.
"Tell him I'm indisposed," he snapped. "He can make an appointment in the morning."
"It is by order." was the simple reply.
Now fear swept aside indignation. They would not be denied. He shrank a little into himself. But still he clung to authority with the desperation of a drowning man. "Very well. Have him report to my office."
.
.
.
He had never come in here of his own volition. He avoided the place with an almost religious zeal. This gaudy imitation of a night club was the carrot and he much preferred the stick.
He found a table that provided them a good view of the festivities on the dance floor and held a chair for Casey. She accepted it graciously. No sooner had he seated himself then a waitress in a short black dress with plenty of white ruffle, floated over to present them with menus.
"None alcoholic gin, whiskey, vodka," She said through a smile, "Looks the same, taste the same."
He recalled the line, like something from a fever dream. He'd shouted at the girl, causing her to recoil in fear. Was this the same one? Nothing in her manner suggested that anything unpleasant had ever passed between them. The Village knew how to train its actors.
"But it won't get me tiddly." he returned playfully.
Something akin to reproach at his unwillingness to abide by the rules spoiled her pleasant features. She opened her mouth to deliver her line more empathically but he stopped her with a raised hand.
"Gin will do nicely."
The smile was back, as bright as a little girl with a lollipop, "And for the lady?"
Casey returned the waitress's silly grin. "If it won't get me tiddly, might well just make it water."
This fresh assault on the rules threatened to undue the waitress entirely.
To be rid of her, Six interjected. "The lady will have a gin as well,"
There was no protest from his guest, who seemed far too content with everything. She was planning something and he should prefer it didn't turn into a nasty surprise. But for the moment he must be content to wait for an opportunity.
The waitress went away with somewhat less flounce, perhaps disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm for her little game. Everyone in this place was invested in the game. His eyes wandered the dance floor where old men and women moved in stiff rhythm to the music. They hadn't always been old. Once they had been young and vigorous. People with very important jobs. Jobs that had made them privy to intrigues. Other people's secrets came at a high cost. He watched this vision of an undesirable future with a hard smile.
"How long have you been here?"
Casey was doing her little mind reading trick again. It was time he find out what was on hers.
"Long enough," he stood. "Let's dance."
She rose and he took her hand drawing her close as if in an impulsive moment of affection and hissed. "You seem in high spirits. Something on your mind?"
She giggled like a schoolgirl hearing her first sweet nothings and whispered back. "Don't sacrifice yourself for me."
He put his lips against her cheek, perhaps to give her a playful peck. "You have no say in the matter."
Still feigning silliness, she giggled her challenge. "Don't I?"
An old couple passed by much too closely, stilling his rebuke of the stubborn girl. He recognized them as the two that were pointed out to him when he first arrived. Exemplaries of long rebellion finally subdued.
They gave their customary greeting, the words lost to the music. He watched the girl return the salute flamboyantly, in a maddening display of submission. She believed that there was nothing he could do to interfere with her rebellion and for the moment she was correct. There were far too many eyes and further delay would peek already heightened suspicions. He took her hand again and they moved together across the floor to join the dancers.
It's a difficult business, pretending to enjoy one's self when one was tired of the whole affair. All he wanted was to disabuse Casey of her foolish notion. But the energetic music was intended to keep the feet moving and the dancers from becoming too intimate. He made himself patient by directing his attention to their fellow inmates. The stern faces awash in gaudy light made a mockery of the party atmosphere.
Then Casey was stumbling into him, jarring him out of his thoughts, as if by clumsy accident. She made a pretense of grabbing hold of him to regain her balance. Her hushed, laughing voice was more felt than heard, like a metallic click in a dark ally. "Number Two will give me the opportunity to kill him."
He had no luxury of a measured response. In that brief moment when action and sound provided cover, he took hold of her as if to steady her and hissed. "Do you intend to take it?"
Her happy expression might as well have been chiseled into granite. "Will you change your plan?"
"No."
"Number Two has an apatite for murder. Your secrets mean nothing to him."
A lie to persuade him or the truth? "We all die sometime."
"A true stoic," the words were mere breath against his neck as she held onto him in giddy disarray.
"Not so" he said. "I haven't yet accepted that there are some things over which I have no control."
"Neither have I."
"Don't cross me, Casey."
She wanted away from him then but his arm, firm about her thin frame, trapped her in that awkward embrace. "Follow my instructions and I will get you away from this place."
Her smile did little to cover the cold resolve behind her eyes, but her hushed whisper was pleading. "I want to help you."
"Don't try."
At that she pulled back gently and he was obliged to allow it. Glittering again with faux gaiety she resumed the dance and in a sing song voice that was loud enough for the listeners to hear, she laughed, "you truly are my knight in shinning armor, Number Six."
She had not ventured to call him by that hateful designation before. It seemed particularly galling coming from her lips.
.
.
.
The dour Doctor was admitted without announcement. What little servility he had managed in the past was absent this evening. He had come, not as a subordinate to a superior, but as an inquisitor sent by the King to test the loyalty of a subject.
Though near panic Two rose to greet him. Magnanimous to the last. "Good evening, Number Forty Nine. I trust you've been well?"
"Acceptable. And yourself?"
"Isn't that what you are here to determine?"
The Doctor didn't care for the directness. They were all like that, always pretending. A Village of actors. On stage they played the roles of accommodating bureaucrats; but behind the scenes they were as cold as reptiles. He hadn't really taken notice of the duplicity before. It was just part of the job. Now he unable to see the man, disguised as a medical doctor in his crisp, white coat, for anything other than what he truly was. A butcher who lacked the empathy to even kill his victims before dismembering them.
"Really nothing to worry about," The Doctor said in his soothing tone, as if comforting a dying patient. "You've been under a great deal of strain. We just want to know how you're holding up."
We. A friendly euphemism for that unseen power that ordered men's lives and when it saw fit, ended them.
Two returned to his seat and took up his cane, leaning on it as if confident in his position. He forced impatient rebuke into his tone, "well, then get on with it."
In no apparent hurry the doctor looked to the screen where the young couple glided about the dance floor. Impulsively Number Two own gaze followed, seeing what he was meant to see, two people enjoying each other's company. More play acting. A moment ago they had been tangled up in each other's arms like tipsy lovers. No doubt they had been whispering murderous plots behind those silly smiles.
The doctor's voice interrupted him rudely.
"They do seem to be coming around. You really have done well."
The compliment shook him. More games or was he truly being commended?
"I don't understand," he confessed impatiently.
The doctor turned to him with something like a smile trying to rearrange his scowling face. The effect was nothing short of macabre.
"Everyone is most impressed with your manipulation of Number Six," the man shrugged thin shoulders, "your method is unorthodox, to be sure, but no one can dispute its effectiveness."
Suspicion refused to die. He made himself answer civilly. "Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
The doctor was still attempting to look pleasant to no avail. "I'm here to help you. As I've said, you are under a strain. We must do whatever we can to see you through to the end of your experiment." He looked back to the screen where the subject of that experiment gave every appearance of contentment. With deep admiration the Doctor purred. "We mustn't allow anything to jeopardize it."
He thought of the terrible thing that lay in the shadows of his mind, waiting to devour him. Was it possible they did not yet suspect its presents? Were they, in their eagerness for success, completely blind?
Like a man stepping out onto thin ice he ventured. "They haven't sent you to relieve me of my post?"
"Of course not." the man showed genuine surprise at the utter absurdity of the idea. "We only want to to assure that you are fit enough to continue."
Relief at their invincible nativity threatened to burst him with laughter. He stifled it under a cough and allowed the weariness of his lonely struggle settle over him like a shroud for the doctor to admire.
"I could use something to steady the nerves," he confessed as if reluctant to admit such a human weakness.
"Perfectly understandable." Forty Nine cooed approvingly.
He turned his eyes back to the screen where Number Six, the master magician, was leading his young apprentice back to their table. How confident he was in the power of his magic.
.
.
.
When he entered the Cat and Mouse all attention was focused discreetly upon him. A pretty young girl helped him out of his coat, a twitter in her eagerness to please with such a trifling act.
Another materialized with a menu. "A table, Sir."
He waved her away.
He allowed himself to enjoy the mix of fear and admiration as he strolled through the room. Number Six and Number Seven were finishing their meal, and gave every pretense of having taken no notice him. A warm conversation appeared to be going on between the two of them. Plots and schemes disguised behind smiling masks.
Six was the first to break the ruse, looking up to see him with surprise.
"Ah, Number Two." he rose, "Care to join us?"
He took a seat and permitted Six to do likewise before saying pleasantly. "I'm here to see the lady."
Number Six was now the odd man out, but gave no indication of minding. "You're making friends in high places, Number Seven. Now would be a good time to ask about that club membership."
She half turned her eyes on him and half smiled as if weary of his presence. "It's been a lovely evening," she said sweetly.
Number Two interjected brusquely, "Be a gentleman, Number Six, and go away."
Nothing changed in the man's demeanor. Not a flicker of anger disturbed his countenance as he stood. "Of course." Just a slight bow to the lady. "I bid you both goodnight."
Then he was moving away and Number Seven was watching without apparent concern, as content with her new as companion as she had been with the previous.
He turned his attention to her, returning her pretense of contentment. As the dishes were cleared away a bouncy waitress announced her list of refreshments.
"I'll have Whiskey, on the rocks." he said and then asked as warmly as he could manage, "And you, my dear?"
She fingered her nearly empty glass. "I shouldn't, really. Number Six will have me up at the crack of dawn for training."
Such an amusing little game. "Nonsense." he laughed. "The lady will have another gin."
Much pleased with it all the waitress hurried away leaving them, for the moment, with the appearance of privacy. But it was a flimsy illusion. As weak as the pleasant expression on the girl's face. Every camera in the room was trained upon them.. Every word recorded. Computers gobbled up the information with an insatiable appetite and regurgitated analysis to be poured over by cold men and women in stiff, white coats.
With difficulty he turned his attention away from the inescapable web of technology and to the business at hand. The girl who sat across form him was no longer a hollow shell. She had been transformed into something else. Something brilliant and devious. Her face, while still much too gaunt, was made almost lovely by the charming smile and the light in the eyes. She leaned towards him slightly in an open, inviting manner. She seemed to have no secretes. That of course was a lie.
The red scarf, Number Six's gift, was still tied about her slender neck. He reached out and stroked the smooth material. The closeness roused his excitement. The murderous lust would never be quieted.
"Such a powerful color." he said softly, hoping it concealed his passions, "It suits you."
She allowed his admiration unflinchingly. His fingers brushed her skin. The moment. on that dark hillside. when he lunged for her like a wolf going for the jugular come into sharp focus. She could not help but recall, yet there was not so much a tremble as she looked into his eyes. He leaned back, watching for some sign of hidden relief. She was as unchanging as a plaster wall. He wondered that she could conceal her fear so well. Or had she embraced the inescapable inevitability of death and so freed herself of the fear of it? Over such a state of mind there is no means of influence.
"However we really must see to your wardrobe." he said with exaggerated charm. "I do apologize for the oversight. A great deal going on you know."
She looked down at herself in sudden self consciousnesses as if just becoming aware of her pathetic state. "I am kind of a mess," she said in apology.
"Never mind," he soothed, "We'll set you right. We take care of our own."
She met his eyes with questioning uncertainty.
The waitress returned with their drinks. He allowed himself to settle as the woman made a business of arranging the glasses before them and inquiring eagerly what more they might require. He sent her away with as much pleasantness as he could muster. He must now play his part, while they were listening.
"On the Tower," He said casually, "What did Number Six whisper in your ear?"
He watched carefully for the unconscious signs of guarding so precious a secrete. It came, but not quite as expected. She looked thoughtful for a moment then glanced in the direction of one of the many cameras. She thought to make them the reason for her reticence. A most suitable ploy.
"Come now," He said with only a trace of impatience. "What you can say to me, you can say to them as well. We're all friends here."
She turned those pretty eyes on him and asked. "Did you know my mother?"
This too served his purpose. He allowed the diversion from the topic graciously. "Only from her file. Impersonal, I know." He feigned thoughtfulness at a memory. "A fine woman. She did not deserve her fate."
"In your estimation my father did?"
This was directed at the Village, and perhaps himself. The thirst for vengeance still burned hot. It had brought her to life the way an enchantment animates a corps.
"Your father was a professional," he rebuked gently, "He knew what to expect when he went outside the bounds. But your mother," now he shook his head, deeply saddened by the unfortunate turn of events. "A true innocent. Her only crime was to fall in love with a marked man."
Perhaps there was a gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. She looked away. "The Village killed them."
"Come now," he said sharply. "We do what must be done."
"Destroy people?"
"If necessary. To protect ourselves."
"What makes you worthy of such costly protection?" she was looking at him again, pinning his down with cold accusation.
"The will and means to ensure it." he replied. Harshly reminding her of the natural order of the world.
"Might makes right?"
"Yes." and then with the compassion as only the powerful are able to bestow, he said." However, we are not above the admission of a mistake. Your mother's death was not intended." he leaned towards her, gentle, protective. She allowed it without any outward sign of revolution. "We did not know..." he paused, gathering himself for a painful confession. "...Jealousy, it drives a man to do things he otherwise would not."
He sat back and took up his drink, as if to avoid her probing gaze. She required a little time for conjecture.
Impatient to shed light on her shadowy past she said sharply. "Number Six knew my mother?"
How quickly she came to the desired conclusion. He set the glass aside, pained now to be forced to open an old wound. "When he was assigned to find your father, we didn't know, he's so very good at concealing his secrets." he let the words linger for a moment as he watched her face. She was hardening herself with disbelief. Still so untrusting. "We knew of course of his long friendship with your father. But that he had fallen in love with a woman in America," it was clumsy lie, but a mind properly conditioned would readily accept it. "A woman your father latter found and married." He shook his head again at the profoundness of the error.
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at him with open skepticism. Then in sudden defense of her long held suspicions said, "The Village makes a business of knowing everything. How could they miss something like that?"
It seemed the Village was capable of a great many errors. One such is this was not beyond them.
"A man with Number Six's talents is not to be underestimated." he caught her eye to put meaning behind his words. "Perhaps you understand now why the Village prizes him so highly."
She said nothing, taking in the revelation.
"Now tell me, what did Number Six whispers in your ear?"
She looked directly at him, a kind of wicked smile making her somehow more alluring. "He told me that he loves me."
He could not subdue the shock before it revealed itself in a harsh laugh. "Loves you? Number Six?"
"It's what he said." The prospect seemed to delight her.
A lie of course, one his masters were eager to hear. The girl well knew it. She played them all so easily.
He had regained his composure and skepticism. "And do you, my dear, feel the same?"
She was ice now. "For my mother's killer?"
"No. I don't suppose." He settled back and took up his glass again, pretending to be content with its artificial contents. Just now he had no way of telling what she was playing at but the game excited him. She excited him. His rational mind warned of danger as long years of training were shoved aside. Her words came back to him, a like foreshadowing in a story. "It's a curious thing, isn't it, how easily fear turns to adoration?" And hate and love, were not they the same sort of polar opposites? Two extremes that could be flipped as easily as one flips a switch? Had she fallen prey to this human frailty? Or had he?
She was so close, so inviting and he felt a yearning for that closeness. The closeness a friend. A confidant. He realized with sudden shock how alone he was in the Village. In his life. Who before had he ever trusted with his secrets? He longed to tell them to this girl. A prisoner. An enemy. His only ally.
The call for curfew came over the PA tearing him from his thoughts. He bristled inwardly at the Village's interruption. He was far from finished. The sudden frustration threatened to bring it forth.
The girl looked round at the people, obediently leaving off whatever they had been doing and drifting towards the door.
"One last dance?" She said demurely.
How clever she was.
"Of course. But you look tired, my dear." He waved to a waitress. "Tell them to play something slow. A waltz."
The woman bustled away and he stood reaching for the prisoner's hand. She rose elegantly, placing hers in his as the music changed. They walked to the now empty dance floor and she, without hesitation she allowed him to draw her close. The confusion of his emotions were elating.
She said sweetly, in a low hush. "Smile, you're on camera."
He made his lips conform with her wishes. It was a ghoulish affair.
Then she was leaning into him and he was inclining his head down to her so that their breath met. Hers was laced with hushed words. "Number Six is very close to confiding in me. But he won't talk in front of them."
He felt the sudden desire to confess. To reveal the inner most longing of his heart. His arms seemed to close about her like the steel jaws of a trap. "He can take his secrets to the grave."
She tensed, but did not yet struggle. For a moment there was only the quickened beat of her heart against his chest. He should not have allowed his passions drive him to make such a damning confession. Fear consumed him. Then she was melting into him. Warm and inviting and he was responding, without thought, to that invitation.
Her words were a hot breath against his neck. "If that's what you want."
He realized with a chill that he held in his arms the solution to all his troubles. This tender young girl, swaying against him, was a killer. Trained in the art. Born for it. Number Six's words came back like a warning. "It wouldn't do to have your pet killer killing you." She might indeed.
He recoiled from her, trying to draw away only to discover that it was he who was now trapped, not so much by her slender arms as by the watchers. To do anything other than remain in her embrace would invite curiosity.
"We mustn't be hasty." he implored, wanting nothing more than to claw back his rash confession.
"Don't be a coward."
The rebuke stung like a blow across his cheek. His face reddened under it. The cunning murderess leaned closer still and burned him with her breath. "I will need a weapon."
"What kind?" his words stammered out, tripping over each other as he struggled to hush his voice.
"I want him to die the way my mother did." her voice was the hissing of a serpent. "I want to watch him bleed out on the ground. Helpless. Afraid."
"A gun?" this was a gulp. "That will be difficult."
"Not for you." she let her lips brush the skin of his neck as she spoke so that he felt the words thrill through him. "It has to be small. Easy to conceal."
"I can't."
"You will."
This was a challenge that he had not strength to meet. He had given way to this shabby seductress once before and the compulsion to do so again was powerful. Her body seemed wrapped about him like the coils of a snake, insistent and deadly, yet alluring.
"You and I will need time alone," she was saying, "Away from the cameras."
There was no promise of pleasure in her tone, yet he felt himself giving in to her. His waning resistance forced a weak protest from his lips. "They will never allow that."
"Arrange it."