Eight took the boy’s hand and started cleaning the long gash that ran from his index finger to his wrist with a piece of cotton soaked in disinfectant. The boy frowned, his hand twitching at the itch, but Eight held him tight. He noticed several pieces of metal and stone dust in the wound and took the instruments, pulling out the objects one by one.

Leave the wound untreated. Bandage it and let it swell. Let the gangrene take his…

“Now, why did you go to the construction site?” Eight mused, pushing the pleasant thought away. A job must be done to perfection. “You’re ten years too young to be of any use.”

“Grandpa needs food,” the boy replied, trying to sound serious. “And we couldn’t get any from the convoy before the Crabs took it all.”

You went out to get food, got hurt, and now your body has to find reserves to heal this ugly ass wound. Eight pursed his lips at the sound of the boy’s rumbling stomach as he started bandaging the hand. The fool wasn’t fat; his belly got bloated because of a protein deficiency. The wound should be the least of his worries.

“Down to the soup kitchen you go.” He patted the boy, who was dressed in a torn and dirty t-shirt and greasy shorts. The little patient lacked boots; with food scarcity, it’s become common to boil and eat the leather. His legs were covered with a thick layer of oily grime that hid stiffened skin.

“But Margo said there’d be no free food this week!” The eight-year-old blinked.

Push a hand into his belly, slice it open, grab the smelly guts, and strangle the bastard with them!

Don’t hurt, don’t hurt, please don’t hurt the child! Let me go, let me…

“Never again interrupt your elders, young man.” Eight tapped his golden earring, enjoying the musical sound. “Tell her that Doctor Ulli has asked for an exception. You are to eat two eggs and a chicken soup slowly, young man!” He tugged the boy’s ear, noticing a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “Slowly, I said. Make haste, and you’ll vomit the food. Then come back at dusk and eat the same amount, no more, no less.” Eight gave him a playful kick, sending the boy off to eat his fill.

Proteins won’t do much good in the long run, not in his condition. But the goal wasn’t to solve the problem, but to buy time for the Oathtakers to have time and open a medical center near this wreck of a city. Then the kid might even survive. Sure, it would be nice if the bastard went the way of the Old World, but unlike filthy humans who might not care much about a fake job, a Number always does his duty. Eight smiled pleasantly and called the next patient, a woman in her eighties suffering from a rash.

“The Quiet Solace” was an ingenious cover for the Numbers. Situated in a ruined city fifty kilometers from Stonehelm, it served as their primary base of operations, a place to send lesser Digits into the field, get new bodies from desperate locals, and have the ability to keep an eye on their target. The Numbers grumbled about the need to play the role of helpful community service, but Eight’s iron grip and Maximilian’s blessing quelled all dissension.

They found a person among the locals to serve as a figurehead and even hired some staff, receiving scraps from the government and donations from charities to keep the people of this run-down city healthy. Attempting to receive donations, really. The invasion hit the place hard, and most houses were ruined. A surge of refugees moved into them, preying on the locals and being preyed on by the dozens of gangs. Chaos and non-stop gunfire reigned until the Crabs, a local gang of impressive size, brought others to heel, giving lesser gangs their own turfs in exchange for a tribute. Sporadic and chaotic oppression turned into methodical and orderly oppression, and the locals drank woes in full.

Before, the gangs focused on themselves. Now they turned their attention to the locals, refusing to let people leave and claiming the fattest pieces of the city for themselves. Sick and infirm were thrown into the cold out of the remaining skyscrapers. The chapel, looted during the war, became a den of drug addicts, eager to shiv a passerby for crests to buy themselves a fresh fix. The city hall ended up as an arena where the Crabs and other gangs forced people to fight for their amusement. One of the sprawling commercial centers was turned into a walled pleasure district.

Everything cost crests this day. Want to cross a street? Two crests or enjoy a beating. Want to come back? Two more. Want some water? Pay up! To earn crests, the locals were herded toward the construction sites, rebuilding the gang’s bases. The strong and unscrupulous ruled the streets, and even if you paid for protection, all too often thugs would turn a blind eye if some maniac from a higher gang came to feed his depravity at the expense of the weak. Those who couldn’t pay had a simple choice to make. Become an indentured servant and die on the construction site, sell your body, or lose the right to your organs.

Some locals teamed up with the refugees and a few vigilante gangs and tried to make a stand. The flayed bodies of their leaders hung from the city’s hall even now, serving as food for crows. A group of them, who had tried to take down the Crabs’ leader, had their bellies explode. And their friends and family members were slowly dying from dehydration and starvation in iron cages next to them, while the wind toyed with the dead bodies and rattled the cages. The Crabs sent their message, and Eight found it lovely. One cruelty to instill a genuine horror.

The Quiet Solace was set up in an abandoned theater that had miraculously survived the bombing. Eight, two other Numbers, and medical personnel treated the newcomers in the former cloakroom, now converted to accommodate the wounded. Anything more serious than a stab wound was taken to the second floor, where Ten performed miracles by operating on the patients, sewing up split guts, treating swollen wounds, distributing the vaccine against Chosen Prince diseases, and extracting bullets from bodies. Most serious cases were moved to the basement to rest and recover. Eight has made it clear that the Numbers had to earn themselves a reputation as miracle workers to become so invaluable that even the gangs would choose to leave them alone.

And left alone, they had to be. The Numbers restored power and water to the building, making the place real estate to plunder. Only generous tribute, free healing out of turn, and sycophancy kept them out of the turf wars and earned them the protection of the strongest gang. At night, in their free time, Twenty Eight and Eight put on theatrical performances for the sick children and locals willing to pay to attend, though Eight doubted that any of the worthless parasites really appreciated his elaborate six-hour re-enactment of the Lament for Peace and similar masterpieces. But it was good exercise for his own memory.

Humans might be worthless rabid creatures that needed to be exterminated for their own good, but their creations, food, art, and the like were treasures worth preserving. It was easy to earn the trust of the local helpers and the general population by faking comradery. The Numbers, back in the days when Master Maximilian still suffered from the delusions of kindness, were made with the goal of helping humanity. They would mend broken hearts by befriending a depressed child, turning into a friend who would never betray them and who would lead them to betterment. By merging with a paralyzed victim, a Number could not only heal the body but also uplift the spirit. Ultimate pocket therapists. The mere memory of how he helped people filled Eight with seething disgust.

A brewery was opened in the basement of this makeshift clinic, and Twenty Eight supplied a nearby garrison with a hefty amount of liquor, earning their trust. Ten fully embraced her second role as quartermaster, and even Eight felt constrained by her stingy rules. No free medicine. No giving up food on the road. No touching emergency rations of medicine. Only the most severe cases of starvation allowed in the soup kitchen. Keep away from booze; it is for a tribute and the mission. No, you can’t use energy cells to watch a TV; they’re all needed to power the machines in the basement. Days passed and their work was done. The message came at last, and preparations to leave this place were underway.

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But not everything was going smoothly. Eight gave the woman pills to deal with a rash and scowled at the screams outside. A moment later, a distressed woman in a torn dress barged in, holding in her hands a young girl around four years old. One of the girl’s arms dangled, dislocated at an elbow. Eight didn’t need to ask what had transpired. The Crabs.

“Please!” The woman’s eyes found him, and Eight sighed, playing his role.

Fingers in her eyes, grabbing the sockets and pulling, covering everything red. Begin the harvest; let none escape!

“Philippi!” He raised his voice, and the “owner” of The Quiet Solace, a sixteen-year-old boy with a heap of bleached hair, darted from the basement. Eight fixed the dislocated shoulder without rushing, hearing the sound of wheels coming to a halt next to their hospital and the scared murmur of the leaving patients. Irrational cowards. United, the multitude could eradicate their oppressors. But they would rather sacrifice one to live another day, toiling and growing weaker by the day. Humanity richly deserves to be exterminated. “Down you go!” He handed the child to Philippi, put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and turned to face the newcomers.

They crashed through the front door. A man wreathed in electricity entered first, burning his way through the wooden door and setting the wreckage ablaze. He was dressed in an open leather jacket that showed off impressive abs, and black pants encircled by belts of silver chains. Eyes behind a horned demonic mask found the woman. The flaming wreck behind him was ripped from the door handle, and a woman in a crimson leather bodysuit and a black round rider’s helmet waltzed in, flanked by six armed thugs. Embers flew around them like meteors orbiting a planet.

The armed thugs carried a variety of weapons, ranging from oversized automatic machine guns collected from the dead shamblers to a rocket launcher tube. Eight had hoped that the fool wielding it would have enough gray matter to realize that if he fires it here, the entire place will go down. Straight on the brewery, meaning no more supplies to clean wounds and, far more important to that rabble, no more booze.

“We have a deal,” Eight said. He relaxed his muscles and slumped his shoulders, feigning submissive defiance. A doormat who decided to do the right thing. “The tribute has been paid in full and on time. Please leave and avoid staying in proximity to our modest establishment. You are scaring our patients…” The man slapped him.

Eight bit his lips and spilled blood. The Crabs expected to see a frightened and worthless doctor. And that is exactly what they will see.

“You have no right!” He bleated. “We paid, we…”

“Shut your whining!” The thug in the demonic mask grabbed him by the neck, and an electric current passed through Eight’s body. He thrashed in the hold, crying and wetting his pants in a show of fear. In reality, the electricity was almost a non-factor. “The whore failed to pay in time, and we came to collect. Are you going to stand between us, doctor?” The thug closed his mask to the Number’s face, breathing out a foul smell of chewing gum and alcohol.

He deserves to die just for the smell alone. Kick him in the groin, grow a spike, and pierce his manhood. Twist the spike, hear his cries, and reach his throat…

“N-no,” Eight pushed the words out, adding a little more blood to his lips.

“She wasn’t alone!” A youthful voice shouted, and a slightly younger-looking female copy of Philippi appeared, dressed in the red jacket and pants that identified her as a member of the Crabs. Two crossed pincers were painted on her shoulder. The bald girl pointed at the terrified woman. “I saw her carrying her pup along and then asking this bitch for help!”

Skin her alive. Piece by piece, revealing gleaming meat without haste. Expose the muscles to the air and keep going, caressing the flesh until only white bone remains… Humans are such fickle creatures. So easily turned on their own. Eight experienced a plethora of emotions. A righteous rage, an urge to tear and rend shame at the humiliation. Other Numbers stalked the second floor and gathered in the basement. Kill. Kill. End humans. Murder. Exterminate. Their thoughts and desires rolled his heart like no stroke ever could, but Eight denied them that pleasure, and the Numbers went about their day.

“Her daughter caught skin-peeling,” Eight lied. Skin-peeling was the name of one of the many diseases released by the invaders, and it did exactly what the name said. “I can bring her out, but it isn’t a pretty sight.” The Number enjoyed a flash of fear in the thug’s eyes. Ah. Here was the one who failed to kill the pip-squeak with a single hit. So… unprofessional. Pathetic even.

“Shit, Magpulong!” the woman in crimson cursed. “Get checked before…”

“It’s not contagious, Roz!” Magpulong replied nervously. He swung his head at the frightened woman. “Pay up, whore.”

“I... I have no crests.” The woman clenched both hands.

“Living on our land,” Roz mused, walking lazily around the woman. “Taking our supplies...”

“The government sent them!” the woman screamed, almost making Eight roll his eyes. How could anyone be so dumb?

A burning piece of wood moved toward the woman’s face, and she tried to back up against the wall. Another piece of burning wood flew behind her, touching the skin, and she screamed in pain, drawing a chuckle from Roz. “Our supplies, Normie. Blessed Ones are chosen by God; haven’t you heard the Oathtakers spiel?” She raised a hand, and the flame left the wood and circled around her glove for a bit. Then she pointed at the woman, and the streak of flame ate a poster near the terrified woman. “Normies serve. Blessed rule. And as the strongest Blessed in the city, Tulio Monzon owns everything that comes in and out.”

She spread her arms wide and addressed the people and staff: “He offers food and shelter to the dregs like you. He even offers protection. By his will, an order was established—an order that lets you breathe! And all he asks is a meager coin; a few crests to show your respect and your loyalty to him. And what does he get from this Normie? She refused to pay the fair rent, refused to pay for food, and dared to steal from him!”

“I have nothing left to give!” The Normie woman sobbed. “My daughter is sick. We have nothing to eat, there is no work, and your people won’t even let us leave!” Eight wanted to applaud the good girl. She caught on to the game fast enough. Put the lie first and then the woes, so that the other party focuses on the woes and not on the lie.

“Vile lies! The gates belong to the others. You could’ve left at any time.” Magpulong smacked his lips. “But where did you go? Without our protection, some horror outside the city would have claimed your life. And you owe us. You owe us crests, but not just them, not anymore. You have accumulated interest in running away. And additional interest for daring to steal from us.” He looked the woman over. “Nothing to give, eh? Don’t sell yourself short, whore. You’ll pay with your body. There are plenty of clients willing to pay for a woman’s touch these days.”

“No…” The Normie whispered.

“What, no?” Roz murmured, leaning on her shoulder. “Whores must do whores work; it’s how they get crests to pay back their debt. And you have a lot to pay for. So relax and try to enjoy a little.”

“You have no right!” Eight squeaked. It was expected of a good doctor, whose role he was playing, to stay defiant to the end. “Vulgar ruffians! Leave, or Tulio won’t get another bottle from us…”

“It’s Sir Tulio Monzon for you.” Eight felt pain in his abdomen when a fist crashed into him, but most of the pain came from the humiliation. His body flew across the room and slammed into a wall. He bit his tongue, collecting blood in his mouth. When Roz gestured and a table moved, pinning him to the wall, he vomited the blood, shaking with his entire body. “What was it about the booze?” Magpulong asked, throwing up and catching the earring he had ripped from Eight’s ear.

Throw the table away, turn your fingers into nothing. Lacerate the reject across the face, slice his nipples clean, and make him eat them.

Save her, save her, save her, save her, you are strong, save her, please…

MY MUSIC! It took all his composure to continue the act. Eight heard blood dripping from his torn ear and slowed down the healing of his wound. Not right away. He still had chores to do.

“No…No…”

“Speak up, man.” The jaws of Magpulong’s mask opened, and the dirty scumbag tasted his earring on a tooth. “Or maybe you don’t need your tongue anymore?”

“Nothing… I said nothing…”

“Nothing?” Magpulong raised his hand, and electricity jumped between his fingers, heating the earring.

“I have said nothing, sir.” Eight bowed his head, crying his face on the table. The earring! Gold wasn’t a hard metal to come by, normally, but golden earrings were rare! He promised himself to learn metalworking, because it was a pain to find one in a market. And no other metal would suffice. Gold signified his blood and soul and the legacy of his master.

“Loser," the teenage girl laughed, approaching Eight and spitting in his face. She flipped him the middle finger and left with the other gang members, who dragged the Normie woman by the shoulders. She wailed and struggled, but not a single patient had tried to help her.