Eight waited for them to leave, pushing the table away and ordering the medical staff to return to their duties. The wounds on his lips and tongue had already closed, and he walked outside, looking with genuine sorrow at his leaving earring, carried away by a thug who would never appreciate its true value. So precious. Its music soothed his mood, reminding him of better times—times when the Numbers reigned free, slaughtering whoever they wished in the darkness.

Not anymore. He had created every single member of this coven himself, hiding the scars and altering the process a bit. And yet, should any of them so much as set foot in Stonehelm, they would eventually be discovered. But Stonehelm was irrelevant, and the chaos played into his favor. The guards of the facility grew lax in their duties and trusted Twenty Eight all too much.

“Are you okay, sir?” Philippi asked behind his back, and Eight assumed a warm smile on his face.

His hand spasmed with a desire to tear the boy’s throat out, but he placed it on his shoulder instead, sitting with Philippi on the steps of their small hospital. Everything, his every cell, screamed and kicked at the disgust of tolerating a human presence. Eight paid it no mind; he had learned long ago how to negotiate with humans. He found young Philippi in a ditch, scraping the remains of fat from the bottom of a barrel to feed himself and his aunt. Their deal was simple. Philippi was a citizen, so it was easy to register “The Quiet Solace” in his name and receive the meager support during the war.

In exchange, he took it upon himself to protect the boy and his aunt from harm, secretly ending several marauders in the process. When the pet’s little sister turned up, working for the Crabs, Eight expected a betrayal at any moment. But Philippi cut ties with his sister and tried to shoo her off the auntie's home when the girl brought food. Loyalty. And dignity. He hadn’t expected to find it in a human. No matter. Humans are all the same. It is only a matter of time or opportunity before the pet descends into barbarism.

The surrounding city reminded him much of the ruined wrecks littering the surface of the Ravaged Lands. Once, it was a prosperous place, zoo and all. Then the war came, and shelling after shelling turned the place into a moonscape. Exotic animals were hunted down and eaten, along with rats. Empty and broken windows let the wind howl into the houses, and people tried to barricade the gaping holes. The smell of shite and urine could be sensed at every corner, and if one looked closely, one could spot dead bodies. And not just of those who died in the war. Struggles for food and water, clashes between gangs vying for the Crabs’ favor, merciless vengeances done by the Crabs’ members… None of it helped.

Several squads of police officers, all in full riot gear, had arrived in an attempt to restore peace and order. It should have been the work of the military, but Stonehelm’s City Defense forces were gutted.. Too many had died, and thousands of wounded still lay in the infirmaries, recovering after the war. Those who could fight had to struggle against the nightmares. Without their aid, the police force was torn apart, stabbed, disemboweled, shot down, exploded, and fired upon from every window and every crack in a wall. The Crabs, on purpose, allowed the police to reach City Hall, luring them deep into the city before ending them all in front of the desecrated symbol of former authority.

Eight had no idea what the Crabs goals were. Were they really planning to amass wealth and run for the hills? If so, where? The Oathtakers had always been a vicious bunch when it came to protecting or avenging the meek under their rule. What good are crests if you’ll never live long enough to spend them? Perhaps the fools had plans to fight for this place and force the Oathtakers to accept them as an official force? Could be, Tulio’s servants seemed to lack a brain as an organ. Who in their right mind would turn a feeding ground into a graveyard? If Tulio had even a lick of sense, he would’ve reigned in his rabble, brought peace, sworn allegiance to the Oathtakers, and earned himself a seat in the new government. Influence, crests, future—the fool had the potential to have it all and throw it away. But then again, what can you expect from humans? They destroyed the world once and still haven’t learned their lesson.

“Still here. Philippi, do you remember what I told you before? About the anointed time?” Eight asked.

“Yes.” The boy hugged his knees. “Then you are leaving? Why?” Philippi asked sourly. “Why must everyone leave me?”

“The road calls me.” Eight closed his eyes, pretending to be sad. “I’d wish nothing more than to stay and help you rebuild, but our duty needs us elsewhere.”

“I am tired,” the boy admitted. “Tired of always losing people I love. Mom and Dad did their best.” Eight wanted to roll his eyes but kept his silence. Philippi never spoke much of his family. “They… They are the reason auntie, me, and that monster got out alive. And that traitor betrayed everything they stood for and is now hurting people. Auntie is sick. You are leaving now. What if… What if the Crabs take this place too and hurt my friends here? What if I lose everyone again?” He rubbed his eyes. “If that happens, I... I won’t get up. Not this time. Too tired.”

“Don’t say such words, Philippi.” Eight hugged the pet, catching a feeling that someone was watching them. He caught a glimpse of something in the ruins, a pale light of twin green dots glaring at him. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Probably an Abnormal junkie. “Yes, today’s tidings look gloomy. But you can never know what happens tomorrow. It might be the same; it might be worse, but it also might be better! And you will never know unless you live to see that tomorrow. And the tomorrows after that. You have a right to feel lonely; life hasn’t been kind to you. But you are not alone. Not anymore.” He tapped the boy’s forehead. “You have this whole place to look for and people who care for you. Margo and the others need someone to lead them. Will you be that person? A hero like your late parents?”

“I will!” The boy raised his chin defiantly. “I’ll protect them with my life, sir, just you watch!”

“Good boy.” Eight petted him on the head. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise.”

“Then…” the boy’s eyes shone with hope.

“Yes. She’ll be fine, and maybe your auntie will set your little sis straight.” The Number ruffled the boy’s hair.

“She’s not my sister! Not anymore!”

“Don’t say such words, Philippi.” Eight turned away to admire the ruins of a nursery, visible through the wide swath of destruction left by a missile. How many infants had died when the first shell fell? His heart started beating faster at the imagined picture. “Both of you are still young. She made a mistake, but if you kick her away, she may never find a proper way in life. Show mercy. Meet cruelty with kindness, and try to remind her of who you are, all of you. Of what a family is.” He stood up with a croak. “Now, before I leave, I must confirm that you are fit to own the place. What are the lessons that I taught you?”

“Always wash your hands before eating! Failing that, try to shake off most of the dirt!” The boy stood up at attention. “Never forget to pay the tribute! Hide your feelings; always keep a nice face when speaking with the gangsters…” Philippi hesitated. “You ignored your own advice.”

“And where did that get me?” the Number asked. “Bravery and sticking true to your conviction are good, Philippi. But when, for example, when a man with a gun stands before you and demands that you swear eternal loyalty to his cause of killing all migrants or all locals, you shut up and swear. Words taken by force are meaningless; it is actions that matter. And if you perish for your convictions, whom can you preserve from horror?” Eight raised a finger. “The weak often lament that they cannot change anything. And it’s true, our abilities are small. Yet what we can do, we should do; otherwise, how else can a better world come about? I forgot that and almost paid for it with my life. If I’d died, I would have deprived you of your well-deserved reward and countless others of my skills.”

“Makes… makes sense,” Philippi said thoughtfully. The boy wasn’t stupid; he was just uneducated, and one can learn at any point in life. For life, at the end, isn’t a race. Too bad he’ll probably die soon and die horribly. Eight had grown accustomed to his pet. “Stay away from the sharp grass, no matter what the inoculation! Listen to the other medics and do as they say.”

“And learn.” Eight raised a finger.

“Learn from them! Read everything you can. Listen to Margo; don’t waste the supplies. Always hire a thug or two to accompany you on a supply run! Not a junkie; better to pay more than end up dead! Don’t do drugs! And don’t sell them if I can! Take care of my body; don’t leave any cuts, no matter how small, untreated!” Philippi reported with a smile.

“And what should you do if the weight of the world threatens to crush your shoulders?” Eight inquired, observing the street. Eight asked, watching the street. Some scavengers were rummaging through the ruins. These people were harmless; the Numbers even received a large crate of medicine from one such party in exchange for canned food, but one can never be too careful. He once witnessed the accidental discharge of a weapon by a scavenger, which caused a child’s brain to be blown out in the middle of the street.

“Make your bed or your sleeping place. Secure food and water. Do exercises. Try not to abuse the other weak ones. And take one step at a time, smiling and striving to be happy in spite of the world,” the pet repeated the mantra.

“That’s Phillipi I know!” The Number hugged the kid, fighting against a desire to snap his gentle neck. “The place is yours. Check on the girl; cheer her up if possible. I’ll go get your gift.”

Eight walked through the hall, his head low in shame. He avoided eye contact with the patients and almost ran to the stairs leading down to the basement. Once there, he spread his shoulders, breathed deeply, and walked down the stairs with a relaxed stride. All around him, the Numbers have been finishing their duties. Some were showing trembling aspirants how to sew wounds properly. Others moved crates of weapons. Ten instructed her replacement about the supplies, encouraging the man to show some pride and confidence in his abilities. Food receipts were exchanged, and the Numbers, with hatred in their hearts, tasted the last supper with the personnel. They wanted to kill humans here. Maybe we even should.

Eight reached his secluded office and opened the medical cabinet. His hand briefly stopped over the poison pills. These were of his own making, a near-perfect copy of the distributed antidote, but the one that resulted in an additional side effect. A rapid constriction of the heart. This poison cut off blood flow to the brain, not long enough to kill. Deaths would have attracted unwanted attention and fear. But the poison caused irreversible brain damage, leaving the patient little more than a nice, obedient plant. Eight had used its trice to dispose of the patients who had threatened the staff.

Unfortunate. He took the real cure and disposed of the poison by swallowing it. The pills slid down his throat and went down to the stomach, but at his command, his digestive system avoided dissolving the pills. He had other plans for them.

“You will honor the deal?” Ten asked with disbelief, stepping inside the room.

“I gave him my word,” Eight said. He counted the remaining medicaments. The stock was dwindling, and barring a miracle, the hospital would run out of medicine in a week once more. And who knows when the next party will arrive? Then again, it might not even matter in a few days.

“He is a human!” Ten insisted. The Number hid her uneasiness quite well. She had once worn the body of a stocky woman, her face scarred. Eight had personally chosen this host for her. It blended in with the situation rather well, and the lack of beauty served as a constant reminder of her failure. Following the strict order not to change her body, Ten turned to exercise, building muscle and shedding the excess fat.

“Ten, after all the time we have worked in this hole, you still fail to understand me.” Eight walked past the sleeping patients, checking them one by one. He did not need medical equipment to see inside their bodies; sensory information gave him everything. A man in his thirties had lost his hair after contracting radiation sickness. He had suffered organ failure, forcing Eight to induce a medical coma in order to preserve his life. Lucky bastard, it seems fate was on his side after all. Tomorrow, the city will be in an uproar, and he may be transferred to a proper hospital. The rest of the patients had straightforward cases: ruptured organs, broken bones, lost limbs… None will die. All too bad. “I do not keep my word because it is easy. I keep it because it is hard. Even if it is detrimental to my own survival, even if it means the failure of my mission, I will never break my word.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“But why, sir?” Ten asked. “They are pests.”

“And we are not. We are an enlightened, superior species, and so we must act the part. If nothing else, this rule teaches me to choose my words carefully and sharpens my mind.” He faced her. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, sir,” Ten said honestly. Rather than scowl, he saw a puzzled expression on her face. Eagerness to learn. Way better than pointless pride.

“Take young Philippi as an example. I had made a promise to take care of him if he would help me. I could ‘take care’ of him by ending his life and still be well within my promise.” Ten smiled, understanding his meaning. Eight nodded, pleased that the Double Digit had learned something for once. “But he did good, and it is no fun weaseling out of my word. So he will get this clinic and a road in life before he is inevitably culled by our Master. Or he’ll die sooner at the hand of our guest.”

“And the way you arranged all of this and ensured that the mission wouldn’t be threatened...” Ten paused. “I see. All will hail Philippi as a hero; we can return here to lie low thanks to the locals’ gratitude, and we have ample time to carry on our business even if the Oathtakers retake the place by tomorrow.”

“Exactly. And the broken word would give us momentary satisfaction and zilch else. Learn Ten. Learn not to be afraid to take inconvenient actions. If you only indulge in satisfying actions, you will hinder your growth. Work with the rejects, and you might find new venues for how to end them. Our work is a long one; let them bear the burden.” Eight came to a stone wall and tapped a combination on its seemingly solid surface.

A new chamber opened to his sight, one filled with the packed jamming equipment assembled nicely in the steel containers around the smooth walls. Several tunnels led out of the hidden chamber, and Twenty Eight once proved his competence by evacuating crates of weapons and stored Line Breakers before Eight’s arrival. These same tunnels were used to smuggle alcohol out of the hospital without paying the gangs.

Pleasant, cool air flowed from the chamber, preventing the disease that could have threatened the patients and the entire city. The Number took a step and felt the skin on his body tingle as he passed through a weak force field that kept the object and the thing inside from interacting with anything. He inhaled, sensing no trace of rust or rot in the air, and awakened his master just to be sure. The Creator looked through Eight’s eyes and said nothing.

In the center of this chamber, entangled by energy chords, stood a man-sized steel vat. It was made of a special armored alloy, tough enough to withstand a missile blast without a scratch. The vat hummed slightly, and when Eight opened the lid, he saw another container inside, made of translucent armored glass. The nutrient solution bubbled, streaks of energy and an advanced medical system kept his unusual patient alive. Growing. Festering.

A noise from the terminal drew Eight’s attention away from their “patient.”

“Still alive, I gather?” The Number answered the call, keeping an eye on the growing vat.

“Ah, good to hear from my favorite number!” Hustler’s voice said over the call. “I almost thought you had forgotten about me.”

“Perish the thought. Your information holds the key to our entire operation,” Eight assured the Oracle.

“Oh, that’s cold, my friend,” Hustler laughed. “No concern for my well-being? Not even…”

“If you can talk, that’s enough,” Eight cut him off. “What about the jamming system?”

“Worked like a charm; I confirmed it myself. Once we let the initial signal out and turned the system back on, the Iternians couldn’t communicate with each other,” Hustler reported.

“And the encryption?” He asked further. The key point of their plan! Other Single Digits had left the Oathtakers’ lands, but they had shared their trophies with him. Including the top-of-the-line encryption software of the Oathtakers, which he had provided to Hustler for the experiment.

It was all too easy. Eight spent not a small amount of time learning all he could about Lord Steward. It turned out that when you lived as a public figure for three hundred years, your habits were easy to spot. The man was vain, probably a princeling of some destroyed country.

Lord Steward adored dressing like a biker, but the way he carried himself at the official meetings, his perfectly fitting business suits, his elegant speech and keen observations, betrayed a streak of noble blood in him. And that nobility did not end with his education and heritage. Throughout his admittedly lazy career, Lord Steward had always stepped forward to help those in need. It was child’s play to devise a plan that would see him leave Stonehelm unattended.

Now to time up the Iternians’ arrival and the Northern Army attack… That required something that he didn’t have. On his own, it would be impossible; he’d need several spies, both in the ranks of Iterna and the Oathtakers, to inform him of their movements, and even then, he’d be hard-pressed to execute the plan despite Hustler’s aid. It was Two. The Single Digits applied her impressive precognition power, deducing the army’s movements with pristine accuracy. Too busy with her own schemes, Two had no time to spare at Iternians, but Eight always believed that he knew how to make the Shadows act.

Hive was even easier to deal with. One had clashed with the bitch in the past, and their minds connected. Eight would’ve never believed how outright idiotic and uneducated Hive is unless One hadn’t transmitted Hive’s memories directly into his head. How could she function, let alone fake her work as a champion? Regardless, her mind was that of a simpleton. Show her people in trouble, done. And Crawler was too preoccupied with military matters to notice a hand guiding him. He was probably the one who recommended that Stonehelm be left unguarded for a time being.

Lord Steward is separated from the Keepers’ wisdom and Dominator’s advice. The Shadows have unwittingly served their purpose and should be in Iterna by now. And Hive’s bodies couldn’t keep watch of Stonehelm’s surroundings. I love when a plan comes together!

“Broken in a blink of an eye,” Hustler continued his report. “In anticipation of your question, I destroyed the machine afterwards.”

“Then we are on schedule,” Eight said. “The Oathtakers will find out.”

“But not right now, friend. It will take them weeks, if not longer,” Hustler assured him. “You should’ve mentioned how much of a pain Iternians could be.”

“What, a bunch of tin cans was too much for the great Oracle? Pathetic.” Eight frowned.

“There weren’t any Shadows there, friend,” Hustler’s voice turned cold. “But rather a bunch of freaks.”

Freaks? No Shadows? What does it mean? For the first time in many years, Eight felt a tingle of uncertainty. It couldn’t be... he could read the Shadows like a book! An Iternian life was at stake; those cybernetic bastards should have been here! What if… What if there were no Iternians here but only the local mercenaries hired by the Shadows? Calm, Eight, calm. Learn more. Adapt. Hustler mentioned Iternians. Even he isn’t that daft to make a mistake here.

“What kind of freaks?” he asked, cursing Hustler for not telling him in the first message.

“There was a spider the size of a tank… I didn’t get to see the creature up close, but some of my fellow faithful had done a number on it. He or she is a Malformed.”

Malformed? Eight calmed down. Insect type Malformed were rare, and he could bet his life that he knew who this one was. A trainee under Torosian’s wing. What is Torosian doing here? The man was dangerous; he killed Eight twice over the past century, stopping his plans to explode the proton laboratory and bring down an orbital elevator. Could he be here because of… No need to overthink it. Torosian had left Intelligence; his trainees are most likely here on a field trip. Regardless of their reason for being here, it still played in Eight’s hand. The jamming system has proven its worth against Iternian communications.

“And one of them, a tailed whore with a snout of half-rat, had managed to wound me.”

“A tailed rat? Is that right?” Eight let out a chuckle. “My, what a curious thing fate is!”

“What are you babbling about?” Hustler demanded to know. “Why are you so giggly all of a sudden?”

“Because I might yet follow through on a promise I made years ago,” Eight murmured, tapping on the crate and nodding to a Number who emerged from the tunnel to pick up another crate. That girl was taken under Torosian’s wing! It surprised him; he had expected the Headmaster to teach the truly gifted students, not street trash.

Ever eager to jump to conclusions, Eight. The Creator chuckled, but refused to elaborate further. His will prompted Eight to continue.

“So, mind walking me through the plan again, Eight-boy?” the Oracle asked softly. “You have the stuff; why do we need the facility?”

“I say you the same words, Hustler,” Eight said. “We need an obscene amount of energy to make the concoction work. In its cold state, it is useless. Supercharged by the connection to the main energy grid of the Oathtakers? Now that will be another matter altogether.”

“And pray, tell me, why Praetorian had to die? Why had I sacrificed the lives of so many among the priesthood?”

“He didn’t have to die,” Eight sneered, annoyed at the questions. Hustler kept pestering him, making the Number retell the plan over and over again. It wasn’t a poor tactic to find a potential lie, but it was an extremely annoying thing, especially at the moment of their joint triumph. “For our plan to work, the Iternians needed to learn of the people inside the towers, relay this information to the Oathtakers, and some of their number had to survive. That is all. Any death of your soldiers is the coin you pay for our help, Oracle.”

“Are you lying to me, friend?” Hustler asked. “Because the way I see it, if you had the means to connect to the Oathtakers’ energy grid all along, why haven’t you blown it to kingdom come? Pardon my language, but your kind is nothing more than a bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics.”

“You are free to call off our alliance if you want. Hustler, I am giving you the exact information you need to know—no more, no less. We are not brothers, merely accomplices in this mission. Yet I promise you. Chosen Prince will walk again.” A black finger appeared from within the bubbling nutrient mess, scratching against the glass with a broken nail, and Eight felt dizziness.

Impossible! He and Maximilian said in unison, sharing their shock. Even with all the precautions, even with the force field to keep the infection inside, and even with being locked in a hermetic growing vat, that thing had messed with his immune system! Force fields flashed out, enveloping the inner container and the trembling flesh within the bubble substance with another hermetic layer, and the Number felt brief relief. Eight closed the vat’s lid, praying to the Creator that it would be enough to contain the filth. He is dead! Chosen Prince is dead! Or at least brain dead, for now. So how? How can he infect, even temporarily, the master’s masterpiece?

“He is there, isn’t he?” Hustler’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “I can hear him in your breath. Gone.”

“Hustler…” Eight stumbled away from the vat. His body worked hard, flushing the filth that sneaked into his lungs. “Concentrate. Will the second fusion reactor be connected to the energy grid in time?”

“No idea.” Hustler loudly shook his shoulders. “But they retrieved it in one piece.”

“And if my information is correct, an armored convoy hurries toward the capital at double speed. The reason for this could only be…” Eight’s grin grew wider. “It’s almost too easy, Hustler! Lord Steward, Iternians, the other rabble… Their actions are so easy to predict!”

“Make sure you don’t lump me with the so-called rabble. Otherwise, my feelings might get hurt,” Hustler asked.

“I wouldn’t dare,” the Number lied. “The location remains the same. Meet us there; we need your help to activate the Line Breakers.” He turned off the communication and left the room, nodding to Ten to close the door.

Victory! They won! A few technicalities remained, but the primary goal was as good as achieved. Nothing can stand in their way, not anymore. He opened the closet and took off the doctor’s clothes, increasing the amount of metal in his body and stretching his muscles. Eight grew half a head taller; wounds, cuts, and bruises all disappeared from his skin, and he picked up a set of black pants, elegant shoes, a white shirt, and a black jacket. After some pondering, he also put on a body armor and decided against taking weapons. No, the good doctor will find them in the field.

But why risk so much? Eight asked the Creator. Why bring him back to your world?

It is an interesting experiment, servant of mine. Master Maximilian replied with a rush of elation that quickened Eight’s heart. The Creator was also excited. His happiness enveloped Eight like the warm and pleasant rays of the morning sun, and his will flowed like a gentle breeze across a field. Chosen Prince is dead. What will take his place? And the result of this experiment may lead to further research into my own resurrection. But enough of the trifles. Which Number is the least important in the upcoming mission?

Three Hundred Four, my master. Eight answered, wondering what the reasoning for this question was. But his train of thought got thrown off when Twenty Eight stepped inside.

“It is time, sir?” He asked.

“Yes. Deliver the rest of the crates and start transporting the finger. Be careful; our guest seems to start waking up a bit.” Eight asked the Creator to explain the rest, and Twenty Eight’s face twitched. A glimmer of happiness flashed in his eyes. “Ten, assign a Number to carry the decryptor.”

“Yes, sir. In a way, I’ll miss this place,” Ten said, and Eight raised his brow.

“Sneaking around, making contacts, teaching these ignoramuses a thing or two about hygiene, clawing lives from death, building something, playing the role…” Twenty Eight examined the ceiling.

“Finding ways to deal with water and food shortages, jumping through the hoops to get the medicine off those bastards without murdering them all, fixing the electricity problems…” Ten added.

“It’s been fun, sir,” Twenty Eight said.

See you can be normal please stop let the dead sleep don’t rouse him don’t bring him back… The host begged.

“Fun it was,” Eight admitted. “And it has sharpened you into better tools, better blades for Master Maximilian to wield. Win or lose here, you’ve already gained something by maturing. And now our true mission begins. Ten, oversee the rest of the preparations.” He headed for the exit.

“Where will you go, sir?” Ten asked.

“Morning exercise,” Eight replied. He went upstairs, gave the shocked kid the medicine, and patiently explained how to administer it.