(Although this is primarily intended for Tiny Duchess, if anyone else is interested in the premise, do give me a PM)
It was a hot, muggy day in the Capitol. The sun was out, but perhaps not for long: there was a hint of clouds coming in from the west, and in the distance, thunder could be heard rumbling. A storm was coming, and XXXX hoped that he could outrun it.
His car was small, electric-powered but fast: one of a kind and excelling in its purpose, much like he. XXXX drove with the roof down, enjoying the mixed feel of the cool breeze from the car with the warmth from the sun for as long as he could. His hair was short and dirty blonde, the wind ruffling it but no more than his usual daily activities did. His cobalt-blue eyes scanned the road ahead of him unaided, swerving in and out of traffic with ease despite his habitual exceeding of the speed limit, while the jacket - black, matching the shirt and pants beneath it - rippled against his body in the headwind. XXXX was lean and muscular, but not obtrusively so; as a young man he had been a soldier, and with the past twenty years of his life spent in the service of the Agency, his physique had only hardened, refined itself, as he entered the border of middle age.
XXXX swerved in front of a flashy Aston-Martin, its corpulent driver blaring him with the horn and cursing at him. He had reached his exit: a turn into a nondescript underground garage. For those who bothered to look, a small sign noting 'Parking for Members Only' would dissuade most who thought of using it, while the security guards inside - dressed as the usual parking lot rent-a-cops, but former Marines now in the service to the Agency - would politely but firmly eject the remainder. XXXX's car had the proper radio identification transmitter installed in it, and as such, he felt no need to even slow down as the computer in the guard's hut automatically noted his clearance and opened the gate barring entry.
* * * * * * * * *
XXXX stormed down the long tunnel that led from the parking garage. The door leading to it was marked 'No Entry' but XXXX gave that as much consideration as the speed limit. At the end of the tunnel was a set of double doors. XXXX shoved them open, standing framed in the doorway for a moment, before entering into the office of the Agency Director.
The Director looked up, startled by the fact that XXXX had arrived to see him, although he had of course been notified when the operative had entered the Agency's clandestine headquarters in his typically flashy car and flashier manner. Still, it was not an unwelcome surprise. XXXX had some rather unorthodox views towards the nature of his work, but he was one of the Agency's top assets and his devotion to the cause and his unerring patriotism had never been in question. Therefore, it was indeed a great surprise when XXXX slammed down a sealed envelope onto the Director's desk, causing the tea cup there to jump and spill, and informed the Director that it was his resignation notice.
The Director half-rose from his seat, incredulous, asking XXXX what reason he had to do something like this, something that was so rash and impulsive even for someone of his own volatile temperament. The operative's response was only that he had to do what his conscience told him - something that was hardly new for him, but had never prevented him from performing his duties, and performing them admirably, in the past. When the Director pressed, the operative refused to elaborate, merely stating that he would be heading out on holiday, a very long holiday, and that he would not bother the Agency or the Government if they extended the same courtesy to him.
And then, like a thunderbolt, he was gone, leaving the Director alone in his office once more, still half-standing over a desk covered with lukewarm spilled tea. He slowly sat down. XXXX had been an operative of the Agency for over twenty years. He was one of their top agents who had handled their most important field work - but more vitally, was privy to the Agency's most closely-guarded home office files, as well. As was said, the Director had never had reason to doubt the patriotism of XXXX - but then again, had the supervisors of Kim Philby, Robert Hanssen, Alec Trevelyan doubted them before their defections? XXXX had given no indication he might sell his information or use it to the harm of the country...But Intelligence was a business in which no risk, however small, was taken. Especially not with an agent who had displayed such erratic and unpredicted behavior.
The Director picked up the telephone on his desk, calling Retrieval. XXXX would indeed be taking a vacation - albeit one rather different than what he had in mind, no doubt.
* * * * * * * * *
XXXX had made it through the crowded streets of the Capitol easily after leaving the garage of the Agency. It was rush hour when he left, and XXXX was certain that any possible shadows he might have had when leaving the Agency that he hadn't been able to lose with his significant skill at driving had been lost by the inexorable pressure exerted by the mob of middle-class office drones flooding into the suburbs to continue their corporate mass-conformity at home. The operative himself had gone to a small hotel room he had rented on the outskirt of the Capitol under an assumed name. The apartment he had called his home for the past few years he had already cleaned out. Most of his possessions he had dropped off on the curb to let the poor salvage what they could; the few possessions he had that were truly valuable to him he had before him: the car waiting on the curb, the clothes on his back, the suitcase with his documents in them...And a picture of his destination, a beach with a picturesque palm tree and blindingly-brilliant white sand. An ideal place for his 'holiday' away from the world and anyone who might want to find them.
He was still thinking that when the gas started spraying into the room through the keyhole of the door. He had time to look out at the cityscape of the Capitol as it grew fuzzy and started to spin, before he fell down onto the bed behind him. He was unconscious by the time he hit it, let alone by the time the man from the Agency's Retrieval unit picked the lock with ease and entered into the room of his former colleague.
* * * * * * * * *
"Ugh..." he groaned, smacking his lips. Thirsty. He was thirsty. Wait a minute...
His eyes opened, and he wished he had kept them closed immediately. The bright light of the room stabbed his eyes - but not as bad as he thought it would. His pain was that of eyes that had been closed for a while being exposed to sudden bright light, not the headache that was the hangover of any hundred types of knockout drugs. He closed his eyes again, counted to ten, and then opened them slowly. He sat up, equally carefully. Good, no dizziness or nausea. Just a thirst.
"Ugh," he said again, clearing his throat.
"Something to drink?" a female voice behind him asked.
He instantly turned around. Behind him was a pleasant-looking woman, a platinum blonde with wide blue eyes and dressed in an outfit that wouldn't look out of place on the domestic staff of a great house. Where her nametag might be was just a button with a red number on it: 47. She held a glass in her hand, with a reddish liquid in it.
"Something to drink?" she repeated. "Just a sport's drink. Water with some sugar and electrolytes. It helps your body recover from exertion faster, replacing the vitamins it's depleted. They told me it would help you feel back to normal soon."
XXXX looked at her, then looked around the room. It was a bedroom, in what looked like a posh apartment. Off to the side, there was a kitchenette. Standing up on his feet, wobbling slightly, he walked past the maid towards the kitchen, ignoring her outstretched hand with its drink. "Who?" he asked as he poured himself a glass of water from the sink, turning back to face her and looking around. In addition to the kitchenette and bedroom, there was also a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a closet. "Who told you it would help me feel better?" His eyes scanned over a clock on the wall, then paused and doubled back over it. It was a normal wall clock in every respect - except that it was going backwards.
Her polite smile faltered. "You're new. We have a saying here. 'Questions are a burden to others, answers a prison to oneself.'"
"And just where would 'here' be?"
Her smile returned. "Why, The Village, of course!"
"And just where is The Village?"
Her smile vanished just as quickly. "Remember, 'questions are-'"
"Right, right." He waved her off. "And how long have you been working the vacation homes in The Village?"
"As long as I can remember."
"And what did you do before then?" he asked, growing fast tired with her evasive non-answers. "What did you do to come to The Village? Why? Who? When?"
The maid slowly backed up. "A still tongue makes a happy life."
XXXX had a feeling she was quoting another passage from The Village's list of proverbs, and had had enough of it, but before he could respond by shaking the nonsense form her little blonde head, a pleasant, dull woman's voice seemed to wash over the entire apartment. Coming from every angle, it seemed to be projected by multiple speakers covering every strategic angle in every room in the apartment.
"Number Forty-Seven, please take your guest to meet Number Two."
The maid looked at XXXX uneasily. "Come on, then. Follow me. It's not a long walk." She eased out from where his advances had driven her back up against a wall, placed the drink she still held in her hand on the counter of the kitchenette, walked to the door of the apartment, and opened it. It seemed only then that she realized her ward had not moved, and she turned back to face him. "Come on, then. Number Two mustn't be kept waiting."
"I'll not go anywhere until you answer my questions. And no quoting your nonsense mindless repetitions again."
"You are cruel." The woman's eyes seemed to be misting over, obviously not having expected the newcomer whose apartment she had been assigned to be so difficult.
"Save the tears. You'll find I'm quite waterproof." The operated stayed still for a moment, then walked to join her. It was obvious that if he stayed alone in the room, his questions would get answered less quickly than if he had a chance to ask this Number 2 person. Whoever he was, he seemed like someone who was in a position of control, and hence, a position of knowledge.
However, when he reached the door, he had to pause again. His apartment would appear to be on a prime piece of real estate, overlooking what seemed to be a large Victorian-style resort community. Dozens of people were walking around, with shops, several sports fields, and a community center all within his sight. A sign outside his apartment proclaimed it to be "Number 6 (Private)", and similar-style cottages went down the dirt road in either direction. An elderly couple were walking by, and a man in an electric cart drove by in the opposite direction.
"Come on, then." The maid tugged on XXXX's sleeve, and they walked down the road a bit, past several more cottages until they reached one, seemingly the same as the rest, marked "Number 2 (Private)".
"Here we are, then," she said. "I'll wait outside. Be seeing you." At her farewell comment, she raised her hand, making an 'OK' gesture around her eye. XXXX stared at her, but just then the door opened. A short, gray-haired man, almost dwarfish or midget or whatever it was that he preferred to be called, stood inside, dressed as a valet. He bowed, gesturing for the operative to enter. He did so, the door to the outside closing behind him. The parlor was done in a similar layout to the one in the cottage he had awakened it...save that the opposite end opened not into a bedroom but into a massive, spherical chamber, filled with television monitors, banks of computer controls, and devices that the operative couldn't begin to guess at. By the controls were two men. One of them was thin, gaunt, and bald with an egg-shaped head; he resembled somewhat a living skeleton and looked a bit like Heinrich Himmler. The other had closely-trimmed dark hair and thick glasses. Both were dressed in white lab coats, bent over the banks of computers.
XXXX entered the room, urged on by the silent, polite gestures of the valet. As he walked in, from the center of the circular bank of computer consoles rose a black bubble-chair on a pedestal. Perched in the bubble was a woman. Trim, she appeared to be anywhere between five and twenty years older than he himself was. She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a black vest over it; her clothes were efficient and so tastefully mild they had to have cost a fortune. Around her neck was wound a long, thin academic scarf consisting of several black, white, and yellow stripes, and sitting on her lap she had an umbrella cane. She must have been quite beautiful when younger; at the moment, she was handsome, with the few streaks of grey in her hair just enough to add and not diminish her stately attraction.
XXXX walked up before her. "Where am I?" he demanded.
"You are in The Village," was her serene reply, her tone something like a cross between a Victorian schoolmarm and a librarian who would not stand for talking in the building.
"What do you want?" he angrily snapped back, already tired of any possible repeat of the answers he had gotten from the maid.
"Information." She cocked her head to one side. "Your resignation has caused quite a stir. You seem to have been involved in a rather classified program of extreme interest. Extreme interest both to us, and to those who, shall we say, perhaps see things differently than us and would put that information to a rather unfortunate use. We want to know what you know, why you resigned, and what your intentions might have been...Shall we say, just where you intended to take the holiday you mentioned to your Director. If it would have been in a part of the world where we might have frowned upon you talking to the natives. We just wish to debrief you, is all."
A suspicion began to dawn in his head. When the woman had begun to speak, he assumed that she was interrogating him on behalf of the Government for which the Agency was a part of. But now it occurred to him that the opposite might be true, that this whole facade might be intended to seem like it was his Government that was debriefing him of his information, when it would really be the Other Side, using this as a prime opportunity to plumb the mind of one of the Agency's top resources.
"Whose side are you on?" No harm in being blunt, not now.
"That would be telling." That was about as clear an answer as he had expected...although rather more cryptically phrased. "We want information. Information. In-for-ma-tion!" She drew out the syllables of the final repetition, her enunciation crystal-clear.
"Well, you won't get it!" he snapped back, tired of this banter that everyone in this Village seemed to delight in.
"Oh, we will." Her voice was as serious, as icily cold as it was possible to be. She peered directly into his gaze. "By hook, or by crook...we will."
If he had had any belief that these people were fooling around, that they were not serious about getting the information from him by any technique, however 'illegal' or 'immoral' to the outside world, they vanished at her words. But he refused to be intimidated, as no doubt was the intention; he had been through too many similar situations in his career than to fall for that. Intimidation was the first step in breaking. He already knew that he was going to beat them at their own game; it would only take time to find their weak point and exploit it.
"Who are you?"
"Number Two." She pointed at the tag on her vest. It was the same as the one the maid had worn - with the exception that instead of a red '47', it had a red '2' in the center. That, of course, solved the question of who Number 2 was, just as it set up an even more important question.
"Who is Number One?"
But Number 2 proceeded as if she had not even heard him. "You are the new Number Six." She pointed to him, this time with the tip of her umbrella-cane, and Number 6 suddenly noticed that, he too, had the same number tag on the lapel of his black jacket. He looked down. Of course it said 9 - 6 to his upside-down vantage point.
He redirected his gaze from his lapel back to Number 2, who had brought her umbrella back onto her expensive Italian designer lap. "Listen," he began. "I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered. My life is my own."
"For official purposes, everyone has a number," countered Number 2. "Yours is Number Six."
"I am not a number. I am a person."
Number 2's response was unexpected: it was a smirk, completely transforming the visage of the shrewish librarian into an impish student. "Well, six of one, half-dozen of the other, eh?" She chuckled at her joke, and Number 6 wondered if each new Number 6 had to receive that joke upon their first meeting with Number 2.
The other two men continued to work at the computer banks, for all appearances oblivious to what was going on about them. No doubt it was routine to them.
"I can see that you need some time to adjust. I'm sure we shall talk again. In the meantime, I'm sure you can see yourself out. Number Forty-Seven will show you to the Labor Exchange in the center of town, you can get yourself oriented there, get some credit units." She raised her hand to her face, linking her thumb and fore-finger to make the circle around her eye. "Be seeing you, Number Six."
He had been on the verge of walking out even before she had finished her sentence, but at hearing her parting comment, he spun around again to face Number 2, his face red with the first genuine anger since he had gotten here.
"I am not a number," he patiently explained to the woman, before exploding. "I am a free man!"
Number 2's response was merely a mocking laugh.
It was a hot, muggy day in the Capitol. The sun was out, but perhaps not for long: there was a hint of clouds coming in from the west, and in the distance, thunder could be heard rumbling. A storm was coming, and XXXX hoped that he could outrun it.
His car was small, electric-powered but fast: one of a kind and excelling in its purpose, much like he. XXXX drove with the roof down, enjoying the mixed feel of the cool breeze from the car with the warmth from the sun for as long as he could. His hair was short and dirty blonde, the wind ruffling it but no more than his usual daily activities did. His cobalt-blue eyes scanned the road ahead of him unaided, swerving in and out of traffic with ease despite his habitual exceeding of the speed limit, while the jacket - black, matching the shirt and pants beneath it - rippled against his body in the headwind. XXXX was lean and muscular, but not obtrusively so; as a young man he had been a soldier, and with the past twenty years of his life spent in the service of the Agency, his physique had only hardened, refined itself, as he entered the border of middle age.
XXXX swerved in front of a flashy Aston-Martin, its corpulent driver blaring him with the horn and cursing at him. He had reached his exit: a turn into a nondescript underground garage. For those who bothered to look, a small sign noting 'Parking for Members Only' would dissuade most who thought of using it, while the security guards inside - dressed as the usual parking lot rent-a-cops, but former Marines now in the service to the Agency - would politely but firmly eject the remainder. XXXX's car had the proper radio identification transmitter installed in it, and as such, he felt no need to even slow down as the computer in the guard's hut automatically noted his clearance and opened the gate barring entry.
* * * * * * * * *
XXXX stormed down the long tunnel that led from the parking garage. The door leading to it was marked 'No Entry' but XXXX gave that as much consideration as the speed limit. At the end of the tunnel was a set of double doors. XXXX shoved them open, standing framed in the doorway for a moment, before entering into the office of the Agency Director.
The Director looked up, startled by the fact that XXXX had arrived to see him, although he had of course been notified when the operative had entered the Agency's clandestine headquarters in his typically flashy car and flashier manner. Still, it was not an unwelcome surprise. XXXX had some rather unorthodox views towards the nature of his work, but he was one of the Agency's top assets and his devotion to the cause and his unerring patriotism had never been in question. Therefore, it was indeed a great surprise when XXXX slammed down a sealed envelope onto the Director's desk, causing the tea cup there to jump and spill, and informed the Director that it was his resignation notice.
The Director half-rose from his seat, incredulous, asking XXXX what reason he had to do something like this, something that was so rash and impulsive even for someone of his own volatile temperament. The operative's response was only that he had to do what his conscience told him - something that was hardly new for him, but had never prevented him from performing his duties, and performing them admirably, in the past. When the Director pressed, the operative refused to elaborate, merely stating that he would be heading out on holiday, a very long holiday, and that he would not bother the Agency or the Government if they extended the same courtesy to him.
And then, like a thunderbolt, he was gone, leaving the Director alone in his office once more, still half-standing over a desk covered with lukewarm spilled tea. He slowly sat down. XXXX had been an operative of the Agency for over twenty years. He was one of their top agents who had handled their most important field work - but more vitally, was privy to the Agency's most closely-guarded home office files, as well. As was said, the Director had never had reason to doubt the patriotism of XXXX - but then again, had the supervisors of Kim Philby, Robert Hanssen, Alec Trevelyan doubted them before their defections? XXXX had given no indication he might sell his information or use it to the harm of the country...But Intelligence was a business in which no risk, however small, was taken. Especially not with an agent who had displayed such erratic and unpredicted behavior.
The Director picked up the telephone on his desk, calling Retrieval. XXXX would indeed be taking a vacation - albeit one rather different than what he had in mind, no doubt.
* * * * * * * * *
XXXX had made it through the crowded streets of the Capitol easily after leaving the garage of the Agency. It was rush hour when he left, and XXXX was certain that any possible shadows he might have had when leaving the Agency that he hadn't been able to lose with his significant skill at driving had been lost by the inexorable pressure exerted by the mob of middle-class office drones flooding into the suburbs to continue their corporate mass-conformity at home. The operative himself had gone to a small hotel room he had rented on the outskirt of the Capitol under an assumed name. The apartment he had called his home for the past few years he had already cleaned out. Most of his possessions he had dropped off on the curb to let the poor salvage what they could; the few possessions he had that were truly valuable to him he had before him: the car waiting on the curb, the clothes on his back, the suitcase with his documents in them...And a picture of his destination, a beach with a picturesque palm tree and blindingly-brilliant white sand. An ideal place for his 'holiday' away from the world and anyone who might want to find them.
He was still thinking that when the gas started spraying into the room through the keyhole of the door. He had time to look out at the cityscape of the Capitol as it grew fuzzy and started to spin, before he fell down onto the bed behind him. He was unconscious by the time he hit it, let alone by the time the man from the Agency's Retrieval unit picked the lock with ease and entered into the room of his former colleague.
* * * * * * * * *
"Ugh..." he groaned, smacking his lips. Thirsty. He was thirsty. Wait a minute...
His eyes opened, and he wished he had kept them closed immediately. The bright light of the room stabbed his eyes - but not as bad as he thought it would. His pain was that of eyes that had been closed for a while being exposed to sudden bright light, not the headache that was the hangover of any hundred types of knockout drugs. He closed his eyes again, counted to ten, and then opened them slowly. He sat up, equally carefully. Good, no dizziness or nausea. Just a thirst.
"Ugh," he said again, clearing his throat.
"Something to drink?" a female voice behind him asked.
He instantly turned around. Behind him was a pleasant-looking woman, a platinum blonde with wide blue eyes and dressed in an outfit that wouldn't look out of place on the domestic staff of a great house. Where her nametag might be was just a button with a red number on it: 47. She held a glass in her hand, with a reddish liquid in it.
"Something to drink?" she repeated. "Just a sport's drink. Water with some sugar and electrolytes. It helps your body recover from exertion faster, replacing the vitamins it's depleted. They told me it would help you feel back to normal soon."
XXXX looked at her, then looked around the room. It was a bedroom, in what looked like a posh apartment. Off to the side, there was a kitchenette. Standing up on his feet, wobbling slightly, he walked past the maid towards the kitchen, ignoring her outstretched hand with its drink. "Who?" he asked as he poured himself a glass of water from the sink, turning back to face her and looking around. In addition to the kitchenette and bedroom, there was also a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a closet. "Who told you it would help me feel better?" His eyes scanned over a clock on the wall, then paused and doubled back over it. It was a normal wall clock in every respect - except that it was going backwards.
Her polite smile faltered. "You're new. We have a saying here. 'Questions are a burden to others, answers a prison to oneself.'"
"And just where would 'here' be?"
Her smile returned. "Why, The Village, of course!"
"And just where is The Village?"
Her smile vanished just as quickly. "Remember, 'questions are-'"
"Right, right." He waved her off. "And how long have you been working the vacation homes in The Village?"
"As long as I can remember."
"And what did you do before then?" he asked, growing fast tired with her evasive non-answers. "What did you do to come to The Village? Why? Who? When?"
The maid slowly backed up. "A still tongue makes a happy life."
XXXX had a feeling she was quoting another passage from The Village's list of proverbs, and had had enough of it, but before he could respond by shaking the nonsense form her little blonde head, a pleasant, dull woman's voice seemed to wash over the entire apartment. Coming from every angle, it seemed to be projected by multiple speakers covering every strategic angle in every room in the apartment.
"Number Forty-Seven, please take your guest to meet Number Two."
The maid looked at XXXX uneasily. "Come on, then. Follow me. It's not a long walk." She eased out from where his advances had driven her back up against a wall, placed the drink she still held in her hand on the counter of the kitchenette, walked to the door of the apartment, and opened it. It seemed only then that she realized her ward had not moved, and she turned back to face him. "Come on, then. Number Two mustn't be kept waiting."
"I'll not go anywhere until you answer my questions. And no quoting your nonsense mindless repetitions again."
"You are cruel." The woman's eyes seemed to be misting over, obviously not having expected the newcomer whose apartment she had been assigned to be so difficult.
"Save the tears. You'll find I'm quite waterproof." The operated stayed still for a moment, then walked to join her. It was obvious that if he stayed alone in the room, his questions would get answered less quickly than if he had a chance to ask this Number 2 person. Whoever he was, he seemed like someone who was in a position of control, and hence, a position of knowledge.
However, when he reached the door, he had to pause again. His apartment would appear to be on a prime piece of real estate, overlooking what seemed to be a large Victorian-style resort community. Dozens of people were walking around, with shops, several sports fields, and a community center all within his sight. A sign outside his apartment proclaimed it to be "Number 6 (Private)", and similar-style cottages went down the dirt road in either direction. An elderly couple were walking by, and a man in an electric cart drove by in the opposite direction.
"Come on, then." The maid tugged on XXXX's sleeve, and they walked down the road a bit, past several more cottages until they reached one, seemingly the same as the rest, marked "Number 2 (Private)".
"Here we are, then," she said. "I'll wait outside. Be seeing you." At her farewell comment, she raised her hand, making an 'OK' gesture around her eye. XXXX stared at her, but just then the door opened. A short, gray-haired man, almost dwarfish or midget or whatever it was that he preferred to be called, stood inside, dressed as a valet. He bowed, gesturing for the operative to enter. He did so, the door to the outside closing behind him. The parlor was done in a similar layout to the one in the cottage he had awakened it...save that the opposite end opened not into a bedroom but into a massive, spherical chamber, filled with television monitors, banks of computer controls, and devices that the operative couldn't begin to guess at. By the controls were two men. One of them was thin, gaunt, and bald with an egg-shaped head; he resembled somewhat a living skeleton and looked a bit like Heinrich Himmler. The other had closely-trimmed dark hair and thick glasses. Both were dressed in white lab coats, bent over the banks of computers.
XXXX entered the room, urged on by the silent, polite gestures of the valet. As he walked in, from the center of the circular bank of computer consoles rose a black bubble-chair on a pedestal. Perched in the bubble was a woman. Trim, she appeared to be anywhere between five and twenty years older than he himself was. She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a black vest over it; her clothes were efficient and so tastefully mild they had to have cost a fortune. Around her neck was wound a long, thin academic scarf consisting of several black, white, and yellow stripes, and sitting on her lap she had an umbrella cane. She must have been quite beautiful when younger; at the moment, she was handsome, with the few streaks of grey in her hair just enough to add and not diminish her stately attraction.
XXXX walked up before her. "Where am I?" he demanded.
"You are in The Village," was her serene reply, her tone something like a cross between a Victorian schoolmarm and a librarian who would not stand for talking in the building.
"What do you want?" he angrily snapped back, already tired of any possible repeat of the answers he had gotten from the maid.
"Information." She cocked her head to one side. "Your resignation has caused quite a stir. You seem to have been involved in a rather classified program of extreme interest. Extreme interest both to us, and to those who, shall we say, perhaps see things differently than us and would put that information to a rather unfortunate use. We want to know what you know, why you resigned, and what your intentions might have been...Shall we say, just where you intended to take the holiday you mentioned to your Director. If it would have been in a part of the world where we might have frowned upon you talking to the natives. We just wish to debrief you, is all."
A suspicion began to dawn in his head. When the woman had begun to speak, he assumed that she was interrogating him on behalf of the Government for which the Agency was a part of. But now it occurred to him that the opposite might be true, that this whole facade might be intended to seem like it was his Government that was debriefing him of his information, when it would really be the Other Side, using this as a prime opportunity to plumb the mind of one of the Agency's top resources.
"Whose side are you on?" No harm in being blunt, not now.
"That would be telling." That was about as clear an answer as he had expected...although rather more cryptically phrased. "We want information. Information. In-for-ma-tion!" She drew out the syllables of the final repetition, her enunciation crystal-clear.
"Well, you won't get it!" he snapped back, tired of this banter that everyone in this Village seemed to delight in.
"Oh, we will." Her voice was as serious, as icily cold as it was possible to be. She peered directly into his gaze. "By hook, or by crook...we will."
If he had had any belief that these people were fooling around, that they were not serious about getting the information from him by any technique, however 'illegal' or 'immoral' to the outside world, they vanished at her words. But he refused to be intimidated, as no doubt was the intention; he had been through too many similar situations in his career than to fall for that. Intimidation was the first step in breaking. He already knew that he was going to beat them at their own game; it would only take time to find their weak point and exploit it.
"Who are you?"
"Number Two." She pointed at the tag on her vest. It was the same as the one the maid had worn - with the exception that instead of a red '47', it had a red '2' in the center. That, of course, solved the question of who Number 2 was, just as it set up an even more important question.
"Who is Number One?"
But Number 2 proceeded as if she had not even heard him. "You are the new Number Six." She pointed to him, this time with the tip of her umbrella-cane, and Number 6 suddenly noticed that, he too, had the same number tag on the lapel of his black jacket. He looked down. Of course it said 9 - 6 to his upside-down vantage point.
He redirected his gaze from his lapel back to Number 2, who had brought her umbrella back onto her expensive Italian designer lap. "Listen," he began. "I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered. My life is my own."
"For official purposes, everyone has a number," countered Number 2. "Yours is Number Six."
"I am not a number. I am a person."
Number 2's response was unexpected: it was a smirk, completely transforming the visage of the shrewish librarian into an impish student. "Well, six of one, half-dozen of the other, eh?" She chuckled at her joke, and Number 6 wondered if each new Number 6 had to receive that joke upon their first meeting with Number 2.
The other two men continued to work at the computer banks, for all appearances oblivious to what was going on about them. No doubt it was routine to them.
"I can see that you need some time to adjust. I'm sure we shall talk again. In the meantime, I'm sure you can see yourself out. Number Forty-Seven will show you to the Labor Exchange in the center of town, you can get yourself oriented there, get some credit units." She raised her hand to her face, linking her thumb and fore-finger to make the circle around her eye. "Be seeing you, Number Six."
He had been on the verge of walking out even before she had finished her sentence, but at hearing her parting comment, he spun around again to face Number 2, his face red with the first genuine anger since he had gotten here.
"I am not a number," he patiently explained to the woman, before exploding. "I am a free man!"
Number 2's response was merely a mocking laugh.
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