The Smoking Man stopped short as he entered the room, catching the Drinking Man's expression. It was flat, his eyes fixed on the newcomer's face. They flicked to the left, towards the massive windows of the conference room. The Smoking Man turned cautiously.

A third man was in the room. The individual stood with his back to them, perusing the urban skyline below as the sun burned out in the distant west. Even with the embers of the sun's light making the shape little more than a shadowy figure, the Smoking Man grimaced. Under the short-brimmed, neat fedora, he could see the chalky, white skin. It was flat, like a fine powder. He turned back towards the Drinking Man, and gave him a mean look. His friend shrugged, unhappy but unable to comment on the situation. The Smoking Man squinted in irritation, and turned back to the interloper.

"Mr. Numbers," he said loudly. The figure turned. His hairless white face was sharp and empty. A pair of round, black glasses hid his eyes, and his suit was immaculate, pressed, and black. With a stilted suddenness that made the Smoking Man flinch, the colorless lips of Mr. Numbers peeled back into something that looked like a smile. Barely.

"Ah! Your colleague said he would be here, yes. Yes, he said so, and you are, my friend, you are, an expected and welcome pleasure, yes." The words were not rushed, each meticulous and concise, but they seemed to flow out in a single breath. They were not a sentence, simply all the individual syllables of some pseudo-word.

"Indeed. I did not receive notice of your arrival, or I would have—"

"There was no notice, no notice given, it was…unnecessary, this is not a formal call, not a formal meeting at all, no records." Slowly, Mr. Numbers began walking across the polished floor, and removed his hat with a gloved hand. His bald head was as hairless and void of anything as the rest of his face. No glisten, though. That always made the Smoking Man uneasy, for some reason. Any normal, bald-headed man had a glisten on their skull. That's what normal skin did up there. Mr. Number's did not have that. It was like velvet, or powder. Clearly skin, but consuming of light, dull and tepid in it's appearance. It had the sense of ash, or rot.

"Oh?" the Smoking Man asked, inviting the explanation. Mr. Numbers chuckled, or…giggled. Tittered? It was a stuttering escape of sounds through his grinning teeth, but they didn't really…sound like anything. They were just a noise, a noise he may have observed at one point and decided fit this particular moment.

"Yes, yes, you see, I am here as an observer, simply to check, yes, to check, see how things are, on the front lines, as it were."

"That data is a matter of public record, as it were. We have forwarded everything up the line."

"Data integrity has always been a point of pride with us," the Drinking Man added. "We were among those that advocated it."

"And we were grateful for that honesty then, as we are now, so grateful, your integrity is truly a sign of trust in an organization that demands it, and we do not forget such things, we do not, or rather, they do not," Mr. Numbers said, slowly fanning himself with his hat. It seemed to simply be an effect, because he was waving the hat far too slowly to actually create a breeze.

"And yet, here you are," the Smoking Man said.

"And here I am." The silence that followed was jarring. In the few times he had encountered him, Mr. Numbers always used eight words where one would do. The short, flat sentence was as baffling and as disturbing as a severed head lying on the floor would have been.

"…How can we help you?" the Drinking Man asked, smiling tightly.

"Records, my friend, records, and data, that is the order of the day, so I will require firsthand access to your database, hard-copies, libraries, the whole, as they say, 'kit and caboodle,' at the earliest convenience."

"We could open that now, or tomorrow, if you—"

"Now is quite acceptable, for my schedule is open," Mr. Numbers said, plopping the hat on his head. "I am certain I know the way to the Archives here, so if it is quite alright, I will excuse myself to my business, but do not feel pressured to stay, for I am certain you have other plans tonight, I am certain of that, for family men always do, they do, indeed." The Smoking Men felt a vein throb in his jaw as Mr. Numbers walked towards the conference room door. "And as I have observed with family men, I am certain it will not be difficult to find you if I have need of you again, so enjoy your evening, yes, and thank you."

The door closed behind him, and the Smoking Men wheeled towards the Drinking Man.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joe McCarthy," he hissed.

"I'm making a Tom Collins. Do you want one?" the Drinking Man murmured, heading towards the wet-bar.

"What the hell is he doing out and about? What are they thinking letting him off the reservation?"

"Him?" The Drinking Man stopped at the bar, and gave the Smoking Man a withering look. "Don't you mean 'them'?"

"God damn it," he mumbled. "Could it actually be all thirteen?"

"Thirteen that we know of. There might be more, at this point."

"Don't even joke about that," the Smoking Man mumbled, walking towards the window. The light of the great urban landscape below had winked on, a patchwork of neon, street lights, and headlights. The busy bees of humanity. He felt a nudge, and turned. The Drinking Man offered a glass, and the Smoking Man accepted it. He took a sip, and shook his head.

"The raw data at the top must not be looking good," he grumbled.

"No, I imagine not."

"Do you think we're losing?"

"No. But we aren't winning. That might as well be about the same thing, right? We kill their operatives and scientists all damned day long, they return the favor. This war is at a stalemate."

"…Is it?" The Drinking Man blinked, his glass paused at his lips.

"…what, is it?" he asked, waiting for the Smoking Man to complete his thought.

"Oslo. Johannesburg. Mexico City." He shook his head.

"What about them?"

"They want to expand the program." The Drinking Man glazed over, and then inhaled sharply.

"That's a terrible idea."

"Those are successes. And our successes. There's not a damned reason for Numbers or any of those other bloodsuckers to come dragging their claws through the muck. They want the raw data from the ops."

"You can't be serious. Hell, you can't be sure."

"It's the only thing that makes sense. It would be nuts to start purging the Group when Seele is doing such an effective job right now." The Drinking Man seemed to be at a loss for words. He stammered, and turned bodily towards his friend.

"We can't expand this! The assets were released in very, very specific circumstances, with specific targets. Everything had to line up precisely, and even then, there was collateral. They can't possibly mean to…I mean…oh, come on!"

"They sent their head ghoul down to pay us a visit. Do you think they give a damn about that now?" The Smoking Man shook his head. "Kill or be killed. Head in a bag. That's the message."

"…God damn." The Drinking Man shook his head. "I mean…god damn."

"God damn, indeed," the Smoking Man murmured, finishing his drink. The lights continued to gleam outside the window, heedless of anything else.