"I don't tattoo children." Pogo said bluntly, puffing a large cloud of smoke from his burning cigarette. Number Eight was slightly taken aback by his appearance. The Pogo that she had known since her birth had always worn a three piece suit, every single day without fail. His fur was always meticulously pruned and a neat pair of glasses sat upon the bridge of his snout. This Pogo was ragged and tough-looking, with patches of shaved fur that revealed tattoos on his skin. His left ear was pierced with a hoop earring and a thick, silver chain hung around the ape's neck.
"Swell." Number Five grimaced. "We're not here for the ink. We're here because we have a mutual friend. Sir Reginald Hargreeves."
Pogo's face quickly dropped at Number Five's statement, resulting in a heavy sigh as he turned away from the teenagers. "Whatever he wants, I'm not interested."
"I don't think you understand. We're his children. Well, adoptive children. And we're only two out of eight." Number Eight frowned at Pogo's dismissal. "From another timeline."
Pogo's interest had been piqued, causing him to turn his attention back to Number Five and Number Eight. "Another timeline?" He swiftly shook his head and chuckled in disbelief.
"As crazy as it sounds, you and I have met before. Back in 1963, when you were a diaper-wearing chimp in dire need of a manicure. I don't know if you remember, but I have a scar to prove it." Number Five pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing a purplish scar across the side of his neck.
"If what you're saying is true, I'd be talking to a pair well into their sixties." Pogo scoffed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had a very long day."
"Pogo, you have to listen to us." Number Eight tried to get closer to Pogo, however, a swarm of large men began to circle her and Number Five.
They grunted in unison. "Time to go home to Mommy, princess. Take the li'l guy with you."
"Call me princess one more time and I will shove my fist so far down your throat, you'll feel it in your ass. Now, piss off." Number Eight took hold of Number Five's hand before the pair blinked out of the room.
They landed just outside of the bar, back to where they had once started. They simultaneously noticed Pogo speeding away on a motorcycle, the revving sound of his engine echoing through the air.
"Oh, shit." Number Eight cursed as she heard the engine sound grow more and more distant.
"Hey, I need your bike. It's an emergency." Number Five approached one of the bikers outside of the bar, who was looking at the pair with disgust.
"Think you have me confused with someone who gives a shit." He snarled simply.
Number Eight rolled her eyes, approaching the biker with a confident stride. "Oh, trust me, you will give a shit." She wrapped her dainty hand around the biker's wrist, causing her signature golden glow to emanate from his skin. She chuckled to herself as she turned to Number Five. "Hey! Turns out his worst fear is clowns! Turns out bikers aren't as tough as they act."
The biker grew stiff and motionless whilst he hallucinated his worst fear, allowing Number Five and Number Eight to steal his bike from underneath him. Pushing the frozen body to the ground, the pair hopped onto the motorcycle and sped off into the city.
Number Five revved the engine to gain as much speed as possible. Meanwhile, Number Eight grasped his waist tightly, hiding her face in the cloth of his suit jacket.
"Five! Please don't kill me!" She yelled over the noise of the engine, scrunching her eyes tightly as her hair billowed behind her shoulders. "Oh, good God..."
***
Number Five and Number Eight ended up outside of a small caravan that was hidden deep in the centre of a tall forest, completely secluded from society. An unknown woman sat on a deck chair outside of the caravan, reading a book whilst repetitively taking a drag from a long cigarette that was perched between her lips. She wore a low-cut, leopard print vest that revealed the hem of her neon pink bra. The exposed skin of her arms and lower legs were coated in tattoos, implying that Pogo was definitely nearby.
"Can I help you?" The woman asked, unamused.
"We need a word with Pogo." Number Eight grinned, trying to flatten her windswept hair as she stepped off of the oversized motorbike. Her legs were slightly trembling from the journey, however she brushed the sensation off swiftly.
The woman shook her head confidently, placing her book on her lap. "Ain't no Pogo here, pumpkin. So I suggest you two get your asses off my property before I call a truant officer."
Number Five stared the woman down, his ego not weakened by her threats.
"It's okay, Tammy. Let the children in." A familiar voice said from inside the caravan.
Number Five and Number Eight both grinned sarcastically at Tammy, before pushing past her and entering the caravan. They found Pogo sat at a a small table, swirling a glass of alcohol in his hand. He gestured for the pair to sit opposite him, to which they obeyed, however, Pogo had a pistol cocked in their direction underneath the table.
"You're either dumb or desperate. Which is it?" Pogo asked simply, looking at Number Five and Number Eight down the bridge of his snout. He poured two glasses of Tanqueray gin and slid them towards the teenagers.
"You tell us." Number Five retorted, taking out the tattooed skin from his pocket and placing it on the table top before Pogo.
Number Eight simply averted her eyes away from the hunk of flesh, feeling the familiar swirling sensation brewing in her stomach.
Pogo lifted the skin, examining it closely. "Hm, that looks like my work, but I never did that tattoo."
"Not yet, you haven't. I cut it off my 100-year-old self. Much to her dismay." Number Five pointed his thumb towards Number Eight, who refused to draw her eyes to the skin.
"Ah, so desperate it is." Pogo raised his glass before taking a sip of the burning liquid.
Number Eight scoffed. "You would be too if you knew the entire universe were at stake. You know, I preferred nanny Pogo." She folded her arms over her chest like a child that was mid-tantrum.
Pogo inhaled sharply. "So it's happened." He releases his grip on the pistol, un-cocking it, before placing it on top of the table. "Hmm. Ah, here it is." He placed a book in front of Number Five and Number Eight after routing through a shelf beside him. "Look familiar?"
Number Five examined the book closely, finding it full of drawings of strange symbols and markings.
"Reggie was obsessed with these symbols. It's a sigil. A symbol thought to have magical powers." Pogo explained, however, Number Eight had a hard time believing what he was saying.
"Reginald believed in science, facts. I didn't respect much about the old man, but I respected that at least. Hoo-ha was not his thing. It's got to have a rational meaning." Number Eight scoffed, eyeing up the symbols that were in the book in front of her.
"I don't know, but he referred to it as Project Oblivion." Pogo continued to sip his alcohol.
Number Five's mind filled with thoughts of his older self at the Commission, remembering the words he had told himself. "Old me mentioned Oblivion at the Commission." He mumbled to himself, before lifting his eyes to meet Pogo's. "This project. I need to know more."
"It was a kamikaze mission. He was preparing the Sparrow children with the expectation they might never return. That's why I gave the children those pills, to keep them safe from him." Pogo's voice had softened, and his demeanour was nowhere near as threatening as when they had first met him in this timeline. He was beginning to resemble his 2019 self that Number Five and Number Eight knew and loved.
"Well, our druggie brother just got him sober. Go figure." Number Eight said quietly, her mind overwhelmed and preoccupied by the news she was hearing.
Pogo sighed lightly. "Then Project Oblivion is starting again, and you are all in danger."
Number Five downed his glass of alcohol quickly and without hesitation before slamming the empty glass down on the table. "Then I should probably get that ink, complete the loop."
"Are you sure?" Pogo asked.
"Oh, I don't think destiny cares whether I am or not." Number Five removed his suit jacket, revealing his waistcoat that sculpted his frame perfectly.
"Well then, let's get started." Pogo grabbed a spare tattoo gun from one of the caravan's cupboards whilst Number Five loosened his tie and began to unbutton his shirt.
Number Eight sat herself closely beside Number Five, trying her best not to stare at his exposed chest. "Make sure you save time for me too, Pogo. The umbrella on my wrist doesn't quite cut it."