Chapter 1 – Part of my Soul

Silence. Deathly Silence. And darkness. Despite my untouchable attitude, I'm scared.

This has happened before, that I'm sure of. I scour through my mind. When has something like this ever happened to me before? I'm encased in some sort of black. . . stone! With a jolt I remember. I'm stuck to the ceiling in the Mogadorian lair, trapped by Setrákus Ra. I start thrashing and kicking and doing everything I can to get out of the casing. I flex my muscles but I'm completely stuck, like my body has been replaced with a corpse. Unresponsive. Impassive. I can't even see. I don't even know if I'm breathing. Panic courses through my veins like a poison. My tough exterior is betrayed by the terror that is making my body jitter.

Suddenly, like a blanket is lifted, the casing around my eyes disappears. I deftly drink in my surroundings. I quickly notice that there is no black stone surrounding my nose. A single door is guarded by a lone Mogadorian with his back turned to me. I start battering against the casing, but to no avail. As if sensing my losing battle against my black prison, the Mogadorian slowly turns upwards to wear I am encased horizontally. He isn't even carrying a weapon. If I ever get out of this casing, escaping will be a piece of cake, I think smugly to myself. Thanks for making this so much easier, Setrákus Ra.

The Mogadorian soldier leaves his position by the door and slowly stalks to right underneath me. He just stares at me. I stare right back. The lovely exchange lasts for what seems like forever. Then, the soldier slowly starts changing form. His body starts to shake so fast that everything is a blur. He's growing taller, I realize with a start. Whatever is happening, it can't be good. His already ugly face morphs into something uglier - eviler if it were possible. Suddenly, I'm staring at the hideous face of Setrákus Ra. But instead of growing to his height of seven feet, he keeps rising. And rising. And rising. I can only watch in horror as he grows to 20 feet, then 40 feet and then his demonically black eyes are staring into mine. I've only felt helpless once in my life. It was an experience I never, ever, want to relive. Staring at a 40 foot version of Setrákus Ra must make the list as well, apparently.

"Number Six," he says. His face contorts into a wicked smirk, like he's cornered me. Which, I guess, he has. I can't stop the quivering of my muscles. Normally, at the faces of Mogadorians, I would relish in the multiple ways I could kill them. I would be calm and collected. But staring into the eyes of Setrákus Ra, all of the attributes that define my killing style are stripped. I feel weak. And I hate him for it.

"Number Six," he says again. A cold shiver runs down my spine. I hate his voice. I hate everything about him. I glare straight into his soulless eyes, trying to cover the fact that I am seriously scared. His eyes are about the size of my head. If that isn't disconcerting, I have no idea what is.

"Katarina would be disappointed," he continues, tauntingly. The name of my Cepan strikes me cold. I stop glaring for a split second. How dare he talk about her! I start thrashing with renewed vigour, wanted to show exactly what Katarina would be proud of – like punching my fist right into his skull!

But before I can even start to muffle out threats and oaths of death, Setrákus Ra's face quickly blurs at swirls. The black prison around me finally releases me, but I fall into the whirling oblivion before I can truly escape. The sensation of weightlessness steals the breath out of my lungs. My dyed blond hair whips behind me as I plummet. Before I can even start to scream I crash onto a dirty, tiled floor.

I ache. Everywhere. My hair surrounds me like it is closing me out of the world. I'm thankful for the short reprieve of my own helplessness. I start to feel like Six again. The real Six. The badass, macho Six. But before I can start stretching my muscles and brushing off the dust, I hear whimpering behind me. I whirl around, quickly slipping into my defensive mode with my fists raised. I study my surroundings in less than a second. A pretty raven haired girl is tired to a chair, tears streaking her face. Two Mogadorian soldiers stand on opposite sides beside her with their canons trained on her slight frame. But it isn't the guns that are causing the girl to whimper. It is the woman opposite her, also tied in a chair. The woman has a Mogadorian soldier holding her head up harshly by her hair with a dagger poised at the woman's throat.

I never wanted to relive this. The unnervingly familiar feeling of helplessness welcomes me into its folds again. The raven haired girl is me and the woman opposite is Katarina. I was thirteen. I was weak. A deathly fury overflows from me watching the Mog hurt Katarina. Without thinking, I rush at the Mog holding Katarina with only my rage to rely on. Just as I'm about to grab the dagger and plunge it into its owner, my hands pass through it like a ghost. Still enveloped in my battle rage frenzy, I start waving my hands through him like a maniac. No. No, no, no! I can't watch this! Desperate to stop the Mogadorian I start to tackle him. I run straight through him but instead of stopping I charge again. My brain isn't working properly, but I don't care. I have to stop him. I have to!

"What number are you?!" shrieks the dagger wielding Mog. The only response is a frantic sniffle from young me. Young me starts waving her head back and forward causing her ebony hair to fly. She does not even trust her own voice. It's killing me watching this. Because I know what happens. I know too well because the moment has plagued my dreams for years.

The answer doesn't get a positive response out of the questioning Mog and he slowly, achingly drags the dagger a couple of centimetres across Katarina's throat. A gasp escapes Katarina. Now I'm on the floor, rocking back and forth hugging my knees using my hair as a shield. I'm not crying but sobs rock through my body like an earthquake. I can't cry. I squint my eyes closed to stop any treacherous tears from dropping.

"What number are you?!" screams the Mog again. I know why they are asking. To know when they can kill me. To see another one of my race fall. Because that's what all Mogadorians care about. Blood and death. And let's not forget about destruction. I crawl into the grubby corner of the torture room. I can nearly outlast any physical turmoil. Me against an army? No problem. But me living through one of parts of my life that stole part of my soul? No way.

The Mog gets the same response. He cuts across her throat a little more. It isn't deep. They can't kill her until they get what they want. One of the Mogs with the canons strikes young me cruelling across the head with the gun. More whimpering. God, I sound pathetic. I guess I am. This is the first time I had no chance of running. No second chances. The only thing that was keeping me alive was the charm. But that didn't go for Katarina. And that was the weakness all of the Garde had in common. We cared about our Cepans and would do nearly anything for them. To see the person you cared most about tortured in front of you – that breaks a person's soul. And I was now losing part of mine right now.

I had tried to bury this memory into the depths of my mind. But no matter how hard I tried, it would haunt me. Maybe forever.

"Tell me your number or she dies!" As if to encourage a response he stabs the dagger into Katarina's leg and drags it through the muscles. A piercing scream erupts from young me. The muscles of Katarina's leg are shuddering. Katarina has fresh tears rolling down her face and dribbling from her chin. But still she stays conscious. I always admired her for that, always staying strong even when I failed. Just like I was now.

Before the Mog could stab Katarina's other leg, young me shrieks, "Number Eight! I am Number Eight! Just don't hurt her anymore!" The answer lights up the Mogs face like he just woken up on Christmas. But I guess it wouldn't be Christmas for them. Probably a new person to terrorise. I'm still sitting in the corner, but I lift my head. I can't stop it. I watch hopelessly from the sidelines, unable to tear my gaze away from the horror unfolding before me.

"Oh, have no fear," he hisses, "she will not feel any more pain." Everything is in slow motion. The dagger rises and rises. It seems to halt for a moment in the air. It gleams with Katarina's blood. And then it descends frighteningly quickly into Katarina's heart, immediately killing her. Young me and I both scream. I'm subconsciously moving towards her limp body and young me as tugging at the restraints holding her back. I'm crying now. Once the tears start, they can't stop. That's what I hate about crying. I lift a shaking hand to touch Katarina one last time. I want to tell her that I love her. That I am stronger because of her. That I will never forget her. That I will kill every single last Mog to avenge her. That she will always be part of my soul. But you can't always get what you want, right?

Just before I touch her dead cheek one last time, with young me screaming and yelling behind me, I snap out of the dream.

My eyes are frantically looking around where I am. It's night and I'm in bed. With a relieved sigh, I realize that I'm in Nine's penthouse. We've been here for 2 days but still I can't escape the nightmares. The blankets around me are tousled and my hair is splayed behind me in blond waves. I'm breathing heavily and shakily. I should have expected this. No matter how much I want to never relive those parts of my life, my brain devises a plan for me to not only remember but not be to escape as a bonus. Thanks brain, I don't know what I would do without you, I think bitterly. Maybe get a good night's sleep? A single tear that I didn't even notice slides down my right eye and is immediately soaked by the pillow case. A single tear for Katarina. Like every other night. The sense of hopelessness I felt around Setrákus slowly dissipates now that I'm not in danger. That's it!

I sit up instantly and get a dizzy whirl for my efforts. Ignoring my buzzing head, I throw away the sheets surrounding me and stand on shaking legs. I need to walk. I need to forget. I need my walls up around me. Just as I'm devising what snack I will conjure up in Nine's kitchen, I hear scuffling from the 'Lecture Hall' as Nine loves to call it.

Who else would be up this late – and in the Lecture Hall of all places? Before I know what I'm doing, my legs start moving subconsciously towards the sounds to investigate.