DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Lorien Legacies or any of the characters in the series. I only have the plotline in this and my alternate version of Five.
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THE RETURN OF FIVE
PROLOGUE:
Eight glanced around sheepishly, unsure of what to do. He had never seen so many humans gathered in the same place, dancing erotically and swaying off each other. The whole thing seemed almost hypnotic to him and he felt embarrassed. He found himself nervously cracking his knuckles, an old habit he had abandoned after the death of Reynolds. Frowning, Eight settled on resting his hands behind his back, left encased in his right. He gazed around again, unsure of what to do or where to go. He needed to fit in, after all, he didn't want to draw attention to himself or seem suspicious. So he sauntered off to the bartender, trying to imitate the boyish walk the other men possessed, he decided on biting his lip and sticking his chin out arrogantly as well, but he was probably overthinking it.
"What can I get you?"
Eight was snapped out of his worrying by a thick, English accent. He glanced sideways at the bartender and had to stop himself from gasping. He recognised her, almost immediately infact, but he could not place her. He wanted to tuck the young girl under his arm and lead her back to John Hancock centre to meet the rest of the garde but he resisted the stupid impulse. There was something extremely off putting about her. Her long, angular face could have haunted his dreams since the day he was born, she was that familiar. Eight closed his mouth and attempted to glance around casually but his eyes would return to her, like a moth to a flame.
Who was she?
It was something about the way she held herself. Her legs were shoulder-width apart and her body was hunched over the counter so that she leaned towards him subconsciously. Her eyes were guarded and her demeanour was confident; her shoulders were broad for a girl and they lead to two, long, lean arms. It was her gaze however, that he was drawn to - something in the way she looked at him. She has seen a great deal of suffering in her life, that much was recognisable to anyone but he saw something in her that he too bore. Her eyes were guarded, protected. She was burdened by knowledge, forced into a position she could not turn down. This girl had fight in her, a reason to live. She bore the gaze of a survivor who kept a dangerous secret within herself.
He knew her. He had to know her.
She wore a pair of faded, dark sweatpants that hung low on her small waist and a dark singlet that clung to her chest. It kept her hidden in the shadows, and despite her exotic beauty, she managed to blend into the crowd. Eight's eyes were drawn to the black ink crawling up her neck. It was a hummingbird, whose wings were blurred with movement. It's beaks rested right above her jugular on her right side and half of its small body was covered by the strap of her top. He glanced over her again, searching for any other tattoos that could give him some insight into who she was, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously when he noticed a symbol on her hip which felt vaguely familiar to Eight. He could not recognise the language but he felt like he should.
The young boy rummaged through some of the oldest memories he had stored in his weary head but found nothing. He only knew how to speak English and Hindi, (a language he had picked up during his time in India), and this was definitely neither. He sighed before noticing that she was glaring at him, obviously irritated.
"What can I get you?" she repeated annoyed, this time her dark tongue flicked out from her mouth to wet her bottom lip, revealing yet another piercing- a pale, silver stud encased in the tip of her reddish purple tongue. Ah, so she had noticed his staring. But Eight was not interested in her like that, he was interested in another woman, someone a little gentler and shyer. He was staring because she seemed suspicious and perhaps a little familiar. He felt like he had spent years together with her, maybe when he was younger though. Or else he would have remembered.
"Err," Eight had not been here before, or at any other bar for that matter, "Whatever you insist," he choked out.
She cast him a wary look and snatched the bill out of his hand, thinking that he was flirting. Eight didn't care what she thought. He sat down on an island stool near the counter and watched her, suspiciously. Yes, there definitely was something off about her.
To be honest, she looked like a gypsy to him. Her dangly earrings and brown, curly hair screamed hippie but her worn out combat boots and painted red lips whispered something more intriguing and perhaps a little less legal. She turned her back to him and reached up to grasp a plastic cup. The movement made her suck in her stomach and her trousers slid further down, revealing more of the tattoo. Eight could read it now, although still more than half was covered.
The thin strokes of ink were curled into the loose circles of a word:
Lorira
Lorira. A loric. A woman.
A woman of the loric race.
He gasped, it could not be. His eyes flew suspiciously to the hollow of her throat - to the pendant dangling from her long neck. It hung low on her, lower than normal, and was hidden beneath the fabric of her top. She had obviously replaced the chain to conceal it better but Eight could recognise the faint blue glow of a loric pendant anywhere.
Who was she?
She turned back to face him and handed the bulky man beside Eight another shot. He tried to catch her lilac gaze but she turned away again and continued taking orders as she prepared his drink, clearly taking her time to irritate him. Eight huffed, annoyed and when she finally handed him his beer he reached forward and tried to catch her arm but she jerked backwards so fast Eight could only gape. Ah, so she had super speed, like Nine.
The man beside Eight slammed his shot on the counter and turned to face him, "What the hell man, just leave her alone and go find some willing slut." Eight coughed with shock. He hadn't intended to do something like that - God, he could never. He had just tried to get her attention.
"No," he said calmly to the man, "I just want to talk to her."
He snorted and looked at the girl, "You want to talk to this?" He asked her, slapping his hand on Eight's back.
"No." she said, revealing the accent again.
"Exactly," the man picked his glass back off the counter and took a long drag of the fruity alcohol.
Eight frowned and decided on addressing her directly, thinking he would have more of a chance, "Can I please talk with you."
She looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head.
"I said, leave her alone, man," At least the man held some respect for women, but he was really starting to get on Eight's nerves.
Eight sucked in a deep breath, "I need to talk with you," she ignored him, "Lorira."
And just like that, as if a spell had been broken by a single word, she turned to him, understanding and recognition flickering in her blue eyes. He watched as her eyes scanned over him, pupils dropping to question the chain on his neck. She ran her gazed down his chest and examined his arms, searching for truth - an explanation.
She nodded finally, but not before glancing around the nightclub. Old habits die hard, the paranoia lasts forever. She stepped out from behind the counter and her eyes lingered again on his own neck. She recognised the azure glow that seemed so similar to the colour of her eyes and her lips pulled back over her teeth and curled into a grim smile.
She nodded, "We talk outside?"
"What the hell, girl?" The man exploded (sounding vaguely similar to an overprotective father), "You sure about this? He could be any sort of psychopath "
The girl nodded, "I can look after myself," she spoke sombrely, "but thank you for watching after me."
It was then that Eight recognised that these two had known each other for a long time. At first the man seemed like any other stranger at a bar but this fierce protectiveness had to stem from somewhere, most likely friendship.
She grinned at Eight, clearly excited, before glancing over her shoulder and whispering softly to herself as they walked out the large oak double doors,
"Good bye, Simon."