So recently I started a Fall Of Five remake where Five was a girl, this story is a rewrite of Nine's legacy that will involve that. It will work same way as the other, I'll post a link to a song every chapter, listen t the song while reading it.
This Chapter's Song: Radioactive watch?v=ktvTqknDobU
There are rules for hiding in plain sight. The first rule, or at least the one Sandor repeats most often, is "Don't be stupid." I'm about to break that rule by taking off my pants. Spring in Chicago is my favourite season. The winters are cold and windy, the summers hot and loud, the springs perfect. This morning is sunny, but there's still a no ridding chill in the air, a reminder of winter. Ice-cold spray blows in off Lake Michigan, stinging my cheeks and dampening the pavement under my sneakers. I jog all eighteen miles of the lakefront, taking breaks whenever I can, not because I need them, but to admire the choppy gray-blue water. Even when it's cold, I always think about diving in, of swimming to the other side. I fight the urge, just like I fight the urge to keep pace with the neon spandex cyclists that zip past. I have to go slow. There are more then two million people in this city and I'm faster then all of them. Still, I have to jog. Sometimes, I make the run twice to really work up a sweat. That's another one of Sandor's rules for hiding in plain sight: a,ways appear to be weaker then I am. Never push it. It's dumb to complain. We've been in Chicago for five years thanks to Sandor's rules. Five years of peace and quiet. Five years since the Mogadorians last had a bead on us. Five years of steadily increasing boredom. So when sudden vibration stirs the iPod strapped to my upper arm, my stomach drops. The device isn't supposed to react unless trouble is near. I take a moment to decide what to do. I know it's a risk. I know it flies against everything I've been told to do. But I also know that risks are worth it. I know that sometimes you have to ignore your training. So I jog to the side of the runner's path, pretending that I need to work out a cramp. When I'm finished I unsnap the tear-away track pants I've been rocking every jog since we moved to Chicago and stuff them into my bag. Underneath I'm wearing a pair of mesh shorts, red and white like the St. Louis Cardinals, enemy colours here in Chicago. But Cards colours in Cubs territory are nothing compared to the three scars ringing my ankle. Baseball rivalries and bloody interplanetary vendettas just don't compare. My low socks and running shoes do little to hide the scars. Anyone nearby could see them, although I doubt my fellow runners are in the habit of checking out each other's ankles. Only the particular runner I'm trying to attract today will really notice. When I start jogging again, my heart beating harder then normal. Excitement. It's been a while since I've felt anything like this. I'm breaking Sander's rule and its exhilarating. I just hope he isn't watching me through the city's police cameras that he's hacked into. That would be bad. My iPod rumbles again. It's not actually an iPod. It doesn't play music and the earbuds are just for show. It's a gadget that Sandor put together in his lab. It my Mogadorian detector. I call it the IMog. The IMog has its limitations. It picks out Mogadorian genetic patterns in the immediate area, but only had a radius of a few blocks and is prone to interference. Our rule is that if the IMog goes off, we get moving. It's been so long since it activated itself that I'd started to worry that the thing had gone dead, and then, during my run a couple days ago, it went off. I hustled home that day, but I didn't tell Sandor what had happened. At best, there'd be no more runs by the lake. At worst, we'd be packing boxes. And I didn't want either of those things to happen. Maybe that's when I first broke the "don't be stupid" rule. When I started keeping things from my Cêpan. The device is now vibrating and beeping in tune to my accelerated heartbeat. A Mogadorian. I hazard a glance over my shoulder and have no trouble picking out which jogger is the Mog. He's tall, with black hair shaved close to the scalp, and is wearing a thrift-store Bears sweatshirt and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. He could pass for human if he wasn't so pale, his face not showing and colour, even in the brisk air. I pick up my pace but don't bother trying to get away. Why make it easy on him? I want to see if he can keep up. By the time I exit the lakefront and start weaving my way through the streets, I realize I might have been a little cocky. He's good-better then I expected him to be. But I'm better. Still, as I pick up speed, I can feel my heart beating from exertion for the first time in as long as I can remember. He's gaining on me, and my breathes are getting shorter. Time to finish this. I duck into one of the alleys and wait for his ugly head to appear around the side. I can hear him turning the corner so I turn around, as if to walk out onto the other street. He thinks I haven't noticed him. Smug, exhausted and dumb. He's just what I'd been hoping for. I stiffen when I feel the cold barrel of a small Mogadorian blaster pressed between my shoulder blades.
"Did you have a nice run?" He asks, grabbing me around the throat as he slams me into the building closest us. I brace myself to have the wind knocked out of me. Instead, a warm sensation runs down my back and it's the Mog who stumbles backward, gasping. The Loric charm at work. I'm always surprised at how well it works. "So you aren't Number a Four." He says.
"Your quick."
"Which are you?"
"I could tell you." I shrug. "I don't see what it would matter. But I'll let you guess." He eyes me, sizing me up, trying to intimidate me. I don't know what the rest of the Garde are like, but I don't scare that easy. I wonder what the prize is for capturing a Garde.
"I may not know your number, but I know you can look forward to a life of captivity while we kill the rest of your friends. Don't worry," he adds, "it won't be long." I hear a blaster shot Echo and for a second I think he's tried to kill me once again. I feel something cold soaking through my shirt and look down. There's a bullet wound in the Mogadorian's chest, ash leaking onto my shirt. He dissolves into a pile of ash as I slip back down to the ground. There's a girl standing behind him, gun raised. She's beautiful, there's no other way to describe her. She's tall-not quite as tall as me- with an athletic form Long black hair that curls down past her shoulders, clouding stunning blue eyes set into a tan face. Her dark hair, coupled with a black body suit make her blue eyes the only colour on her. She doesn't say a word, just leans down and tugs up the hem of her pants, revealing three intricate scars.