Disclaimer: Lorien Legacies does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of 'Pittacus Lore', etc.

Warning: OC's (my interpretation of the other Numbers and their Cêpans), character deaths, language.

9 lives

(o1.)

You're one of the oldest, aren't you? Only Eight is older than you. So why does he get to be so far down the list? What makes him better than you?

It's strange, isn't it – you being Number One, capitals included for emphasis. You're the first line of defence, the first one into the battle – the first casualty-to-be.

It would make more sense for the youngest to come first, to allow the older ones time to mature and develop the Legacies they'll need to survive, wouldn't it? Cannon fodder, so to speak.

You should probably resent that, in some bizarre role reversal, you're Number One instead of Number greater-than Five. The odds are stacked so highly against you – as soon as the Mogs make it to Earth (which they will, you know they will, and so does your Cêpan, and everyone involved with the Nine) they'll be gunning for you.

But you don't. You absolutely don't. And it's not for the bullshit reasons your Cêpan always seems to be spouting – Lorien nurtures, Lorien is heaven-on-planet, Lorien, Lorien Lorienlorienlorien, be grateful that you're alive and well and not destroyed like precious Lorien (never mind that, even though you were seven when you left, you have few memories of the supposed paradise) – but because of who Number Two is.

(Number Two is your little sister. She's the youngest – and also the second line of defence, the one who'll die after you die, if you don't protect her and survive. She was barely two when you fled Lorien.)

So you train like a boy possessed, keep your head down like a good little peon and silently rage about the injustice of it all. Because why does Cam- Number Two have to be so close to the beginning? If the Elder, capital for emphasis on their Importance, thought you were a fitting sacrifice to keep the Mogs at bay while the others matured, why couldn't she have the chance to fall into the category of 'others'?

You know that, ideally, the Mogs won't find any of you. You also know that they will manage to track down and eliminate at least a few of you before you mature into proper members of the great Garde. You. Ca- Number Two. Probably Three; perhaps even Four will fall before the rest grow into their own.

You know this, but you try not to dwell on it. You move around a lot, sticking to Asia, mostly. The third-world, semi-industrialized countries that seem filled with people. That's probably your first mistake – but it's not really your fault, more like your Cêpan's. Their lack of foresight, their conviction in Parent Lorien protecting its children (on Earth, from beyond the metaphorical grave) is your downfall.

Maybe it's the stress, maybe it's your anger, but your first Legacy comes when you're thirteen. Two years early, your Cêpan explains excitedly as you lie in bed, wracked by terrible pain throughout your whole body.

The best translation, your Cêpan tells you, for your Legacy is 'Impervious Skin'. Nothing can hurt you, not fire or metal or anything. Too bad 'anything' doesn't include 'Mogadorian weaponry'.

The telekinesis comes a few months later, in a crowded city in Malaysia. You train even harder, honing your abilities under your Cêpan's guidance. You don't do anything to draw attention to yourself, but they find you anyway.

Maybe in a smaller city, strangers in black trench coats and fedoras would have caused alarm – or at least suspicion.

You spot them before they spot you, barely. Your Cêpan is out on some errand, and you're lazing on the balcony of your apartment when you happen to glance through the rungs of the railing and see them on the ground. They're standing in front of your building, staring upwards.

You don't know if they see you, their eyes being hidden by sunglasses, but somehow you know what they are, and that they are looking for you.

You rise calmly and walk inside, trying to fight down the panic clawing at your chest.

It's too soon, isn't it.

It's only been seven years. Your fourteenth birthday was a week ago, for fuck's sake. Ca- Number Two is only nine. She's too young. There's no chance that she'll have developed any Legacies yet.

You just hope that her Cêpan can take care of her, pray to Lorien, God, who or whatever there is out there that she will live if you don't–

No. You've never believed in that shit. Lorien didn't save you. Your Cêpan – don't even go there. If Cama- Number Two is to survive, it will have to be because you do.

You pick up your cell phone, text 'they're here' to your Cêpan. Add, almost as an afterthought, 'don't come back'. He can't do anything for you now. Maybe he can warn the others, somehow.

You find the gun your Cêpan kept for emergencies. Maybe if you kill the scouts now, you'll be able to get away before the soldiers get here.

Ding.

You check your phone.

'We're already here.'

Sent from your Cêpan's phone.

Fuck.

The flimsy door explodes, wooden shrapnel flying everywhere. It doesn't hurt you of course, and you immediately starting firing at the door, hurrying back to your balcony. It's the only avenue of escape, now.

You jump to the balcony to the right and below yours, kicking in the glass doors. Luckily the suite is deserted. You burst into the hallway, which is also empty, and bolt for the emergency ladder outside the window at the end of the corridor.

The stairs happen to open at every end of the halls too, and before you reach the window, the metal fire door slams open, Mog soldiers pouring out.

The elevator directly to your right dings as it miraculously opens. You dart in-

The Mog soldier leers down at you. Your gun still has a round left in it, and you empty into his brain without a second thought. You pound the 'close door' button and the odds must be on your side for once, because the doors close just as the other soldiers run up. They bow inwards from the force of the Mogs' blows, but you're already descending at that point.

The elevator is a slow contraption, outdated and unreliable. You punch the maintenance hatch open with your telekinesis and leap to the top of the elevator. Luckily there are two interconnected shafts for the pair of elevators, and you leap to the second one, grimly beginning the six-story climb to the top. Maybe if you get to the roof, you can escape from there.

The Mogs realize where you've gone, of course, but you manage to reach the top floor without getting shot or having any of them catch up to you.

The doors are wrenched open before you can manage the feat, however.

You should have jumped into the street from your balcony, should have ditched the apartment building altogether.

Mogs below. Mogs in front. Unyielding concrete walls on every other side. You're cornered.

The world seems to gray, the colour leaching away before your eyes as the cold gaze of the Mog soldier bores into you. The strange Mogadorian gun is levelled at you, and you know that your 'Impervious Skin' won't be able to withstand that.

You close your eyes, thinking of a sad-eyed, weakly smiling two year old on the last spaceship of a now-dead race headed to a deathtrap called Earth.

Camaria, you think–

A/N: I intend to do a chapter on the life of every 'Number'. I tend to write angsty pieces, and I have quite a few ideas for how the other eight chapters will play out. Don't expect a happy ending, please. Also, the other chapters will probably be from different perspectives - i.e. first/third person. In case you were interested. ;)

Comments, criticism, whatever. All are gratefully accepted ~