AN: Hey all. This is my crack at a multi chapter length fic based on an idea that I've incubated after months of ranting and criticism of the original series. While there were parts of UAO I enjoyed, there were definitely parts I felt were extra or left too far on the table to be glossed over. Tragedy and genocide porn doesn't just make for a good finale when previous books wove in a lot of small details that were supposed to enhance the plot. Plot =/= Stand Alone; to have a plot, you have to have characters enact on a plot and UAO relied heavily too much on John and Six when there were too many other elements left intact.
Because of FFnet's unreliable character tag system, I can't say who else this story is about except in the description above. I chose to focus this story on Bertrand alongside of the Garde(John and Six though I plan on playing with all kinds of POV), the boy mentioned in FoT who was executed in UAO in less than a paragraph just to make John feel guilty; why have a character directly confront the Garde about his abilities at all if you were going to kill him anyway? So, I gave him more of a purpose. That among other things are why this story is happening; I am writing the UAO I would have liked to see done. ships will come as they come, I will not focus too heavily on romance though if this story strays away from the set canon pairings in prior books, I will mention it and why I made those choices. Enjoy.
The human boy doesn't remember much before he teleported. Mostly, he remembers the feeling of being on the run. Those feelings just trigger the other memories.
He remembers the smell of blood filling his nose and mouth as their group escaped a nasty battle outside of London. The city had been in flames, smoke staining the once beautiful blue sky he remember when he was a boy and his parents took him on a holiday to the city. Big Ben was the only building he remembered looking for on the horizon; he kicked himself for only remembering one building in all of London.
He remembers Natan.
His small group, consisting of him and an English boy with a white mohawk, Nigel, alongside of him, found another boy from Poland who spoke broken English and shook with a heavy limp. He'd been injured saving a school on the Eastern side of the city and had twisted his leg funny. He ran away with them as best he could, hiding from the soldiers with them, speaking of his family on their first night together under a ruined store front in the besieged city.
The Polish boy would live three days total.
On the first, the wounded boy told them his name. Natan. About his family. About making his grandfather and father proud of him. Their little boy was a soldier at last.
On the second, Natan showed them his legacies. Telekinesis, like the two of them already had, night vision, and the power to construct force fields out of natural energy.
On the second day, beautiful Fleur from France had now joined them. She was bold and brilliant, but she chose to be reclusive about her powers. Telekinesis by deduction but otherwise, she was mystery.
To the short brunette boy, Natan had told him in a few short words how he was destined for greatness. He gestured to the place where stars would have been if the smoke and fire didn't plague the cities.
You will be strong some day. You will be hope. I see it.
The shorter boy didn't believe him. He blamed the language barrier for his ignorance and just nodded along with every word.
Natan had stalled the Mogadorian monsters with his legacies, hastily trying to explain what they feared were his last words. He held up a shaky invisible border, blocking the three of them and numbers of English civilians as they fled the battleground. It was halfway through that third day and they were finally at the edge of London, on track to Stonehenge and to becoming the aid for the Loric fighting in the States.
The most his language barrier could manage to tell them was that he was useless to them injured like this.
That he wanted them to live his dream and save the world like the heroes the Loric wanted them to be.
He looked the short brunette boy in the eyes and smiled.
Be what I see.
The Polish boy's smile was kind and his eyes danced with hope. Hope for his life perhaps, but more so hope for his world as he left it in their three pairs of hands. The soldier cut that light out after bursting through his weakening defense and impaling the boy entirely.
He remembers hearing the blonde girl in his group scream at the top of her lungs as she held the body of the fallen human boy from Poland; he died with a smile, having felt safe with leaving fate in their hands. He had wanted to save the world most of all and thought he did just that by saving them. Fleur punched the soldier who killed him and ripped his head clean off his body with the force of her fist alon. She recoiled at the pure ounce of her brute strength but she did not let it break her. He remembers the powerful screaming that came from Nigel and wincing at how the sound practically pierced his mind and shook it to the core. He remembers tossing herds of Mogadorian soldiers as far as he could with his telekinesis, his only legacy he could hone as a weapon, as they fled through Basingstoke.
They left as good of a burial as they could muster for the Polish boy. They shed no tears until they were miles south and could finally rest for one final night.
Do widzenia.
He remembers the sight of Stonehenge being as beautiful and frightening as anything he'd ever seen before. He remembers that the Loralite had been frigid to the touch and tried his best to remember what Niagara Falls looked like. But when his fingers first met the cold galactic jewels, he heard a voice whisper in his mind. A calling.
You have far more than what you believe.
It spoke in the same ominous way that Natan spoke to him under the faltered stars.
A calling to a place unlike the great waterfall in the States. A place where jungles and plain were all you could see more miles and humidity so strong it could bind the joints of your body together with sweat. The voice described an ancient Mayan temple in the middle of it all.
The voice continued it's pleading, growing fainter and more like an echo in a distant tunnel in his thoughts. It distracted his calm and broke through his picture of the state of New York and into a mystical jungle in a far off region of the world. He began to feel the sticky atmosphere on his skin, the sun against his neck. He tried to push the image out and focus on roaring water once more.
Help me. The voice boomed in desperation, like the words were to be its last.
He couldn't.
Find me. The voice began to die out entirely.
He didn't know how.
Save me. Barely a whisper.
He wanted to. With a final muster of courage, he let go of the image of Niagara Falls.
The dirt was the only thing cold when he landed.
He awoke on the ground of a jungle paradise in the middle of damp air and screeching animal calls. The animals, ranging from wild cats to birds and hogs, screamed in fear, fleeing violently from the area. The boy pulled himself to his feet immediately, his animal telepathy deafening his hearing with the cries of the wildlife around him.
Monsters. Monsters. Monsters. The birds above chanted as they flew with all of their might from the jungle. He felt their pain, their remorse for their home as the incoming storm tore it to ruin.
Thunder cracked through the sky, causing him to cover his head in fear of a storm. The power of the wind knocked him back down onto his face. He barely managed to pull his face from the dirt to see several bolts lightning strike down in a singular area while columns of wind circulated in power far beyond his imagination. Superhero movies couldn't compare to the density in the air, the beating of his heart in his chest.
Help me.
He stood back on his feet, bracing against a tree for support and staring in the direction the wind blew to. The voice came from there, sounding more in pained than when it spoke to him at Stonehenge.
He started forward, using the wind as his guide and willing his legs to stop shaking. He willed himself loudest of all to be brave; he too, after all, could be a hero now. For the two he lost in the teleportation to this place. For the boy who died at his feet in London with a smile and all of the hope he had for them to carry on. For his mother and father who screamed when the bees surrounded him like he was one of their own and cried for his safety. For John Smith, who came to him in a dream and asked for his hand, as well as many other humans with powers like his, in order to save the world once and for all. For his father who squeezed his hand with a bloody one and told him to run before the soldiers gunned him down as he defended his sons.
He first ran in fear, fear for his life and fear of attracting more tragedy to his family. His gift was a monstrosity. It killed anyone who came close to him. He ran from his peaceful home outside of Aachen, ran from himself. It took a few short hours before he had crossed the Netherlands border, before he found someone that helped him across the rest and through Belgium. Before he found someone to carry him across the sea to England.
He had left his family for four days when he met his first ally in London. Nigel Rally, though he hesitated in calling himself Rally. The boy with the white blonde mohawk and vulgar mouth surprised him instantly with such a kindness he didn't know he would have felt again. He offered to be his partner if the shorter boy offered his protection in exchange. They had each others backs in this cruel world and would figure out their new powers together.
They met the beautiful French girl in the city of London, mere hours before the haunting death of Natan on the crumbling ruins of the city streets. They ran together when the Mogadorian warships laid siege. They ran past screaming families, puddles of blood, and piles of carnage because the one way they could stop any of this was to get to the Garde. Until it's too much, until the other two start fighting off soldiers and trying to save every life they came across. Until the brunette boy was thrown in the dirt, stepped onto until he saw sparks and was forced to throw the weight of a person off of himself for the first time.
Until he realized what kind of animal he could become for the first time.
He rekindled with and lost his father in the same week. They met Natan and lost Natan in the same three days. If the short brunette boy from Germany lost his head now, he lost his head on his feet while he tried to shake off every ounce of fear in his brittle bones and see his true colors.
The storm stopped when he neared the end of the jungle; it was replaced with the sound of an aircraft like that of a military jet plane. He watched it shoot into the sky and take off through the dust, as it left him behind with the largest sky vessel only fantasy could imagine. Warship. Like in London.
The ground was littered with living Mogadorian soldiers.
He felt his blood run cold.
They pulled a large body from a deep crater in the Earth; the crater where the boy imagined the temple the voice spoke of once stood. Once out of sight and on board, the large ship slowly made its leave into the sky after the smaller plane.
Then, all of the soldiers left on the ground turned and faced the boy in cold fury. They charged.
He desperately used his telekinesis to fling as many of them back as he could, longing to run back into the jungle and lose them in the trees. The nearest two were flung into the six behind them with three other soldiers replacing them. He turned to run, to lie low and cover but the booming voice from the temple cried in his ears again.
HELP ME. SAVE ME.
Someone was down there. Someone needed his help. Like Natan needed him to be the savior of this planet. Like his father needed him to prove he was the son he deserved.
The boy dashed for the sole opening between the soldiers and barely made it past as clawed hands and weapons tore at his exposed flesh. He bit back the screams of pain, feeling the blood drip down his bare arms. He was on a run towards the temple and if he didn't make it there, it was because he died trying.
The boy had just reached the end of the crater when a hand pulled him back and crashed him into the ground. A heavy boot stepped onto the back of his head and pushed his face into the dirt. He grunted, feeling earth push into his nose and into his mouth. He willed his telekinesis to lift the soldier and toss him backwards, loosening the weight crushing him. He pulled his head up and coughed up as much dirt as he could before another grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him off of the ground.
Free me from this place. Return me. The voice murmured.
Help me, the boy begged back, coughing up blood as the hand tightened around him. He weakly lifted a fist, uncurling his fingers, and grabbed the forearm as hard as he could with no effort. The soldier snickered at the helpless challenge. A little human boy against an alien beast birthed with the sole person to fight and destroy, it was almost laughable.
Help me.
I know… you're there.
He closed his eyes and braced for the worst when the rest of the soldiers laughed along with hid assailant.
Help me.
In a pinch, all he felt was unbearable heat. His body felt as though it were lit on fire. Perhaps it was a means of torture by the Mogs, to take as much pain as they could from their target after terrorizing the earth's monuments and heroes.
He gave them no satisfaction, gritting his teeth to keep himself from crying out.
The soldier who held him then let out a gut wrenching roar. Then, the ground all around began to violently shake them.
He opened his eyes in time to see his hands burst with a bright light and the Mog under his weak grip burst into a ball of the same color. The boy, startled, fell back into the dirt in a hard thud but dared not to move. He lifted himself up on his elbows, staring into the space the Mogadorian soldier once stood.
A collection of light solidified into a shape.
A body.
In the place of his adversary stood a boy with brown skin and thick curly black hair. His clothes were torn with the most notable tear being a small hole located in the middle of his upper back. As though he had been stabbed clean through. His posture was angry, while his fists were clenched and his eyes were aimed at the scores of soldiers in front of them. The other boy lifted a hand and tossed the soldiers back into the dirt like they weighed of paper. He then grinned wildly, looking down at his hands as though his strength surprised him. The curly haired boy flexed his fingers and let out a soft sigh.
'I'm… alive," he whispered almost to himself. He turned to face the short brunette, his green eyes shining with a mix of emotions. "You came and saved me."
His voice matched the ghostly echo he had been following here. The curly haired boy walked forward and extended his hand, lifting the fallen human back to his feet.
The boy hadn't realized he lost so much of his energy as soon as his savior appeared. Was this new friend to be a figment of himself and would leave him behind? The worry died with the rest of his strength as he stumbled forward but the other boy caught him and laughed quietly.
Laughed. On a battlefield.
"Your legacy is one of the rarest in all of Lorien's history, no wonder you're so drained," he started. "I'll save your introductions for another time. As for me, I am Number Eight and I have business to finish on this planet. All thanks to you, I can do that now."
A Loric.
And he, the boy, a small human being who can talk to insects and runs from his trouble, had found a way to bring him back into this life.
Miracles were real.
He was far more than he believed if this Loric was in fact alive before him.
The short boy managed a weak smile.
Their meeting was cut short as the soldiers refound their places and marched forward once more, weapons exposed with war cries. Eight turned back to them, his expression now hardened.
"Enough," he called out, letting go of the boy. He crumpled to the dirt without the support, letting out a small grunt when his backside his the ground. Eight lifted his hands once more, throwing them backwards once again with his telekinesis. He posed, then before the human boy's eyes began to change shape entirely. He grew five times his size, into the shape of a lion monster with several arms. "This little battle ends now."
With a roar, Eight's new form, complete with muscles and endless stamina, charged into the soldiers and tore them apart.
He sat and watched as soldiers were ripped limb from limb, reduced into nothing but ash piles on the jungle flour. A few soldiers tried to slash at his many arms but only got as far as light scratches before they were either picked up and tossed or pulled apart. A lone fighter came from behind, attempting to stab him with some form of bladed weapon but Eight didn't falter when the metal bended around his skin. He turned and shoved the Mog soldier back with such force he exploded into black dust on impact to the ground.
It took no time at all before the ground surrounding them was covered in black ash. The boy started in utter shock. Eight shrunk down into his human like form once again, patting himself of the clouds of black ash. He winced at the cuts that now littered his arms, a little more red and bloodied than when he was in his transformation.
"Now. Let's get out of here, yeah?" He said, his soft smile returning to his face. The boy could only smile, the energy it takes to smile still lost. Eight hoisted one of his arms over his head and walked into the crater.
At the bottom sat one sole Loralite shard, only visible as Eight walked them closer. He picked it up and clenched it hard in his fist.
"Niagara," the boy whispered, feeling his lungs almost cave with the effort.
"Hey. You put up a good fight, just rest yourself," Eight replied gently. Another shock of kindness. "You're in luck, I'm a teleporter so I have at least a little more experience than you guys do at this transporting thing. I'll get us to the falls in no time at all and then you can properly relax."
In a flash, the two of them were gone and the short boy's back was dampened with mist.
"Oi, you made it." A British accent breathed, followed by a charge of footsteps. Nigel and Fleur. He was back. He tried to count the pairs, hearing far more than two sets, but they were lost on his ears. All he knew was that a group was residing here.
"We thought we lost you in the teleportation, we've been searching for hour- oh. Uh… you're not Bertrand. You're… holding him."
His voice raised, tingling Bertrand's ears as his lack of control over his sound legacy escaped with his louder tone.
'Trand, who's your new friend? And who the fuck hurt you?"
"It's all taken care of, you can relax my new friends," Eight's reply was easy, like he assumed a few words would work effortlessly. "Humans with legacies, I still can't believe my sacrifice had enough power to free that Entity of all Legacies onto humanity.
"Like hell I'll relax, what the fuck is going on here? Why are you talking in bollock riddles?!" The Brit spat.
Eight set the boy down and stood back up. He extended his hand in a greeting, a big smile on his face.
He was as real and alive as he could be.
"Your friend here saved me and I owe him a lot. There's just too much for me to explain alone and I was sort of there when John tried to start. I'm sure I can help John fill in when we all unite."
Nigel wasn't satisfied with that answer, but he narrowed his eyes at the mention of John Smith.
Eight didn't back down, just softened in his expression.
"I am Number Eight, a once lost Loric returned to this life, and I am going to help save Earth."