Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership to the Lorien Legacies Franchise. I hereby wave any rights to profit from the proceeding story. If anybody tries to sue me, keep in mind that my mother is a lawyer and you will lose. Thank you.
Chapter Two: The Murder of Number Two
We have just arrived at our new home in Saldanha, South Africa. Ever since arriving on Earth, Alex, my cêpan, and I have been hiding in rural African towns. Although at first, our skin was rather pale, our skin has developed a much darker pigment. Now we are indistinguishable from the natives in our towns. Alex generally tries to put us in towns from 10,000-50,000 people. It ensures that we can spot Mogadorians, but we are not too conspicuous ourselves.
Inside our humble rambler, Alex and I have placed "traditional" tribal symbols all over the house to create the illusion that we are true South Africans. Before South Africa, it was Ghana. Before that it was Egypt. And even before that, we have stayed in Eritrea, Central African Republic, Chad, Angola, Libya and Morocco.
I was only five when I left Lorien. Now I am 11. Three years ago, my first scar made its repugnant appearance on my right ankle. I had been in Abyar, Libya when it arrived. The boys my age enjoyed playing football (or in America, they call it soccer). I enjoyed being right mid because I could always beat anybody one-on-one, and I was able to move far quicker than the other boys. I was taking a break under a small picnic shelter when I felt the awful burning sensation sending itself deep into my nervous system. I staggered home through the pain. I found Alex making some traditional Libyan dish for lunch. I still do not know the name of that dish.
"Oh my god! What's wrong?" Alex rushed over to me in a jiffy. He knew I wouldn't have come home crying unless something was horribly wrong. When he saw my state of anguish up close, he repeated his question, only with more desperation: "Two! What's going on? Come on, you've got to tell me! Did you tell someone about us?"
I was hardly able to speak through the pain. So instead I lowered my sock so that Alex could see what had happen.
"Oh no," Alex wheezed, he clearly tried to maintain a sense of calm so that I wouldn't panic, but he and I both knew what this unwelcome mark meant. "We must go. Now." Alex's face was suddenly focused on the duty he now took on: Protect the member of the garde who is next in line.
Alex placed a bag of ice on my scar and taped it there. He then grabbed three pairs of clothes for each of us from the house and my chest and we set off for the local airstrip and we headed for Chad.
Until that day, we had been hopeful that the Mogadorians hadn't found us on Earth. So long as they hadn't found evidence of us on Earth, perhaps Number One would not be killed and thus I would never be next. But that scar had crushed those aspirations. Number One had been killed. He or she had been just like me. Hiding, hoping and running, but it wasn't enough. Number One was killed anyway, and most likely his cêpan as well. Also with One's death, now there were Loric marks on both ankles, not just my left one. Now every time I went out, I had to cover both ankles.
"Hey Dominick! Give me a hand with our stuff!" Dominick is the name I have chosen for our new home. Alex has never changed his name, and he credits his European name to the Age of Imperialism that shook Africa in the early 20th century.
"Yeah, give me a minute."
I don't want to help Alex. At least not yet. I always scout out the yard of a new house we move into. It's always good to have an escape route in your brain.
After scouting the yard, I head in to help Alex. It's not like he needs my help. He's about 6'3" and very athletic. I swear he could just carry in all of our stuff in one trip.
"So, what do ya think?" Alex always poses this question to me whenever we inhabit a new house.
"I'm perfectly complacent with just about any house we choose," I respond. "Besides, let's be honest, it's not like we'd just get up and move just 'cause I didn't happen to enjoy yet another humble abode." I say this with a good-natured smirk. Alex and I rarely fight. I suppose it's due in part to the fact that we are both easy-going people who are trying to give each other a reason to live.
"Can't argue with that! So there's a small grove of trees about a quarter of a mile from our back porch, and supposedly it was owned by the former tenant of this house so it'll be great for training."
Alex doesn't send me to the schools in Africa, often because there are none present, but also because he believes that his Loric education is superior to that of the schools on Earth. I don't really blame him. After all, humans still are unaware that Mars was a Loric outpost used to monitor the environmental changes occurring on Earth.
Suddenly I'm overcome with a feeling of dread. I flop down on the recliner in the homey living room and let out a long sigh.
"What's wrong?" Alex inquires.
"I was just thinking about who Number One was and where they died."
Alex sits on the couch opposite of me and gives me a concerned, paternal stare. "I can't say I blame you. I'm sorry that you had to be Number Two."
"I just don't understand it. You search the web all day and we had no idea that this scar would appear." I know I sound like a young child, but I'm only 11 and being next on a bloodthirsty race's hit list can boggle your mind after a while. "The only semi-suspicious activity we've seen is that girl in Florence."
"Well it's true. We didn't see One's death coming, but maybe he died in an accident. And regardless of how he died, you're next in the countdown and so long as we keep hidden, they'll have great difficulty in finding us."
"Hold on. Did you say 'he?' Do you remember Number One or any other garde?"
"I'm only saying that because I'm a grammar nerd and one person can't be a 'they'. It's he or she and he is the default in English."
My god Alex can be a nerd. "I should've figured," I shake my head.
"Anyway, what we need to focus on is the situation on our hands. As long as you stay alive, the others will remain, for all practical purposes, invincible."
I nod. I know he's right. How could the Mogadorians know where I am? I've done nothing that couldn't be done by a human and I've hidden my scars well. In three or four years, I'll get my first legacy and I'll be prepared to defend myself when the time comes.
Alex starts preparing dinner for us. We both are very sociable, and we are capable of making friends with our neighbors quickly, but ever since One died, we've lived a much more secluded lifestyle. As we're eating dinner, Alex shares a news story that he found an hour earlier.
"So in Nepal, there was supposedly a large explosion on one of the buses that runs through the Himalayan mountains."
"Oh? What happened?"
"Well supposedly there's a very active and angry terrorist group that opposes the modernization of Nepal."
"Fun stuff," I reply. But even after a few hours, I still feel this cloud of dread that shrouds my conscience.
That night I can't sleep. I hear the sounds of the lush environment, but I feel like something is out of place. I decide to ask Alex if we can relocate soon.
I'm in a plane. I don't see anyone I know and I'm dreadfully confused about what's going on. Heck, where the heck am I? I think to myself. Perhaps I should ask someone? As soon as that thought surfaces in my brain, the flight attendant announces over the speaker: "Hello ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying with us today. This is flight 182 with nonstop service from Melbourne to Churchill. We'll be taking off shortly thank you for your patience." Weird! Is this a dream or something? I've never even been to Australia or New Zealand. I notice that I don't even have a ticket. Yup, this is definitely a dream. But for some reason, I feel inclined to remain here. I notice a young boy about my age sitting in seat 12E and a large man with a build similar to Alex's in seat 12D. Suddenly, it hits me. I don't know why, but it does. You're one of us! I make my way uneasily through the aisle, that is until I realize that nobody can talk to me or see me. Then I stroll right through the line of people in the aisle.
"Hey!" I yell, but it's futile. I'm just a specter here. I'm in a dream. That much I'm sure of.
Shortly after I reach row 12, I notice five egregious passengers take their seats behind the Loric I'm hopelessly trying to speak to. Why are they different from the other passengers? Suddenly, it's like time jumps forward. The plane has taken off and we're at cruising altitude.
As if perfectly coordinated, the five men jump up and draw their guns. Guns that I've never seen before. Only then do I realize what's happening. It's the killing of Number One! I gasp. I have to try and stop this. I can't relive what happened without doing anything about it.
But One's cêpan has already knocked one out cold. Nice! But then I notice One preparing a launch at one of the Mogs. Get him! No such luck, before I register what happened, One is pinned against an overhead cabinet. His cêpan knocks out the Mog, that is, before he is shot dead. Next, the remaining three Mogs surround One, and a Mog raises his sword preparing to begin the countdown of the garde.
"Somebody help him! Somebody do something! Are you all stupid or something?! Once they finish him they'll come for me and the other garde and when they're done with us, they'll come for you!"
All of this is to no avail, of course. But even, so Number One looks around and his eyes tell it all: He is wondering the same thing that I just shouted. His eyes settle on his cêpan for a moment, and he and I both see that he is not dead. As I look back to One, I see the sword penetrate his chest and kill him. By this time I'm trying to punch the Mogadorian like a crazed animal.
The Mog calmly ascends to his former height and grins. His sharp teeth are repulsive. One's cêpan is playing dead, I can tell. One of the Mogs makes his way for the cockpit, the other two do something outright barbaric: they begin shooting everyone on the plane. Men, women, children and to add insult to injury, One's cêpan. He's dead. One is now just a scar on the right ankle of eight garde. In anger I scream louder than I ever thought possible. This has to alert them to my presence. It has to!
In a jolt, I wake up with my head cradled in Alex's arms. I realize that I'm perspiring at an alarming rate and I feel as if I screamed my head off.
"Two! Two?! Dominick what's going on?"
"I- I saw Number One die. I know what happened to him." I'm exhausted despite having slept for seven hours.
"Let's get you some water and food. You seem drained. Now tell me, what happened?"
"I was on a plane! Number One and his cêpan were fleeing from Melbourne to Churchill, they must've been discovered in Australia somehow!" I can tell that Alex is frantically trying to come up with some comforting thought. But what was there to say? I was next in line. "Also, I've been having anxiety since moving into this house. It just started in the living room yesterday for no reason."
"Ok, Dominick, just listen to me and please calm down. We'll leave today and maybe we'll go to a different town. But wherever we go, I think it'd be best if we stayed away from airplanes for a while."
I nod. I understand Alex's logic and I have no objections. He throws together some oatmeal and I wolf it down in a hurry.
As I finish my breakfast, Alex packs up our stuff into suitcases and we are preparing to catch a bus to the next town. I still am unsure as to where exactly we are going. I just know that we're heading east.
Alex and I have 17 minutes until the bus comes, and while we wait, we hear in the distance a piercing crash in the forest.
"What was that?" I ask.
"Not sure. If it happens again, I'll go check it out."
After about 30 seconds, it happens a second time. This time, it's probably only about 300 feet away and I look at Alex with a clear display of apprehension.
"Wait here," Alex commands. I have no objection to this. Perhaps that'll be my downfall one day: being to complacent with things. As Alex approaches the tree line across the road from our house and the bus stop, I notice movement in the shrubs. Alex must notice too as he turns back to me and winks.
"Better get your bow and arrow ready!" I yell, "looks like there's a tiger out there!" I have no idea if tigers are this far south in Africa, but who cares?
I never hear Alex's voice again. A curved blade stabs Alex right through the chest and I yelp in fright. How did they find us? We've kept hidden! I know I can't save Alex, but I know that Alex would want me to save myself. Out of pure instinct, I grab the hunting rifle Alex keeps in his backpack at all times and in my other hand, I pick up my Loric chest.
Remaining as silent as possible, I sprint away from the treeline as quickly as possible. I remember that Alex told me about the grove of trees a quarter of a mile behind our house. Maybe if I can get there, I'll be able to lose these Mogs. I haven't gone far before I realize with terror that my pursuers are gaining on me, and quickly. I empty the barrel of the hunting rifle as Alex has shown me and I put the bullets in my pocket. Next, I drop the gun.
Due to my physical enhancement, I'm able to reach the grove in little time at all, although the Mogs are probably only 200 feet behind me at this point. I dive behind a rather thick tree trunk and quiet my breathing. I have to remain quiet. I noticed that the Mogs had hideous beasts with them. If those beasts are anything like the animals in the jungle, they act on scent and sound. Scent! How do I get rid of tha-. My thinking is interrupted by a massive hand grasping my left shoulder. I squeal, but the thing's other hand covers my mouth. Suddenly I'm lifted into the arms of this stranger. I try to fight its grasp but it's much stronger than I am.
I realize that silence is again my ally, calling for help will only anger my captor. Perhaps he's a friendly Mog? Yeah right, stupid. Why the heck would a Mog ever help you?
But the Mog isn't carrying me towards the other Mogadorians at all, instead we're getting farther from them. He sets me down and turns me to see his face.
"Are you alright?" He asks in perfect English.
What in the world is going on here? Did I really just get saved by a Mog? "Yeah," I say nervously, "I'm ok." As soon as that last word leaves my mouth, I try to weasel away from this rogue... whatever he was, but he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me back.
"I'm here to help you. There's no time to explain why. Just go along with me."
"Uh," I'm stunned, I try to escape his grasp, but again I have no luck. I turn and look at my captor in the face. He is built 6'0" and his arms are bulging with muscle. I realize that he must be a Mogadorian soldier.
"We have to head south. The soldiers coming from that direction have been delayed due to an error with our communicators."
I have no choice but to trust this shady character, so I try and build some sort of trust between us. And even if he is trying to trick me, maybe he'll let me go if he likes me enough.
"I can hotwire any ground vehicle," I offer. "Alex, the man you killed earlier taught me how. He's my cêpan."
"Good to know. The Mog nods." I'm running alongside him. "We're gonna get to the end of this grove, then hook back around on the outside of our military formation and squeeze through the southern gap."
As my rescuer says this last sentence. A sentence that was meant to ignite a sense of hope inside of me, he is shot through the torso by a Mogadorian cannon. He reaches for his own gun and tries to counter with a shot of his own. No such luck for either of us. Two more blasts and he's turned to ash.
I don't even look back towards where the blasts came from. I'm so focused on surviving that I just keep pushing towards the edge of the grove. As I leap over a downed tree, a Mogadorian hits me between the shoulder blades with a throwing knife. I turn over, moaning.
"Well, well, well. Finally gotcha you little scumbag." My perpetrator is filled with confidence at his latest kill. He puts his foot over my throat and draws his sword and positions it over my throat. I try to move. I'm sweating profusely and all I can think of is: I must survive. For Lorien. For Number One. For Alex. For that rogue Mog. I have to get out of this. I can't even move my legs, though I try to kick feverishly.
"Let me go!" I manage to gasp out, although I know it's pathetic.
"You should really cover Number One's scar next time you head to a marketplace." Its putrid face etches a grin from ear to ear.
So that's how they found me. I forgot to cover up my right ankle. I'm overcome with the irony of it all: I had sympathized so much with One's death, yet it was his scar that ultimately would end my life.
As my tears are about to surface, the Mog makes quick work of whipping his sword across my neck.
Then it all goes black.
