Thank you to my wonderful editor, Code-Battle-Seraph, without whom this wouldn't be possible.

Three's POV(second wave)

Mareese wants us to leave the highlands. He spotted some Mogadorians poking around my school. Now especially, with my legacies developing, we can't risk being caught. So we're leaving again.

We're at the airport. We're going to Denver, in the United States. I glance at my ticket, 3A, and chuckle slightly. I wonder if Mareese chose it on purpose.

I look around and see a girl. She's standing next to me in a different line. She has red, curly, shoulder-length hair. Her face is free of blemishes, and she wears a pair of glasses.

My breath hitches for a second and I force myself to look away. Her dad, a large man who also has red hair, is looking at me. I blush and step forward onto the plane. My ticket is grabbed by a bored hole-puncher. He hands it back.

In Denver, Mareese buys a car and change the license plate when we get to the apartment where we'll be staying. He takes the old one and stomps on it until it's become completely unrecognizable. "You-don't-keep-the-license-plate. Remember that." Mareese instructs.

I stare for a second and then shrug. "Whatever."

He stops and looks at me. "We're going to be training your legacies and body, and it can't be 'whatever'. This is now deadly serious. Do you understand me?"

I look at him. "Yeah, Mareese. I get it." I say after a minute. He stares into my eyes somewhat creepily for a few moments before looking away.

"You only have two legacies. Neither are offensive. You need to start training and take this seriously." I walk towards my bedroom and start unpacking without saying a word.

Several minutes later, clothes are scattered all over the floor. Mareese walks in and sighs dramatically, putting his face in his hands as if he is giving up on me. "This is the fifth time this has happened! Why can't you learn the concept of organization?"

I groan. "Why don't I go train or something, and you can clean up the mess?" A steely glare from my Cepan effectively silences me.

"Your first lesson can be organizational skills, then."

I use my telekinesis and toss all the clothes into a dresser drawer. "Neatly. Put your clothes in neatly." He says with an annoyed underlying tone. I groan again and stomp over to the drawer, pulling clothes out haphazardly and throwing them to the ground in a fit of anger.

I then pick each one up and fold them, organizing by size, color, and type of wear perfectly. Mareese looks on as I suddenly fold my clothes so neat.

Finally, he opens his mouth and speaks. "Stop folding your clothes telekinetically." he commands.

I look up with innocent eyes. "I thought you wanted me to be neat and practice." I counter.

"It's good to move your arms." He said. "Don't rely on telekinesis every day." On his way out of my bedroom, he calls back, "Put some looser clothes on then meet me in five minutes. We're starting training." I nod somewhat excitedly and practically tear off my clothes, fumbling with the clothes in the drawer and making a chaotic jumble of them again. I finally find a blue shirt a size too large as well as black basketball shorts with two red stripes running through the sides. I'm tempted to shove the shorts back into the drawer, because they seem...evil...but in the end, I wear them anyway.

"MAAAAAAAAAREEEEEEEESSSSSSSEEEEEEEE!" I bellow loudly as I parade out of the room. "SHH!" He shushes me. "We have neighbors down there! We're in an apartment, remember?" As if on cue, someone screams, "SHUT UP!", and a very heavy object whacks the ceiling.

Mareese and I look at each other and roll our eyes, before tip-toeing away.

I'm sweating profusely on the way home from practice. Mareese is literally sparkling in the sunlight-but he isn't Edward Cullen. He's just really sweaty.

I'll admit that sounded better in my head.

Anyway, when we get home I collapse on my bed, exhausted. Mareese leans in and chuckles. "Get used to it. Four hours a day, every day."

I sit up immediately and yell, "WHAT?" But he's already humming and making dinner in the kitchen.

Days pass fast, with only Mareese and me and the occasional neighbor.

It's kind of lonely, but I don't think about that much, because the training wears me out so much the only thing I'm thinking is, "OWWWWWWWWWWW I want sleeeeeeeeeep." It's only Sunday when I'm allowed off training, and then he sharpens my mind with strategy games, puzzles, battle advantages, memory games. He teaches me technical things, like how to disarm an opponent, or knock them unconscious.

We're eating, (pork chili, not that it matters) and talking about stuff when I see on the television a breaking news report in London. A flaming bus is tumbling down the asphalt roads, which have been heavily burned by the fire. Loud screams can be heard from inside the bus as people scramble to get out and run away.

Several men, unnaturally pale, rush down the street, nimbly dodging the small fires that somehow managed to continue burning in the middle of the road. They pause when they reach the overturned bus and reach their fingers into the half-melted mess, yanking through the softened metal and reaching for something-or someone.

Someone squeals, "Look at those mysterious saviors!" as the pale men begin yanking out people with more force than necessary. I squint at the television, my food forgotten. Mareese, also transfixed by the sight, casually steals my pork chili and chews while watching the news interestedly.

I let out a gasp when I see someone fighting back. "Mareese, they're the Mooooo-" He clamps a hand over my mouth and frantically nods around. "Neighbors. SHHHH." I nod in understanding, not taking my eyes off the screen. After several seconds, he peels his hand from my mouth, disgustedly wiping his hand on his pants.

"I need to go, Mareese. That was the guy at the airport. He must be Loric. The girl I saw was a Garde. I need to save her." I whisper urgently. Without another word, I open the window with my telekinesis and fly out at a supersonic speed.

"Wait!" Mareese almost shouts. He sighs and looks down at my unfinished dinner, before using his fingers to eat the cold remains of it.

I arrive in London in maybe half an hour and land. A cold rush of dread passes through me when I realize I didn't see the street name. However, I realize, it's easy to follow the baked roads. Running full out, I get to the husk of the bus, where I see burnt bodies and piles of ash. I can hear sirens.

The surviving Mogadorians, easy to distinguish, are walking away, through the crowd gathered around the bus. I follow them casually, stopping every couple seconds so I don't look suspicious. They get to a large downtown building and go inside. I stop outside and pretend to inspect a convenience store across the street. After a couple minutes, a half dozen or so people leave the building. There are subtle bulges under their shirts that look like strangely shaped guns.

They're pale. I follow them, my hand drifting towards one of the weapons I had forgotten to remove after training.

One of the Mogs suddenly whirls around, as if it can sense my presence, and quickly pulls out its strange gun from under its shirt. I keep walking past him, then pull out my phone and pretend to read something on the screen and sigh.

It works. He sneers quietly and pushes the gun back under his shirt, then keeps walking. I smirk and fly up quietly above them to follow, since nobody's around.

The Mogadorian turns around again, but sees no one. He looks confused for a second but shrugs his large, square shoulders and resumes walking. Resisting the urge to chuckle, I float above him. Mogs are so stupid. They look left, they look right, forward, backward, but not up! Haha!

I follow quietly for a couple blocks until they reach a squat red brick building. They pull out their blasters and march up the grate stairs. They walk over to a door and smash it open. One of them says something.

I float down and land silently beside the smashed in door. After a couple seconds, I hear, "Number Two. My lucky day."

I gasped. It was number two, they could kill her.

Number Two's POV(first wave)

I struggle under a boot, helplessly staring up at several impassive faces that are creepily watching me. I look at Adamus through cracked glasses and gasp out, "You said you would help me."

"Did he?" The mogadorian laughs. "Crafty Adamus! Came here seeking the glory yourself."

He raises my neck by my pendant chain. "FOR MOGADORIAN PROGRESS!" He shouts, and slices the blade across my throat….

….leaving a small cut that drips blood as his hand starts shaking and the knife flies out of his grip. His yell is cut off by the echoing screams of the two Mogadorians by the door. There is the sound of smashing glass followed a crash far below and crunches as the remaining four Mogadorians slam against the wall. A shadowy figure steps into the backlit doorframe.

He waves his hand, and the knife flies up and impales one of the Mogs.

Adamus rushes over and helps me up. "Get your things." He says, glancing at the silhouette, whose hand is splayed out-causing a hailstorm of objects to rain upon my former assailants. I smile somewhat grimly at the sight before rushing off to grab my things. It doesn't take long.

The knife Mogadorian growls at my helper. "You traitor, Adamus! You dare help these inferiors? I'll kill you myself!"

Adamus merely laughs bitterly. "You're on the wrong side, Ivanick. These Loric are kids-just unlucky people caught up in a war they didn't ask for. It's not their fault."

The person in the light steps out of it, and I can see him. He looks only a year older than me, with slightly pale skin. He's my height. And judging by his use of telekinesis, he's a Garde.

But at the same time, he looks like a Mogadorian. He points at Ivanick, and Adamus jumps in front of him. "Don't!"

The boy looks at him. "Why not? Why shouldn't I kill you, too?" Adamus is scared, I can see, but he talks. "He's my brother. I'm an ally."

"He tried to kill her." The boy points at me. "He's just misguided," Adamus pleads. Meanwhile, Ivanick is shouting.

"...MISGUIDED?! YOU WEAK, PATHETIC HYPOCRITE…."

"Shut up." The boy says in a bored voice, before knocking Ivanick's head against the wall. Adamus jumps. I grab my stuff and shove it in my bag.

The boy looks at Adamus. "I'll give you one chance, since she seems to trust you." Adamus relaxes visibly. "Thank you."

The boy moves his hand from right to left and the table comes over and crushes the Mogs to the floor, knocked out cold.

We walk out, the new boy looking very sassy.

And then something tackles Adamus from behind.

He screams somewhat like a girl, probably because of the nasty shock being attacked gave him. We whirl around and see Ivanick, his arm wrapped around Adamus' throat. Adamus struggles, but it's immediately clear that he can't get out of the other Mogadorian's choke hold. The boy, recovering from his original shock, rains down punches and kicks on Ivanick's wide back, serving only to make him madder.

If Mogadorians' body is as similar as it looks to a human's, there are several ways to incapacitate the attacker without giving bruises all over his body. I straighten my hand into a board and rush in, karate-chopping the back of Ivanick's neck. He stiffens and his eyes roll back in his head before he falls. Adamus lands on all fours, sucking in huge breaths. He looks up at me gratefully.

We drag Ivanick's body into my room and walk down to the street. Adamus hotwires a car and begins driving. I realize something after a minute.

"Where's my Cêpan?" Both of them grow quiet. I feel a rush of panic. "WHERE IS MY CÊPAN?" I demanded. Adamus looks at me solemnly. "He's dead." he answers bluntly, trying to be sympathetic-which seems to be difficult for him. I blink slowly. This was always a possibility, but now that it's happened, I can't process it.

I have to get out of here, out of this enclosed space with two strangers. I've never been one to show my emotions, and it's hard to hide them now.

"Let me out of this car. LET ME OUT!" I scream, bashing against the door. The boy turns around quickly and reaches for at me. I know what he is about to do. I feel a rush of power, and the last thing I remember is the sensation of falling.