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 3: The Hunt for Number Three
The gentle lapping of the waves at my feet sends pure serenity through my veins. With each step on the shore, I leave an imprint of my foot in the sand. The footprint serves as a reminder of what was once on that very spot. But of course, the water delivers more wet sand into the pit and my print disappears. That effectively embodies what my life has been: a series of homes but nothing to show for it.
I was only three when I left Lorien, and even now I can only boast an age of 12. I have been on the top of the Mogadorians' most wanted list for three years now. I'm not about to give them an easy kill. I am Number Three. But the people of Earth know me as Allison Smith.
Marissa is sunning herself on our deck. She's my cêpan, but as far as Earthlings know, she is my aunt. I am told that I am not the only member of my family still alive. I am the little sister of Number Eight. Eight is 13 now and will likely acquire a first legacy soon.
In any case, I am determined to stay alive so that Eight won't ever be hunted by the Mogs.
Not like I was.
When I was seven, Marissa and I had been staying in Florence. The Mogs had caught our tail back in Zurich, Switzerland. I had made the mistake of wiping the sweat off my pendant and onto a napkin at our table. Unfortunately for Marissa and I, the Mogs had caught our scent a while back and they were now trying to identify exactly who in Florence was the extraterrestrial of interest.
Anyway as soon as Marissa and I left the small diner, we were grabbed from behind and taken into a dark alley (there are plenty in Florence). One Mog held my feet to the ground while another pinned my arms down. Before the Mogs dared to commit any serious act of violence, they checked my ankles to ensure that I was a Garde. They found no scars on my right ankle, as Number One had not been killed yet. But on my left ankle, they found my own scar, the scar that represents three. Luckily for us, the Mogs didn't know about the charm yet, and the commander stepped forward to drive a blade through my heart. He had a truly repulsive appearance. His skin was ghostly pale, but his eye orbits were a sickening bluish-purple color.
"It'll be splendid to personally give your pendant to our leader." The Mog's voice seemed to coil its chilling tone around my throat. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak and I couldn't breath. Marissa didn't seem to have any more courage than I did. She was pinned to a wall by two Mogs twice her size. Poor thing. The commander wasted no time disposing of me. He raised his ghoulish sword and with a grunt, he plunged it straight into my chest.
But I didn't die. I felt a flutter where the blade made contact with my skin, and before the commander had the opportunity to show any surprise, he burst into a cloud of dust. The remaining Mogs stared at me in horror. Without a second's delay, I was up and sprinting towards the street. Behind me I could hear whispers of shock and awe coming from the Mogs.
A screech echoed to my right, followed by a horn. I turned to see a frightened bus driver vainly trying to stop his bus. It hit me full force. I could hear crunching of bones and metal. Again the charm had saved my life. The bones I heard crunching were those of the bus driver's. He looked like a flattened piece of paper stuck to his seat. Before I had any time to cry or run or whatever I would have done, Marissa had taken me by my left arm (apparently the Mogs were so shocked by my display of immortality that Marissa had simply shaken loose and run after me). The next day, I woke up in Lyon, France.
Here we are, about five or six years later in St. Pete Beach, Florida. Marissa discovered a small community comprised of mostly elderly people in a place called Passe-a-Grille. She enjoys tanning on the deck of our two-story town home.
"In a couple minutes, we'll head over to the Hurricane to get some lunch. Sound good, Anya?"
"Sounds lovely!" I really like Passe-a-Grille. During spring and summer, tourists flock to small inns littered throughout the community, but during November, sunny days like today are all for the locals to enjoy. During high tide, the Gulf of Mexico washes so far up the beach that you can walk along the edge of the water and remain within earshot of the house. Nothing could ruin this moment.
The palm trees release a soothing harmony as they sway in the wind. I'm told that on Lorien, palm trees were not considered most beautiful by the ocean, but instead the Loric people always enjoyed bragging about how much of a canopy their palm trees could develop in a jungle. The canopies of Lorien teemed with life, it all seemed to be cohesive. To be honest I'm not even sure if animals even adhered to a food chain on Lorien. By all accounts it seemed utopic, almost too perfect to exist.
My hair suddenly stands on edge. My survival sense has suddenly turned on. I glance down the beach and notice a couple of tall men in trench coats that suddenly appeared about 300 feet up the beach.
Darn Mogs! With my superb eyesight, I can see the two men in great detail. Who wears a trench coat to a beach on a sunny day in Florida? Seriously? Who does that?!
I waste no time. Within thirty seconds I'm on the deck where Marissa is. With my enhanced athleticism I can jump on the side of the house, push off and spring towards a nearby palm tree, wrap my arms around the tree and propel myself into the air and land on the deck of my house.
"We have to go now!"
"What's wrong?" She gazes at me quizzically. I think she may be more tired of moving from place to place than I am.
"Mogs up the beach coming this way. No time to talk, we have to run."
Marissa doesn't need to be told twice. She is already throwing on a tank top and a flowered dress. We don't even bother to grab anything as we run to our Nissan Rogue parked on the street. We always leave our car on the street, it allows for a quick getaway.
I take on last sentimental look at our beach home. We have an assortment of welcoming decorations such as a dolphin saying "there's no place like the beach" on the wall by the dining room table. I'm gonna miss this place. But I know that I have no time to make a mental picture of my home. I need to get out of here and fast.
Marissa has already started the car by the time I reach the passenger door.
"Ok, so Passe-a-Grille is a peninsula," Marissa thinks aloud, "which means that the Mogs have probably blocked out all roads leaving this area. We need to use an alternate route."
What Marissa really means is take the jet skis we have tied up to a marina on the other side of the peninsula.
We travel about four blocks and turn left. The sight we find is horrific.
The marina is surrounded by repulsive beings in trench coats.
"Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!" (Yes this would be dirtier if I knew who my audience was :)) I'm screaming in panic now. Before this moment I was confident that we would escape and move up north to New York or something. But not anymore. I can't control my emotions like I had been up to this point. It's something Marissa always emphasized: never lose your cool in battle.
"Uh ok. It's alright. We should've expected this..." Marissa is close to tearing up, and I am surprised to notice that salty tears are now streaking my cheeks. "We need to swim out to Eckerd College. They have a marina. There's no way the Mogs have gotten there."
"How far is that? I don't know if I can do this, Marissa. You know I've never been big on swimming."
"Nine years ago our entire race was decimated, and they wanted to ensure that you got off that planet safely. So whether you think you can do it or not is irrelevant. When I count to three, we're dashing out of this car and making a break for the water, you got that?"
I know she's right. She always is. I nod my head, trying to remember what Melissa taught me about keeping my emotions in check.
"One."
As if there wasn't enough adrenaline in me already, I feel yet another dose get released. I unbuckle my seat belt.
"Two."
Two. If only Two hadn't died, then I wouldn't be in this mess! Why couldn't I be lucky and have been Number Eight or Nine? I grab the door handle, ready to bust out of our car and dive into the ocean.
"Three."
Marissa and I are like a blur. We scale stone safety wall and plunge into the water in less than a second. The water feels like a thousand daggers piercing my flesh. The water has always been something that intimidated me, but now it is my only escape. Oh the irony! Within a few seconds I've put about 20 feet between myself and the wall. I begin to claw at the water. I need to force myself forward. Gotta propel myself a little faster. This is it. This is the beginning of my battle with the Mogadorians, and I'm not gonna lose!
I take a quick glance behind me, surveying my surroundings. I already have about a 5-foot lead on Marissa. She makes eye contact with me and it's enough to say: keep going. You're the one who needs to make it out of this mess alive. Right as I turn back around, I see one of Eckerd College's Search and Rescue boats. I'm overcome with joy and relief.
That is until I see whose on this savior boat of mine. Mogs! Mogs all gazing at me over the railing! I begin to panic. I stop swimming and instead I am reduced to treading water like a helpless baby. By Lorien, I hate the water!
Marissa is behind me and she wraps her arm around my waist and begins to pull me north, towards a house's private dock. Of all the names Marissa has called herself over the years, Marissa, Jasmine, Sarabia, Athena, Fiona and Perrine, I have always secretly considered her name to be "mom."
The dock is about 60 feet away. I'm not sure how long I can remain afloat in the water. Nevertheless, I gulp a large quantity of air and make a desperate attempt to reach the dock. With only one breath between where I pulled away from Marissa in the water and the dock, I manage to get a grasp on one of the wooden planks.
I clear the water by pushing myself onto the center of the dock. I take a glance back and I'm devastated at the sight I face. Of all the horrific sights for a young Garde to behold, none are as bad as seeing your beloved cêpan's head with a harpoon entering the left side and exiting the right. Her facial expression before she died seemed to be one of desperation: she was begging for me to reach this dock.
I'm tempted to bawl until one of the Mogs reaches me. But I never earn that opportunity. I'm pulled up forcibly from behind. Only this isn't a person helping me to my feet. This individual has already wrapped her hand around my pendant. Wait a minute, a female Mog? Suddenly, my pendant thrown over my head and is now secure in my captor's hand. I face her: she has a nearly identical appearance to the Mogadorian warriors described to me by Marissa. Her only exceptions are instead of black eyes, she has red ones, and she seems to be slightly shorter and not as muscular as the average male Mog. Almost immediately, I realize that my observation will only condemn me to death: this woman-thing is determined to prove to her male cohorts that she too can kill, and she plans to use me as a demonstration.
I squirm desperately to get away. It's futile: I'm a dead Garde. I can't believe it. Tears begin to surface in my eyes. I'm sorry Number Eight, I guess you'll never know who your sister was. I'm sorry Lorien, I failed my mission, I'll never get to return to you ever again. And more than anything: I'm sorry Marissa, I shouldn't have been so careless as to avert my attention from my surroundings like I did moments ago. I can't take knowing that I'll be a scar on the right ankle of six alien children somewhere on this planet. But it's alright, I don't have to wait long for my end to come.
"Foolish child," the Mog hisses in broken English, "you never had a chance of making an escape from this peninsula. You should've killed yourself. At least that way, you could've decided how your life ended."
As these words exit her mouth, I feel a dreadful, painful, numbing sensation come from my lower abdomen. Her ghoulishly white sword has penetrated from my lower abdomen up into my chest.
And then I catch my last glimpse of daylight.