Chapter Two

Marina

Mexico City is buzzing with noise and colour, people's rosy cheeks glowing like fireflies and I'm amazed by the beautiful chaos of it while looking through the apartment window. I wish the life would be as vibrant in here.

The small dingy apartment is cramped and smells like a mixture of mould and sour milk – but it was the best we could do, and is a lot more preferable than the streets and the convent. And everyone in here is silent or asleep, with such a large number of us, we all fear getting caught. And after the last battle, the chances of us winning are too low to risk.

However we won't be staying here for long. Nine suggested that we train in Chicago and John agreed – in spite of the two arguing over everything else. We're only here to throw the Mogadorians off our tails, give them a false trail and then we'd go to Nine's place.

There are eleven of us; Four, Six, Me, Eight, Nine, Ella, Sarah, Bernie Kosar and three unexpected guests; Sam a friend of John's from his old school, his father Malcolm, and Adamus, where there are several mixed views.

Nine and Six wanted to kill him; Nine was more forceful than six, saying if he betrayed one race why wouldn't he do it again, and due to Six's bad past with Mogs she wasn't keen on letting him live. The rest of us decided to give him a chance, we didn't know him but Malcolm's versions of events made us respect him, well most of us.

But he's alive on the couch snoring, he passed out from exhaustion. John and I could heal the broken bones but it's impossible to heal a mind that needs to be rested. Adamus can do that by himself.

I feel slightly nervous when he's around, although recently that's all I feel – impossibly nervous. I glance at six to my right who's curled up in a ball and I want to be strong like her; physically and mentally, but instead I'm nervous, weak, Marina.

Coughing, John puts his hand to his chest, he inhaled slightly too much smoke after our escape, but he insisted he was fine, and he can always heal himself if it comes to the worst. That didn't stop Sarah worrying.

She's next to him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her blonde hair a halo of gold. She breathes lightly and I'm surprised John's whooping coughing did not wake her up, but she seems steadily in sleep.

Although Six suggests she may not be blonde for longer – her pretty appearance is easily recognisable. Along with Nine's long hair and Eight's curls, and before we leaving the majority of us will be getting a haircut. It's a shame; I like Eight's curls.

There's four of us awake: me, John, Malcolm and Ella. Malcolm is flicking through a laptop which we managed to buy since Ella's letter contained Crayton's credit card. The poor dove is terrified to open it, but after she felt the credit card, she quickly removed it, and returned to a quiet state, screwing up her face and attempting telekinesis which has failed several times now.

As soon as we found somewhere to stay, Eight encouraged Ella to message Five. She couldn't, she blames herself. We suggested that maybe her telepathy was limited at far distances but that didn't satisfy her, Eight also said that maybe since she didn't know Five and that's why it didn't work, but Ella didn't believe that either.

After Six mentioned Five blocking telepathy, it killed the conversation.

I look at Ella and mouth, "Five."

Her wide set brown eyes gaze at me as she slowly shakes her head and then I hear her voice in my head: I'm going to bed now, I'll see you later.

I wave at Ella. This is too much for a twelve year old or even someone my age. But we can't choose our fates, the best we can do is handle them.

To my right I hear a shuffle and Six has woken up. Her blonde hair is dishevelled and in noticeably shorter since she cut some off a few hours ago. She looks at me closely, "Marina when was the last time you slept?"

I shrug my shoulders, not because I didn't care but I forgot the last time I slept, I was too busy with the dramatic change of my life, not being in a Convent and finally being free to notice my own body rebelling against me. The adrenalin was more powerful than coffee.

"You should go to sleep," Six whispers, "Have that beauty sleep for Eight."

I roll my eyes; I had barely spoken to Eight since we escaped Dulce. What do I say? I kissed you because I thought you were going to die? That was conversation killer.

I don't regret kissing him. But I blush the colour of a tomato whenever I think about it. I am not spontaneous, I am safe and predictable. I am not Gabby Garcia, I don't change out of the convent clothes to impress boys. But Eight isn't like the other boys.

In spite of my conflicting emotions towards Eight, I squeeze my eyes shut, murmuring a good night and god bless to whoever was listening.

My dreams are haunted by the same images as they were in Spain; Six lying dead.

She's on a battle field, her hair raven black again. Her face is smeared with blood, a ghost of a smile lying on her lips, while she lies like Medusa's victims. I remember the myth, of how the monster froze heroes with mere eye contact. But that's only and old story. This is real, very real.

I rush to wake her, tears streaming down my cheeks and I can taste the saltiness in my mouth. I place my hands on her sides, praying to whatever god, Loric or human that would save my best friend. I do my best to summon the cold feeling in my hands, to see Six twirling and joking around with Eight one more time, or ferociously working up a storm.

However I know all my efforts are futile. She's definitely dead.

I look around the barren landscape, blanketed with sand. However on further inspection the sand is Mog dust, Six went down bringing thousands of Mogs with her. Even in my dreams she's thousands more heroic than I could ever wish to be.

The image changes and instead of the nightmare of Six's corpse I am presented with a young boy with toffee coloured skin and huge green eyes. Eight, I think instantly. Just by the way he's runs, his hands out to the side as if he's taking off like a majestic bird is noticeable even if he is about eight years ago. Part of me wishes to run along aside him, be daring, be reckless although I stand still.

Another figure emerges, his skin the colour of ink wearing thick glasses. He has wrinkles at his eyes when someone smiles too much. Reynolds. This must have been before they met Lola as Reynolds was staring at Eight if he was the most important person in the world. Like when a father stares at a son.

I finally understand Eight's description of him – always laughing and a bright character. He had that eternal youthfulness that you only see in children, except it was in a middle-aged man. Reynolds was probably shorter thank me however beneath his sweater it was obvious there was muscles.

The scene is happy and sad at the same time. Happy in the present – a man and a child who clearly seems to be his son, and sad in past tense – Reynolds is dead and Eight isn't that nine year old anymore.

And once again I am shown another vision and somehow and I'm not sure if it's a new legacy or not but I know its present. I am in a dark and dingy room, which stinks of alcohol and cigarettes and I feel as if the smell is strangling me.

Could this be where Setrákus Ra talked to Eight in his dreams? Surely though Eight would have mentioned the size of the room or the smell or that the floor is a sea of liquor bottles and empty cigarette packets?

However when a man walks in, he is no Setrákus Ra. For starters he has no scar around his neck only stubble. He looks well dishevelled; the man hasn't shaved or washed his hair in a few days, dirt cakes his face and also something that looks suspiciously like blood, and his red rimmed eyes had dark shadows beneath them, and his clothes are ruffled and stained. Plus he adds heavily to the awful smell in the room.

Even with the shabby appearance he still looks somewhat comely with a straight nose, a strong jaw, black hair and dark eyes but it definitely seems that his appearance isn't high up on his agenda.

He picks up papers and desperately searches through them and on closer inspection the papers are news articles on strange sightings. Similar to the ones which I had been looking for on a computer in Spain, some words are highlighted and annotated in a language I can't read, but some of those words are underlined.

And then it hits me like a bullet – he's looking for the Garde. He doesn't seem like a major science fanatic, nothing seems to prove it, and on one of the walls next to a huge crack swarming with cockroaches and flies lays a map, and one specific place circled on it is a town in Brazil.

I vaguely remember a conversation between John and Nine how Five was recently in Brazil however quickly left. Is this a man who is hunting Five?

Poor Five is alone, or possibly with their Cepan, but whoever Five is, they are hopelessly outnumbered if faced with an army of Mogs, or humans. And there is strength in numbers. Part of me is scared if Five will fall alone, and have no one to help them, like numbers One, Two and Three and will just be a symbol on the surviving Garde's leg.

I will not let that happen.

I try to steal the papers the man was looking at, temporarily forgetting it's a dream however my hands slides through the papers effortlessly, like it was a simple illusion. Dreams are illusions.

However the man backs away and pulls a gun from his jeans, "Who's there?" he yells.

Part of me wants to pull something Eight or Six would do, say something funny like "the ghost from your past."

But I'm not funny. I'm Marina.

Although he seems to calm down, his shoulders slack and continue to observe the map, there are little red dots in other places. And my heart freezes as I find on right where Adelina and I used to live. He told the Mogs where we were.

I also see dots in Ohio, where John used to live and a question mark in Chicago, where Nine currently has an apartment. There's also a dot in New York, and Six trusted me here story of her in the Mog's cells, and she was caught in New York.

I flicked my eyes to the East of the map and find a dot in India too. Whoever this man is, he's a danger to all the Garde and the most secure way to get rid of a danger is to kill it. Even if the thought of killing makes my insides squirm.

Before I can achieve that my name is whispered but not by the man. Someone in reality – Eight, Six or whoever – is waking me up. But I don't want to; it's vital that I need to know more, to find out who this man really is.

The voices say my name louder and panic echoes through my dream, and clear bright light fills my vision instead of the awful room and I can smell nothing peculiar now.

Searching my face, Eight is above me. A thin layer of sweat coating his forehead, his dark curls slightly damp, he shakes me, "Marina, we need to go now. The Mogs are here."

Author's note: Two chapters down, and who knows how many more to go! Another Lost Files out tomorrow and I'm praying it doesn't destroy what I've planned out, but I've made space for change.

Oh, and this chapter is set a few hours after Dulce, thus explaining why they are with Sam, Malcolm and Adamus.

Let me know what you think!