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As a kid, John thought everyone had an “arm penpal”. Someone who was only an old ballpoint pen away, and who always answered. It was the one constant in his life, for the few months he could talk to them.
The day he told Henri about his friend, they were in an old, red truck. One of many that the two of them would drive on their one of many trips across the United States. They were cruising from a small town outside of Snoqualmie, Washington, to another small town on the outskirts of Baltimore. Their home in Snoqualmie was constantly cold and letting air in. Winter jackets became as common as regular shirts. Because of this, John’s conversations had remained private. 9 year old John had become restless, not something he usually considered himself to be. He had been digging through the glove compartment in search of anything he could contact his friend with.
“What are you looking for?” Henri chucked, and tugged him back onto the front seat.
“A pen.” He said, now rifling through the plastic grocery bag with Henri’s fake ID, the atlas, and their phones. John’s chest was tucked securely under his seat.
“I can’t imagine what you need a pen for right now.” Henri smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“To talk to a friend.” His smile faltered. A few minutes passed in silence, before Henri spoke again. He had measured his words carefully.
“And how do you… talk to this friend?” He said slowly.
“On my arm.” John looked up at Henri. “Don’t you do that too?” Henri didn’t speak for another minute, just chewed on his lip.
“Why did you not tell me about this earlier?” He had said, not unkindly, but still firmly. John stopped his search for a pen. He shrugged.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, I just didn’t say anything.” Henri rubbed the bridge of his nose. They drove in silence for a minute.
“I do not think it’s a good idea for you to talk to her right now.”
“Why!?” He said. “I would know if I was talking to a
mogadorian!”
“I’m not trying to say that she is one, I’m saying it’s not worth the risk. We’re not supposed to know where the other Garde are and-“
“I haven’t told them where we’re living!” John had cried. But Henri wouldn’t budge.
From that day forward, all the pens, markers and pencils had been kept close to Henri. His friend would write to him every day, the notes growing more frantic, and John wished he could respond, but it was all fruitless. For a while, John tried to sneak into the office and grab something, anything, to talk to his friend with, but Henri was exceptional at hiding things. Eventually, he stopped getting messily-written notes, and they fell into silence. After a while, John blamed the whole ordeal on an overactive imagination. Because the idea of being able to talk to someone on his arm was childish. Like having some kind of imaginary friend. That’s what he believed until eating dinner one night in Paradise.
When you’re stuck rotting away in a Mogadorian prison, push-ups get real stale. And it’s even worse when the only thing keeping you company is the dread of another scar and the new skittish-looking mog that stands outside your cell and brings you stale bread. The boringness of the prison leaves plenty of room for Nine to be alone within his thoughts. Sometimes they’re about Sandor, sometimes it’s Maddie. Sometimes it’s even Lorien. But one day, a new memory resurfaced. Him and Sandor in a Motel room, staring eagerly at his forearm, as words in blue ink slowly appear. He doesn’t even know what they said, just remembers the complete joy he felt when he would read them.
He rockets up from his place on the ceiling and jumps, admittedly not that far, down to the floor, next to the blue force field. He tries to cast as much light as he can onto his arm, but avoids the blue field. His forearm was just as blank as before. But he hadn’t expected anything new. Not since he was 10. He sat, reliving the memories. The pure excitement that he felt every time his arm would tickle, and he would call for Sandor. He had told Nine that he didn’t know why this happened, but looking back, Nine could see a glint of recognition (or was it mischief?) in his eyes every time he said that.
Well, if Sandor had been planning on telling him about it, he wasn’t able to now.
Thinking of Sandor stung, but Nine squashes the regret. He now had a plan.
Something he hasn’t had beyond “get buff and punch mogs”. He positioned himself at the opening of his cell and stopped repeatedly on the ground, startling the skittish guard mog. The very cave beneath him shook. An advantage of being strong, even for a garde. The mog guard turns around. He was clearly attempting to hide his nerves. Nine puts his hands on the small cell door frame, trying to look tough and intimidating. The entrance was small, and he practically filled up the whole thing when standing like this. The mog gulped. Despite there being a blue force field between them, the mog was still scared. Maybe it’s because he had to be the 15th one dispatched just to watch over Nine.
“Hey.” Nine barks. “Bring me a pen. Now.” He puffed out his chest, and set his jaw.
“Y-you’re in no position to make demands.” The guard sputtered, trying to act just as intimidating. After a beat, Nine took a new approach. He leaned as much as he could on the lip of the door, and crossed his arms.
“Do you know how the charm thing works?” He waved a lazy hand around, “If anything happens to me, it would be reflected on the dipshit responsible. And if I were to do this-“ he thrusts his extended finger toward the shield, stopping a millimeter before it touches. The guard lurched forward, like he was trying to stop him. “-the dipshit responsible in this circumstance would be you. So,” Nine claps his hands “how about that pen?”. The guard hesitates, then runs off. Nine sits back on the wall of his cell, pleased.
The spell wouldn’t have done anything to the guard, but he didn’t need to know that.
The sound of the guard’s footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. After a few minutes, the guard shuffled back into Nine’s narrow view of the hallway. He extended the pen out, and shoved it through the force field. The mob was careful not to touch the field himself, only pushing the pen through most of the way. Things could go into his cell, but never out. The mog turns around and shuffles to his place outside the cell. Nine snatches the pen with his mind and spins it in the air. It was a plastic ballpoint. One that has many colors for some reason. Nine clicks the black color and sticks out his arm. But before he puts the pen to skin, he freezes. What was he gonna say? For all he knew, the person he talked to was a trap, set up by mogs, or one of the already dead garde. He puzzled in silence for a minute, failing to come up with a plan. So Nine wings it.
John sits with Henri at their rickety dining room table. The chili that John had recently learned how to make, sits in front of him. Henri eyes the chili suspiciously, but eats it nevertheless. They sit in silence, when John’s arm starts to itch. It starts small, then slowly spreads up the inner side of his left forearm. He absentmindedly scratches at it as Henri looks up, and drops his spoon with a clatter. John jumps and stares at him.
“Wha-“ he starts
“John. Your arm.” He says hushed. Puzzled, he flips his arm over to look at the underside and takes a sharp breath in. Words scrawled in black ink, are slowly appearing, as if an invisible hand were scribing them on his arm. John looks up at Henri, wide eyed. He frantically waves his arms, as if saying read it! read it!. John looks back down, the itch fading. The handwriting was messy, all cramped over to the left side, as if there was limited light.
“ Hey. I don’t know if you’re even alive, yet alone real, but if you see this, can we ‘talk’? Thanks and don’t be dead ”. John can’t help but laugh. Whether it was out of confusion, or the hilarity of the whole situation, he doesn’t know. But one thing was for sure, he was happy that his memories weren’t lying to him. He hadn’t imagined a friend he could talk with via writing on their arms. Henri looked like he was gonna faint.
“Hey Henri, you all right?” John says, eighty alarmed. He nodded, and rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“I was hoping to avoid this conversation. But I guess we're having it now.”
“What conversation? Henri what’s going on?!” A note of fear creeped into John’s voice.
“It’s nothing to be scared about.” Henri said quickly, and stood up. He motions John to follow and they walk into his office, where Henri pulls out a pen. “Can I see your arm?” John holds it up and Henri reads it. He sighs and hands John a pen.
“Henri what’s going on?” John repeats, louder this time.
“On Lorien, there was a rare gift, something that both garde and cêpan shared. And it was the possibility of a soulmate. That’s the closest earth definition I can think of. Two people who Lorien herself would decide were made for each other would be connected at the soul and have special… abilities because of it. Every pair is different. Some people can hear what their soulmates are hearing, some have special marks because of it, and even some would be blind until they see their soulmate. There were some general themes to every possible one though, and they would often repeat, but no two pairs would have the same combination of ‘abilities’.” He paused. “You and, whoever this is, seem to have one of the more common symptoms. Being able to transfer messages via writing on skin.” John stands in silence, stunned.
“So, you’re saying that I have a soulmate?” Henri nods. John runs a hand through his blonde hair. Henri looks at him expectantly. “It’s a lot to take in.” He says eventuality. “It has to be another garde member, right?” Henri nods.
“No other options. Soulmates have to be born within 5 years of each other. At least I think so.”
“Well, yea it’s not gonna be a cêpan, that I know. My question is could she be human…?” He says slowly. Henri sighs again.
“No, it can’t be Sarah.” John visibly deflates. “I'm sorry John, but it just can’t be her.” Henri pats him on the shoulder. His other hand taps the pen, still clutched in John’s fist. “Why don’t you go to your room and get re-connected with her? I’m sure she’ll be wonderful.” He says gently. “But, er, don’t share any details. Not even your number. You never know what could happen.” John looks up and smiles, looking sadder than he intended.
Nine had almost given up hope, because how do you miss a message written on your fucking arm, before he remembered that different time zones exist. He settles back on the wall, ready to sleep, the pen tucked somewhere in his hair for safekeeping. He closes his eyes, and opens them immediately. The tickling sensation spreads across his arm. It feels familiar, like smelling your favorite restaurant after not going for years. He crams himself into the corner by the door, trying to get as much light as possible on his arm. Relatively neat words were appearing across his arm. “It’s nice to hear see your writing again. It’s been awhile. And no, I’m not dead. Nine“s heart was about to explode. He was right! They were real! He excitedly digges through his hair to grab the pen.
Glad to know that your you're alive.
What did you want to talk about? Nine sat, frozen. What could he say? ‘Hey! I’m stuck in a mog prison and have no way of getting out? Will you come rescue me like a damsel in distress and break the charm which is the only thing keeping us safe?’ Yea no. He thought about it. Well, a revised version of this would work.
I’m stuck in a mog base
WHAT
I guess it’s more of a prison. A beat passes. The other person seems to be struggling with what to say. Because what can you say to that?
Where is the prison
They clearly didn’t tell me
How did you get caught? Nine snarls. Of course they have to ask that.
I don’t want to talk about it.
I’m sorry . There was a pause before, I assume you’re not close to #4? Appears on his arm.
Yea definitely not
Don’t say your actual number to me
Why?
Just wanna be safe. Nine was starting to need to write small to cram it all in.
How long do you think these marks last? Another pause.
My cêpan says about 12 hours
Well that’s one way I’ll be able to tell time . The conversation was more awkward than Nine intended, but they were quickly running out of room, and Nine had no interest in trying to keep a conversation going on his legs. But before he left, he had one more question. Hey, do you know why we can do this? The other person hesitates, before the words appear on his bicep.
It’s because we’re soulmates.
John woke up the next day and got dressed for school in the dark. When he flicks the lights on, he does a double take at the black ink that scrawled across his left arm. He went back and changed into long sleeves. It should be gone in a few hours. Some writing was still visible on his palms that he tried to scrub off to no avail. Henri was downstairs, doing his usual thorough comb through of the news, the whole pot of coffee next to him. He wishes John a good day and hands him Bernie Kosar’s leash. They go on their usual run to school.
It’s about 30 minutes before the first hour begins, and about 45 minutes before his marks should go away. He sighs and gets out the homework from last night. He hadn’t managed to get it done. Wonder why.
As time creeps on, more students show up, including Sarah. He pulls her into a good morning hug, that turns into a good morning kiss. They track down Sam and head inside. John pulls the sleeve of his shirt until it covers most of his palm. As the bell rings, he sets a mental timer for when the marks are gone.
15 minutes. The teacher is doing attendance.
10 minutes. He’s now struggling to get his projector to work.
5 minutes. He’s finally got it to work and now wants them to get out their homework from last night.
At one minute John peeks at the back of his hand. His stomach dropped. The pen was still there. But he has to stay calm, or a much more problematic thing could happen with his hand. He’s still not gotten used to the whole “hand could light up at any second due to high emotion” aspect of his legacy yet.
When the bell rings for the next class, he drops his stuff off and runs to the bathroom, pen in hand. He thrusts open a stall door. He yanks off the cap with his teeth and rolls up his right sleeve. John messily writes “ I think it must take 24 hours ” and there was a beat before he gets a response.
Has it been 12 hours?
Yea
Must be
Hope it’s not permanent btw are you right handed?
Yes. How could you tell? haha. John bounces on the balls of his feet, listening hard for the sounds of footsteps.
I’m ambidextrous
cool. Look, I gotta go.
Why?
John groans impatiently and scribbles.
School.
Oh wow you go to school?
Before John could respond, a pair of dirty sneakers walked in. A very familiar pair of dirty sneakers. John hurriedly shoves his sleeve down and puts the pen in his pocket. Sam already suspected something was up because of Halloween, and John didn’t want to add to that.
As the weeks go by, John would just talk to his soulmate like they were texting. Now that it was December, longer clothes were more acceptable he felt more comfortable with writing to his soulmate. He quickly learned that they were sassy, and saying that they hated mogs was an understatement. They were excited to rip every mog appart. John was a little apprehensive of this side of his soulmate, but he can’t help but fall for it all the same.
The day Sam would find out about his soulmate would always be interesting, but John hadn’t expected it to go like this.
Sam stands at his usual spot in the backyard, fire extinguisher in hand and Henri at his side. John’s task was simple. Carefully control his fire so there was no true flame and just heat. Then, melt through some old metal pipe that the school was gonna throw away. Oh, and John has to be holding up Henri and Sam with his mind the whole time. So maybe it wasn’t that simple.
His eyes are screwed shut, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of using his telekinesis and lumen for hours. Just letting go and having the fire spread uncontrollably was easy, but trying to contain and control it took some more work. John slowly heats up his hands, fingers shaking from holding back his usual, barely contained way of creating fireballs. The ache in his temples made him lightheaded.
The taut rubber band that was his grip on his legacy snaps.
His eyes roll back and John's fist unleashes a near explosion of fire. It washes over his arms. His sleeve catches some of the flames, but there is nothing he can do. There was the sound of Sam and Henri crunching into the snow, followed by rushed footsteps. John crumples backwards, the fire still spreading up his arms. Sam unleashes a spray from the fire extinguisher, which seems to snap John back to the world. He rockets up and coughs from the smoke and extinguisher fumes. Henri kneels by his side. Sam lets out a little gasp.
“John- I think it actually burned you this time!” He panics. Sam sits next to him and tears off the remains of his sleeve. Before John or Henri could protest, Sam picks up his arm. He cranes his neck to look at the “burns”. After a heavy pause, Sam looks up. “I swear they looked like burns at a glance.” John chuckles. Sam looks down again, puzzled. “But why are you- what is this?” Sam sputters. John looks at Henri for permission. He gives a “ might as well” shrug. John turns back to Sam.
“Can we at least go inside first?”
“A soulmate?” Sam repeats incredulously. Henri nods, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. He looks over at John, in a “ is he kidding?” kinda way. John nods, setting his own cup on the dining room table in front of him. Bernie Kosar sat curled on the chair next to him.
“Yep. We can talk via writing on our skin.” Sam’s eyes were as wide as a dinner plate. He turns back to Henri, but before he can speak, Henri jumps the gun and begins an explanation. Sam just sits there and soaks it all in, the way he did when he first found out about legacies.
After the shock wears off, Sam turns back to John and sizes him up. The corners of his mouth twitch.
“Don’t you dare laugh.” John says. Sam tries to swallow his smile.
“I’m not!” He protests, face turning red trying to stop himself.
“I swear to god Sam-” John threatens, barely controlling his own grin.
“It is pretty silly when you think about it.” Henri says, sipping his coffee. Sam cracks. He howls with laughter, leaning back in his chair.
“Sto-op!” John cries, burying his face in his hands, trying to hide his own giggling. “It’s not funny!” Sam sets his chair back down and wipes a tear from his eye.
“My alien best friend’s soul is connected with another alien’s soul because a living planet decided it would play matchmaker and thought that you two would be a cute couple. And you talk by WRITING ON YOUR SKIN!” Sam’s laughter was infectious.
“Well when you say it like that !” John says between gasps for air. Henri chortles.
“To be fair, on Lorien, it was also a funny thing to everyone.”
Yes, the whole soulmate thing was kinda dumb. And yes, it is weird to be attached to someone that you have no memory of seeing. Hell, he doesn’t even know their name or number. Yet, John felt so close to them. It feels so real. It doesn’t really occur to him that he does not remember meeting them. They could be that dark haired girl who carved her number into her bed out of defiance, or the curly haired girl who played with the lanky boy. Or even the rebellious blonde girl, who stood on the tables and shouted to get everyone’s attention. But he just couldn’t picture any of them when he talked to his soulmate. None of them felt quite like the right fit.
John would spend his days with Sam and Sarah, the three of them going on long walks in the snow, acting like normal teenagers, not worrying about saving Lorien. He would spend long nights just talking with his soulmate. That is, as much as they could fit. (John has gotten much better at writing small.)
Life seemed perfect.
But then the mogs came. Paradise Ohio was no longer safe. The charm was broken. Henri was dead. They had to flee.
Sitting on the motel bed, John recounted the whole story. He forced himself to tell it all, even what stings like open wounds every time he thought of them.
… my cêpan died. He just died. Right in front of me. There was nothing I could do. It was like I was just there to see him suffer. I can’t believe that he’s really gone. It all feels like a bad dream. There was a moment of tenderness that he hadn’t expected from his soulmate. After a hesitation, they respond.
Trust me, I know how that feels. My cêpan was tortured and dismembered right in front of me. They wanted information and I wouldn’t give it to them, even with Sandor like that. I couldn’t even let myself react to it. It feels like if I did, they would be winning. I miss him every day.
It’s usually strange to see someone crying over their forearm covered in fine tipped sharpie, but at this point, Six didn’t question it. Sam has to explain it on the way to the car.
When John’s Soulmate heard about the police helicopter incident, and that John is now considered a terrorist, they were thrilled. A little too excited about it in John’s opinion, but who was he to judge. They had asked for him to recount every detail and would be completely invested in the story. John guessed that they’re trying to live vicariously through him, and as John was their only connection to the world outside their cell, he could see why every detail was so special.
My soulmate is a badass. Always knew you would be
I’m not badass, you’d have done the same thing!
Yea cause I’m a badass duh
My soulmate is a overconfident bastard
You know it
Oh my god
After that, there was another fleeting moment of peace.
Life in the small house with the pool was good. It was another brief break from the real world. A break from interplanetary wars and legacies. To John, it felt like he was on a vacation with his 3 best friends. Well, 2 best friends, and one person who wasn’t really there in person where only he could talk with them and the romantic-platonic lines were getting a little fuzzy.
All was well yet again. Until John fell asleep in the dusty bedroom, and woke up in a prison cell.
John stures, he adjusts his arm, which was working as his makeshift pillow, and opens his eyes. For a second he thought he had kept them closed, but after a few seconds he registered the light coming from an opening. He yawned and stood up. He turned to look out the opening and did a double take. He looks around frantically. John is standing on one of the curved walls. He feels dizzy. He carefully lifts off a foot and sets it on the true floor. As if on instinct, his gravity shifts to the true floor and he crumbles onto it with a yelp.
John groans, clutching his head. He really gets a good look at the room he’s in. He was sitting at the bottom of what could be best described as a gumdrop shaped cell. John stands up, still holding his head. Standing by the middle-side, his head almost scrapes the top of the cell. John shakes his long, black hair out of his eyes.
Wait.
John’s hand shots up to his head, mind suddenly clear of the groggy feeling it just had. He didn’t imagine it. John looked down at the hand and realized it wasn’t his. He felt the face that wasn’t his, feeling the sharp cheekbones and surprisingly strong jawline. John tries to swallow the panic that's creeping up and threatening to spill over. He felt tall, and woah. Those are muscles. He flexed. Wow, does this guy do nothing but bench or something?
For the first time he registered the words scrawled all over his arms. John to the blue shield, and has to duck the curving ceiling toward the force field. He crams himself in as close as he can get, and holds out not-his arm. When he extends it, he grazes the field and an extreme pain shoots up his arm. It's a deeply rooted pain, one you can feel seep through your bones and poison your brain. John starts to feel woozy and his vision blurs. He inches away from the field. Forgetting that he’s 10 inches taller, he stands up, and whacks his head on the lowest part of the ceiling. John keels over. He wraps his head in his arms. Whatever is going on in my body, he thinks it can’t be worse than this.
He closes his eyes as consciousness slips from him.
Nine rocketed out of bed with a jolt. Wait, bed ? He looked down. Sure enough, he was sprawled out on a creaky bed. He held up the hands, which didn’t belong to him, and beneath the writing, his skin was paler, with only a tan from the sun. He whips not-his head up and stares around. This was definitely not the cell he was used to. A rush of adrenaline powering him, Nine leaps out of bed and sprints down the hallway. He hasn’t run like this in over a year. He’s noticeably shorter, by nearly a foot. Nine jumps, and instinctively tries to run up onto the wall, but he just falls back to the floor. So none of his legacies will work.
Fuck.
He sprints into the kitchen. An unfamiliar boy stands in front of the microwave waiting for it to be done. He turns when he hears the footsteps and screams when he sees Nine. Nine jumps, tackling the boy and expertly pinning his arms and legs. He looks confused and terrified, stuck practically helpless. Nine’s face has anger written all over it.
“Where am I?” He snarls. “Who are you?” The boy squirms, trying to free himself.
“SIX!” He shouts. The sound of a sliding glass door greets his ears. He looks up to see a girl, dripping wet, dressed in baggy clothes with raven black hair. Behind her is a creature with three earless rabbit-like heads on a raptor-ish body. They're both wearing the same look of confusion and rage on their faces. She rips him off of the boy with her mind, slamming him into the fridge. He telekinetically pulls out the knives from the knife block and hurls them at her. She pushes them aside and sprints forward. A kick to the head makes him see stars. The creature headbuts into him, hitting him in the side of his ribs. Two of its three heads are gone. He regains focus and grabs the girl in a bear hug, and throws her onto the ground. This move works much better when you have a wing span of over 6’ but it does the trick. She gasps, the wind knocked out of her. He’s ready to kick her, when there’s a click. The boy is holding a gun, aimed at Nine’s head. It was nearly point blank range.
“Stand down. All of you.” He says clearly. Keeping the gun on Nine, he helps the girl to her feet. They hobble over to the couch, supported by the creature. He digs through a pile of stuff on the coffee table, before the boy selects a rock and presses it to her ribs. Nine follows, adrenaline wearing off. He knew if it were his body he was in, that he’d be able to move out of the way of the gunshot no problem. But he wasn’t sure about this one. The girl thrashes with pain and he realizes he must’ve broken her ribs. He almost feels guilty. Almost, but not quite yet. He doesn’t know who they are yet, and more importantly, how they got him here and why.
“Sit down.” The boy commandes, gun still pointed. It was shaking slightly. Nine was already going to sit, but now he hesitates.
When he’s sitting, the boy slowly lowers the gun from Nine, who doesn’t react. “Alright. Who are you and what have you done with John?” The boy says, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. Nine cockes his head.
“Is that whose body this is? John?” The name tastes good in Nine’s mouth. John.
“You didn’t answer the question.” He says shankilly. “Where is John?”
“If I’m here, then he’s probably in a mog prison.” Nine glances down at the boy’s exposed ankle. No scars. The girl on the other hand, yep 1, 2, 3, all up her ankle. Before either of them could react, he looks up at the girl. “You’re loric.” It wasn’t up for debate.
“Are you?” She says, sticking her chin in the air. Nine snorts.
“Obviously.” He sits back on the couch. He looks at his folded arms and does a double take. The meaning of the words on his arms never sunk in until now. Something clicked into place. “Wait.” He looks up at them. “Are you Sam? And you,” he pauses. John had never told him her number, but Sam had called her Six earlier. “Six?” They look taken aback. They look at each other for help.
“Uh, yea.” Sam says. Nine’s brain was swimming.
“Then this must be…” he trails off. Six and Sam stare at him. He jumps up and runs down the hall, tearing open doors. He finds a bathroom and a mirror. He nearly gasps. The face reflecting back at him has blonde hair, eyes so blue that they look like the waters of Lake Michigan, and a handsome, square jawed face. Slight freckles dot his nose and cheeks. He runs a hand through the relatively short hair. It felt like he was growing out of a buzz cut. His hair falls with slight waves down his forehead and in the back the curls barely brush his neck. It was just the right length. There was a bruise forming on his jaw where he was kicked but Nine doesn’t care. He just stands there and admires the face before him.
The sound of someone stage-coughing knocks him out of his reverie. Six stands there with her arms crossed, but an amused smile on her lips anyways. Sam stands right behind her, holding the strange rock. Nine turns to them and puts on his signature smile. It’s all teeth.
“Hey Six, Sam. I’m Number Nine. We may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“You have no idea how weird it is to see John making that face.”
Nine sits on the couch holding the so-called “healing stone” to his- or rather John’s jawline. It’s supposed to induce twice the pain of the original injury, but being a student of Sandor gives you a high pain tolerance. Sam is petting the creature, which has now taken the shape of a dog. If he were to guess, he would say it’s a beagle. Nine is busy wondering what John was doing in his body, stuck in his cell. Maybe he’ll try to break out. But if he’s used to being this short, he’s probably just hitting Nine’s head on things. Nine drags himself back to the present. Sam and Six are speculating what might have caused this sudden body swap.
“John did say that there are other effects to the soulmate, uh, thing.” Nine says.
“Right. From what he’s told us, soulmates rarely have only one ability.”
“But is being ripped from your body randomly an ability?” Six interjects.
“Maybe one day we’ll be able to control it, or do it at will.”
“Let’s hope so.” Six says, rubbing her ribs.
“It’s not gonna be permanent,” Sam says, “so we should take advantage of the time we have with you.”
“Look, I know it’s gonna be difficult, but could you guys haul ass to wherever the hell I’m locked up and get me out? I’ve been in there for over a year and it’s getting real stale. Any ideas on where the base might be?” Six leans forward.
“You describe it as a ‘base’, but do you mean mog or US government?
“Definitely mog.” She bites her lip.
“Where did you get captured from and how long was the drive?”
“Chicago, and how am I supposed to know?” Six sighs.
“Were you on the road for days or hours?” Nine racks his brain.
“Hours.” She nods grimly,
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that we know where you probably are. The bad news is that the base you’re in is the mog epicenter and is virtually impossible to break into.”
“Fuck.” A strange tugging sensation pulls at him. As soon as it starts, it stops. He steadies himself, opens his mouth to speak, and keels over, out cold.
A beat passes before Nine wakes up in his cell, head pounding like a bass drum. He groans and rolls on his side. His prediction was unfortunately correct. For the first time, it sinks in that John is a boy.
For a second his mind goes blank. He has never really considered that his soulmate could be male. It feels like getting your favorite shirt tailored to you so that it fits perfectly. At first thought, it’s uncomfortable because you’re so used to, and still liked the way that it fits before, but the next few seconds show that the shirt fits much better this way, and manages to be more comfortable. He and John had never really spoken about their genders. He knew that John had an ex-partner who John only called ‘S’.
Wait. Could it be the Sam guy? He thought. No, who the hell brings their ex on a mission? Especially one where you have a fucking soulmate. Nine sits up, combing his hair out of his face with his fingers.
Does it… bother me? Nine can’t think of an answer. He looks down at his arms. The many hours he’s spent talking with him. If John being a guy didn’t impact him then, why should he now? And well the second he saw John’s face- well.
With a face like that, everyone would be lining up to be his soulmate.
John wakes up with a gasp and shoots up off the floor. He holds out his hands and lights up his lumen, but not in an ‘I’m in danger and need to fight!’ Kind of way. More of a ‘can I still do this’ kinda way. The relief that passes over him when he sees the fire is visible. Sam smiles.
“Glad you’re back.”
“Me too.” He groans. The pain that he just felt in ‘his’ head being suddenly gone was disorienting. “He’s like, really, really tall, with a short cell. I think you can imagine how well that went. I hope he wasn’t too bad.” Six and Sam look at each other, and barely contain laughter. John looks up and now notices the giant dent in the refrigerator, the knives strewn everywhere, and the gun on the coffee table. He turned back to face them, eyebrows raised. “Do I even want to know what happened?”
“Believe me, you do.”
The three of them sit at the table, eating the slightly over cooked breakfast sausages that Sam made.
“...then he stopped staring at your face, turned to us and introduced himself as Nine.” Six says. Sam nods, mouth too full of sausage to add anything. “Real charmer you got there.” She ads, smirking. John shoves her with his telekinesis. She laughs, pulling the towel draped over her shoulders like a blanket tighter.
“You guys were swapped for half an hour. Did you learn anything about the base…?” She says slowly.
“I was out cold most of the time, so not exactly. I basically just learned not to touch the blue shields.” She rolls her eyes.
“No shit you don’t touch the blue shields. They weren’t even there when I was prisoner but even I could guess-“
“We figured out where he’s being kept. Or rather, Six did.” Sam cuts in. John blinks at him. Now that he wasn’t in Paradise anymore, the possibility of rescuing Nine seemed more achievable. Hell, it seems like the next logical step.
“I think I know where he is.” She corrects.
“Well, where is he?” John says.
“It’s a place in West Virginia called Hawk’s Nest. That’s where I was captured and hid my chest. It would be possible to get in there. But you two would have to leave soon. If the Mogs figure out that the charm is broken…“ John couldn’t hear the rest of her sentence. His stomach drops. His ears filled with buzzing. The mogs could kill Nine now. There’s nothing protecting him. If they figure out the charm is broken, it’s all over for him.
John jumps up, unaware that they’re still talking, and heads over to the bedroom. He scoops his chest in his arms and turns to the door. Six is standing in front of it.
“Uh, earth to John?! Hello~” she says. He snaps out of his revere.
“We’re going to West Virginia.” He says. Six sighs.
“Did you not just hear me? You and Sam can go, I’m going to Spain.” John stares at her. “I might be jumping the gun a bit, but I think there’s another grade there and they’ve been found out.” Sam appears behind her.
“We can go, she’ll be in Spain, then, we’ll meet up somewhere.” John nods.
“Alright. So how do we find this prison?”
The first thing Nine notices when he wakes up is that he’s upside down. For someone who spends most of his waking and sleeping hours on the ceiling, one would think that he’d be used to it. But he hadn’t been truly upside down in years. The next thing he notices is that there is a hood pulled tightly over his head. He instinctively reaches up to grab the hood, but his hands are bound to his sides. Even through the hood, he could see a slight red glow, shimmering off the walls hidden from his sight.
Well that’s new.
He felt hazy. Well, hazier than he had for the past few hours (thanks John). Like some kind of sedative was wearing off. But there was something more pressing at hand. Everything about the strange metal chains touching him was wrong. It sent a shiver up his spine. They felt like an unnatural sickness. In his delirium, he must have fallen asleep. Wait. How long has it been till he and John talked? Nine silently wishes that there’s nothing on him. He telekinetically feels around in his hair for the pen. Or, at least, he tries. His telekinesis isn’t working. Nine tries to not worry. But it’s getting harder.
The hood is yanked from his head, and he sees a large mogadorian man standing next to him. He takes in the room around him with a gasp. This was Sandor’s room. The room that he was dismembered in. The room where Nine sat powerlessly behind a shield as Sandor was ripped apart slowly. The room where he killed sandor. He looks down, or rather, up at the floor. A dark red stain still remained, eternalized in the stone. Nine scowls. He throws himself at the glowing restraints, but they don’t budge. All he does is swing limply. The mog starts talking but Nine isn’t listening. The unsettling feeling is taking up too much room in his head. He can assume that his and John’s conversation disappeared, otherwise something very different would be going down here.
It takes Nine an embarrassingly long second to realize that the mog is talking in English, and then another second to realize that he’s talking to him. Nine tries to focus, but the words go in one ear, out the other. It's something about the chains being a gift, and some glorious… something. All he caught was that they were trying to use “a dreynen” (or was it a drainer?) to remove the protective charm.
A pit drops in his stomach as a familiar tickle creeps up the inside of his left forearm.
Not here! He thinks frantically. Nine chances at a glance. The chains completely cover his lower arms, pinching them into his torso. No message was visible, but he instinctively triest to pull down (up?) the chains with his mind. But it doesn’t work. He hangs, spinning slightly, as the mog circles him.
He really starts to worry now. No legacies, and the charm is broken, he’s practically a sitting duck. Without warning, (or maybe there was one, how would Nine know?) The large mog whips him around so he’s facing him and grabs the sides of Nine’s face. He squeezes hard, trying to fold and snap his jaw in half down the middle. Nine screams and the mog grins. The grin quickly disappears, as he sinks his teeth into the Mog’s hand. He recoils with a shout, and stares at his now bloody hand. It's Nine’s turn to grin, his mouth and teeth stained red. He starts his usual sneering retort, but the large mog was already out of the room. The guards that line the walls follow behind, taking the strange metal torches with them.
Nine hangs from the ceiling alone, his black hair falling into his face. The only light illuminating the room was the eerie red glow from the chains. He continues to struggle against them, but the sick feeling only gets worse the more he touches the chains. He deflates. As the chains stop clinking, he hears loud talk in guttural mogadorian. Only one phrase sticks out to him. Setrákus Ra. The name alone makes Nine wanna snap a mog neck. He snarls and returns to trying to break through his chains. He just starts to notice that the red glow was quickly fading from them, and his strength seems to come back. Though, the sick feeling is still burning the back of his throat. The sheer anger that thinking of Setrákus Ra is enough to spur him on.
After a few minutes, he hears a snap. A diamond-shaped link by his right arm clinks to the floor. He elbows the break. In the back of his mind, he knows that he must look like a butterfly struggling to wiggle its way out of a cocoon. He pushes and the chains begin to loosen. Nine feels his strength almost return, but the sickness doesn’t waver. After another minute, he feels the chains around his upper body get so loose they trail on the ground. He kicks and gets one foot unlodeged, before the other. He falls onto the ground in a heap.
The familiar rush of adrenaline greets him. Nine bounces off of the floor and rushes to the open door. Their trust in the chains must’ve been strong, because the entrance has no blue field. He jumps on the guards and turns the one he lands on into ash. There's a shout as all the others realize what’s going on. They swarm him, trying to pin him down. He picks one up, and throws it against the cave wall. Ash puffs off of it, followed by the clank of armor hitting the floor. That’s also new. Nine couldn’t really focus his vision well, the sickness blinding him. He stands and pushes one guard off of him. He spins, grabs, and punts him at the other. The two of them clang together. Nine tried to dust them, but clearly couldn’t kick hard enough right now. They stager apart. He tries to use his telekinesis, but that makes his head swim. They reach for their guns, somehow angrier than they already were, but then quickly lower them.
It takes him a second to realize that the large mog is gone. But before he can look around, sharp chains are pulled over his head and press into his throat. Speaking of the devil, the large mog pulls Nine back. He must've gone and picked up the discarded chains. Nine chokes and sputters, clawing at the dimly glowing constants. He feels the mog press into his back, holding the chains as tight as they can go. His neck is slick with blood, the edges digging into his throat. Nine lets out a last ditch gasp for air, but the black overcomes him.
He’s upside down again. This time, with a chain looped across his mouth. The sick feeling is back, reading it’s ugly head again.
“You made the glorious leader charge more chains for us, after you broke the last ones.” The owner of the voice walks out from behind Nine. He glares at the garde, all his smug confidence long gone. He spins Nine around so he faces the table. Laying out on the table are a set of very familiar weapons. “Now,” the mog says, voice low. “You’re gonna tell me who you are contacting.” Nine doesn’t make a sound.
The mog waits. A few seconds later, he picks up what appears to be a scalpel, but the only difference is black veins streak the base. Like the veins of a leaf, but gross. At this, Nine makes muffled sounds, trying to indicate that he can’t talk though his gag. The other mog pauses, clearly just realizing that he hadn’t thought through the gag idea. He turns to the guards and barks something at them. They march over and push the back end of the touches to the chains by his mouth. He feels a burning sensation, like they pushed lava into his face. Nine bites his tongue as the partially melted chains fall to the floor.
“I’m gonna ask nicely one more time. Who are you contacting?” The mog gets right in his face. Nine spits on him. His whooping is cut off as the mog forgets about the scalpel, just balls his bandaged hand and deals him a haymaker. Normally, this would barely faze him. He’s been doing hand-to-hand training since he was on earth, and this mog didn’t exactly think to set up his shot well. But these damn chains… He does his best to look like his head isn't spinning.
“ARE YOU IN CONTACT WITH NUMBER FOUR?!” The mog screams. Nine keeps his mouth screwed shut. The mog doesn’t wait long this time. He runs the scalpel-thing down Nine’s cheek. He didn’t even need to dig down deep for it to gash into his face. Nine bites his tongue. The mog then depresses a trigger on the handle. What he assumed was a basic black handle of the scalpel suddenly writhes to life and seeps through the veins on the blade. The goo crawls along his skin until it rests in the cut.
If Nine thought he knew what pain was before, he was wrong.
He couldn’t hold back the scream this time.
The mog stands there, and watches, a satisfied snarl of a smile on his face. The goo sears his skin, yet he can feel the pain burn all the way to his very bones. The mog turns around to the blunt end of the scalpel and depresses the button. The pain retreats, leaving just the ache from being in contact with the chains. Nine pants, and he does his best to focus his vision on him. Guess the punch disoriented him more than he thought.
“Ultimately, it doesn’t fucking matter who you you’ve sent to come get you, because tomorrow,” he laughs to himself. “He or she will be in for a treat. Getting to be personally killed by Setrákus Ra . Of course, you’ve got the same fate.” Nine’s heart skips a beat. Setrákus Ra is coming here TOMORROW and he has no way of warning John. They couldn’t have chosen a worse day to rescue him. The mog turns to face Nine. “Thanks for the heads up anyways. Now we have time
To prepare for them.” He smiles his too-sharp teeth. “What a pointless legacy. Not even telepathy. Just talking on your skin.” The comments are supposed to sting, but he can barely focus on them. It’s his fault if John dies tomorrow. He should have run. He could have escaped and they’d never see the message.
He should have read it and ran.
John and Sam crouch behind a tree, and peek down at the seemingly inconspicuous blue tarp. If a passerby saw it, the most suspicious thing about it might be the slough of dead animals littering the entrance. John sticks the Xitharis stone to a strip of duct tape as Sam readies his timer-watch. They know what's at stake, which doesn’t help the nerves very much.
“Got the healing stone?” Sam asks. John can only nod.
He and Sam push aside the tarp. What he wasn’t expecting was a near empty mountain. This was supposed to be the epicenter of mog activity on earth, but the cave seems almost abandoned. There were a few guards here and there, mainly guarding doorways. The silence of the mountain was quite unsettling.
“Where do you think the prisons are?” Sam whispers in his ear. John points to a doorway, but forgets he’s invisible. So he just yanks Sam along. Their feet don’t make too much sound on the floor, yet they still tiptoe to be safe. The entrance was blocked by a guard. They turn sideways and squeeze in between the wall and him. Sam takes a sharp inhale as he accidentally brushes the soldier's arm. They freeze, waiting for a reaction. The guard doesn’t react, and Sam lets out a small sigh of relief. They sneak down the hallway and see cell doors line the walls. John and Sam run past all of them, checking all the ones they can for any sign of a habitant.
“I remember there was a guard in front of his cell.” John murmurs. They come to a stop, realizing that there’s no soldier outside any of the cells.
“Six said that there was only one main cell block.” Sam responds. “Which means…” he trails off. Nine must have been taken to a different spot. They turn to leave, but a glowing gunshot flies by John. They whip around to see a squadron of Mogadorian soldiers. More shots hurtle in their general direction.
It was a trap! Makes sense why it was so easy to get in.
John and Sam run to the entrance, dodging the shots as well as they could. The soldiers shoot wildly, like they knew their general direction, but have no idea where they actually are. John feels Sam’s hand slip from his own, and before he could do anything, Sam becomes visible. The guards whip their guns on him and open fire. John dives for him, but just as he reaches Sam, he too reappears. The Xitharis stone wore off.
Well, at least he can fight now. John lights up his lumen, letting the fire wash over his arms. He throws a fireball at the mog in the middle of the pack. It washes over and down the barrel of his gun and it creates a small explosion. A few of the surrounding mogs are ashed, and the rest stand disoriented. John grabs a gun from the ground with his mind, and throws it at Sam. John creates more fire. He runs at the squadron, throwing fire and curving its path with his mind. Sam’s gunshots sizzle behind him, taking down the remaining ones. They run down the cell block to the entrance. More soldiers line up, creating a barricade. John notices a heavy cluster of them surrounding a hallway on his left. He locks eyes with Sam, and they both understand where they have to go. Sam depresses his trigger and John chucks fireball after fireball. The mogs appear infinite, but they’re noticeably thinning. Sam screams by John’s side. He grabs at his shoulder and staggers to his left. It’s the distraction that the mogs need. They advance, trying to grab John.
There are dumb ideas, but trying to grab someone who creates and controls fire when they’re currently on fire, and you’re extremely famible welst standing close to a bunch of equally famible people has to be a new record.
To be fair, they seem to realize that it’s not the smartest, but the movement is already in motion. John cranks up the intensity and heat of the fire. They scream as their hands and clothes sizzle and pop. The ones who grabbed him jump back and the ones behind them also catch. Sam scrambles to get out of the way of John, hands and forearms now glowing blue, trying to get out of the way of the heat. He holds his hands out like ironman, and tries to push his way through the remaining ranks. Ash costs the floor. The soldiers trip over each other to get a good shot at him. They split, lining the sides of the cavern. All of them realize simultaneously that there were only two options. Either they try to shoot him, and risk killing the soldiers on the other side, or they try to grab him, and risk killing themselves.
A flurry of gunfire from both sides indicates that they all made the same choice. John ducks and reaches for Sam, but yanks his hand back at the last second. He grabs Sam with his mind and yanks him along. Sam wouldn’t be able to keep up with John’s full sprinting speed, so this is the best solution. Sam reorients himself in the air long enough to pop a few more shots at the mogs.
John sprints down the hallway, barreling through any mogs in his path. Sam floats behind him, the healing stone pressed to his shoulder. They run and run, aware that they’re being chased, but only running into a few stragglers.
Suddenly, they turn a corner and see a much more guard-like squadron of soldiers. John comes to a screeching halt. He blasts a stream of fire at them, and Sam, floating like a ghost, pops some shots off. Before the mogs even knew what hit them, they were nothing but ash, swirling in the air as all the noise stopped. He sets Sam down and looks at the entrance to a different hall. The fire that coated his hands vanishes. A strange silhouette can be seen through the doorway. They creep into the room.
John is lost for words, and Sam whispers a small “holy shit” at his side. There Nine was, face bloodied, hanging from the ceiling. Whatever was holding him in place was, upon closer inspection, glowing dully, like a mostly burnt out lightbulb. John runs up to him, and cups Nine’s face in his hand, inspecting the gash. Nine opens his eyes, and smiles at John.
“This was not the way I was planning on meeting you, but I’ll take what I can get.” John almost cracks a smile. He studies the chains that wrap tightly around Nine.
“Fuck, how do you think I can get you out of these?” John releases Nine’s face, and reaches to the chains.
“Wait, DON’T-” He says frantically. But it’s too late. John’s hand brushes the chain, and immediately springs back like it shocked him. He looks down at his hand.
“What the hell?!” His face is a mess of confusion.
“I’ll tell you about that later, just get me the hell out of them.” Nine said. John bites his lower lip. He tries to rip the chains apart with his telekinesis, but doesn’t budge.
“Hang on,” Sam starts. “Can you melt them?”
“I’d end up burning him.”
“Eh, I can take it.” Nine dismisses. That makes John snort.
“Not lumen burns you can.” Sam paces, and fiddles with the rock in his hands. He freezes and holds up the rock.
“Try me-“
“I’ve got it!” He whips around and tosses the healing stone to John. He catches it and after a second, puts two and two together.
“Sam, go to the entrance and cover us. The rest of them will be here any minute, so hold down the fort as well as you can.” As Sam runs off, John shakily lifts himself up with his telekinesis, and lights his lumen. He reaches over and wraps his glowing fist around the chains hanging Nine from the ceiling. They start to bubble, and a beat later, turn red hot and soft. Before Nine can fall to the floor, John catches him and flips him onto his back. He carefully lowers the both of them to the floor. John falls on his knees, lighting up one hand the way Henri taught him all those months ago in their backyard.
“Sorry in advance.” He whispers. He presses his glowing right hand to the chains on his chest, making sure that there’s no true flame. With his left hand, he presses the healing stone into Nine’s skin, healing the burn as soon as it appears. Nine grits his teeth from the pain, trying not to scream.
John lifts his right hand, but keeps the stone there. Trying to break five layers of chains is evidently harder than only one with gravity on his side. The chains were barely warped, the mogadorian metal withstanding heat better than expected. He pushes his right hand back down. Nine grimaces, trying to act like it doesn’t hurt. But John could tell it did. He was able to wiggle his hand under the chains, and wrap them in his hand. Heat from all directions should melt them better. He wants to distract Nine from the pain, so he says the first thing that pops into his head.
“Why are they not trying to actively kill us? They keep shooting at my legs and arms-“ he says wildly.
“It’s because… Setrákus Ra… is gonna be here today.” He says between gasps. “That fucker wants to per…personally kill us.” John frowns.
“ ‘Us’? How did he know…” John trails off. The message. He had told Nine that they were coming to get him. Of course if they pulled him out of his cell for, uh, whatever this was, they’d see it. He should have written it in neon if he wanted to be more subtle.
There is a promising sound of a metal bubble piping. He unwraps his hand. The links are twisted like putty when it’s squeezed, and glowing like molten lava. He quickly yanks his glowing hand out from under the chains and presses the stone onto the black burn better. Nine screws his eyes shut. John’s, now cool, hand laces together comfortingly with his. The sounds of footsteps grow louder. John pushes the stone further into his torso, until the last of the burn is knitted back together. He and Nine lock eyes and before either of them realize what’s happening, they duck their heads together.
Their lips meet and it feels like the rest of the world simply melts away. John smells of molten metal, smoke and ash, but Nine doesn’t care. He pulls John in like he is Nine’s teather to life itself. Like if they dare break apart, he would lose everything. He’s waited months for this. To finally kiss the only one he needs, the only one who actually needs him too, with no strings attached. To be kissed like Maddie never dared do.
John’s never kissed Sarah like this. It’s all passion built up over months, and now he can be here. Feel him. Truly know that he’s real. It’s one thing to talk to them all day. It’s completely another to randomly switch bodies, but it’s so much better to just be here, absorbed in this kiss.
But all good things must end. The gunfire splits the pleasant silence, a rather unpleasant reminder of what they left Sam to do alone. Fighting off a mountain full of mogs with no legacies is a death wish. They part slowly, both wishing that that moment could last forever. But if they want more moments like that, then they better get their asses out of the base.
Nine shrugs and kicks off the chains as he sits up. John springs to his feet, and helps Nine to his. Even standing, their hands stay linked. Nine blinks, trying to re-orient himself.
“Here.” John mutters, “let me heal that.” He presses the stone into Nine’s cheek and waits. Nine screws his eyes shut, preparing for the pain. But nothing comes. John pulls the stone back and examines its surface. There were bits of mental hardened onto it, but it was otherwise intact. “How long ago did that happen?”
“Yesterday.” John nods.
“That’ll do it.” He says, tucking the stone into his pocket. Nine blinks and tries not to stumble.
“Being upside down, and having a ‘dreynen’ used on you for a whole ass day is exhausting.” The sound of gunfire starts to scream from the entrance.
“Do you need a minute?” John asks, dropping his hand and starting toward the entrance of the cave, already forming a fresh fireball. He looks over his shoulder at Nine.
“Nah.” He looks at John with a sly grin. Without warning, he jumps, and switches his gravity, flipping in the air so he lands overdramatically on the ceiling. He doesn’t completely stick the landing, but he acts like John can’t tell. He sprints out of the cave entrance. John shakes his head and smiles to himself, before falling in step.