Pittacus Lore - The Power of Six

“And then he finally entered, a Mogadorian who looked no different from someone you’re likely to pass on the street. He was small, had hairy arms and a thick mustache. Almost all of them had mustaches, as though they had learned to blend in by watching movies from the early eighties. He wore a white shirt, and the top button was undone; and for some reason my eyes focused on the thick tuft of black hair poking out. I looked into his dark eyes, and he smiled at me in a way that told me he was looking forward to doing what he was about to do, and I started to cry. I slid down the wall until I dangled from the shackles around my wrists, watching through my tears as he pulled razor blades, knives, pliers, and a drill from the desk they had in the center of the room.”

When the Mogadorian had finished removing over twenty instruments, he’d gone to Six and stood inches from her face so that she could smell his sour breath.

“Do you see all of these?” he’d asked. She didn’t respond. “I intend to use each and every one of them on you and your Cepan, unless you truthfully answer every question I ask. If you don’t, I assure you that both of you will wish you were dead.”

He picked one up-a thin razor blade with a rubbercoated handle-and caressed the side of Six’s face with it.

“I’ve been hunting you kids for a very long time,” he’d said. “We’ve killed two of you, and now we have one right here, whatever number you are. As you might imagine, I hope you are Number Three.”

Six had made no response, pushing herself against the wall as though she might disappear into it. The Mogadorian grinned, the flat end of the razor still touching her face. Then he twisted it so the blade pressed against her cheek, and while looking deep into her eyes, he jerked the razor down and made a long, thin gash along her face. Or rather he tried too, but it had been his own face that was slit open. Blood instantly poured down his cheek and he screamed in pain and anger, kicking the desk over, sending all of his tools flying, and he stormed from the room. Six and Katarina had been dragged back to their cells, kept in darkness another two days before finding themselves again gagged and chained to the walls of the room. Sitting on the desk with his cheek bandaged sat the same Mog, looking far less certain of himself than he had before.

He’d jumped from the desk and removed Six’s gag, grabbed the same razor he had tried cutting her with, and held it up in front of her face, twisting it so that the light glimmered along the blade. “I don’t know what number you are. . . .” For a second she’d thought he would try to cut her again, but he turned and crossed the room to Katarina instead. He stood at her side while looking at Six, and then he touched the blade to Katarina’s arm. “But you’re going to tell me right now.”

“No!” Six had screamed. And then very slowly the Mogadorian made an incision down Katarina’s arm just to be certain he could. His grin widened, and beside the original cut he made another, this one deeper than the first. Katarina groaned in pain while the blood ran down her arm.

“I can do this all day. Do you understand me? You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, starting with what number are you.”

Six had closed her eyes. When she reopened them he was at the desk, turning over a dagger that changed colors with movement. He’d held it up, wanting Six to see the blade twist and glow as it came to life. Six could feel its hunger, its desperation for blood.

“Now . . . your number. Four? Seven? Are you lucky enough to be Number Nine?”

Katarina had shaken her head in an attempt to keep Six quiet, and Six knew that no amount of torture would ever cause her Cepan to talk. But she also knew she preferred death to seeing Katarina maimed and mutilated.

The Mogadorian had gone to Katarina, lifted the dagger so the tip was just over her heart. It jerked in his hand, as though the heart was a magnet pulling it forward. He looked into Six’s eyes.

“I have all the time in the galaxies for this,” he’d said without emotion. “While you are in here with me, we are out there with the rest of you. Don’t think anything has stopped us from moving forward because we have you. We know more than you think. But we want to know everything . If you don’t want to see her sliced into little pieces, then you better start talking, and fast. And every single word that comes out better be true. I will know if you’re lying.”

Six had told him everything she remembered about leaving Lorien and the trip here, the Chests, where they’d been hiding. She talked so fast that most of it came out jumbled. Six told him she was Number Eight-not wanting to tell him the whole truth-and there was something about the desperation in her voice that caused him to believe it.

“You really are weak, aren’t you? Your relatives on Lorien, as easy as they fell, at least they were fighters. At least they had some bravery and dignity. But you,” he’d said, and shook his head as if disappointed. “You have nothing, Number Eight.”

And then he’d jammed the knife forward, through Katarina’s heart. All Six could do was scream. Their eyes had met for a single second before Katarina drifted away, her mouth still gagged, slowly sliding down the wall until the chain had run out of slack and she hung limply by her wrists as the light drained from her eyes.

“They were going to kill her anyway,” Six says softly. “Telling them what I did, at least I spared her from horrible torture, as if there’s any comfort in that.”

Six wraps her arms around her knees and stares at some abstract point out the window of the train.

“Of course there’s comfort in that,” I offer, wishing I were brave enough to stand and wrap my arms around her.

To my surprise, Sam is that brave. He stands, and makes his way over to her. He doesn’t say a word when he sits down next to her, instead opening his arms. Six buries her face in Sam’s shoulder and cries.

She eventually pulls back and wipes her cheeks. “When Katarina was dead, they tried everything, and I mean everything, they could to kill me-electrocution, drowning, explosives. They injected me with cyanide, which did nothing-I didn’t even feel the needle going into my arm. They threw me in a chamber filled with poisonous gas, and it was like the air inside was the freshest I’d ever breathed. The Mogadorian who pushed the button on the other side of the door, though, he was dead within seconds.” Six takes another swipe at her cheek with the back of her hand. “It’s funny, you know, that I think I killed more Mogadorians when I was captured than I did at the school in Ohio. They finally threw me in another cell, and I think they’d planned on keeping me there until they killed Three through Seven.”

“I love that you told them you were Number Eight,” Sam says.

“I feel bad that I did it now. It’s like I tarnished Katarina’s legacy, or the real Number Eight’s.”

Sam places his hands on both her shoulders. “No way, Six.”

“How long were you in there?” I ask.

“One hundred and eighty-five days. I think.”

My mouth drops open. Over half a year locked away, completely and utterly alone, waiting to be killed. “I’m so sorry, Six.”

“I was just waiting and praying for my Legacies to finally develop so I could get the hell out of there. And then one day, the first one finally did. It was after breakfast. I looked down and my left hand just wasn’t there. Of course, I freaked out, but then I realized I could still feel my hand. I tried to pick up my spoon, and sure enough, I could. And that’s when I understood what was happening-and invisibility was the thing I needed in order to escape.”