Five's Legacy
Page 15
Emma isn’t at all the person she made herself out to be when we first met, so self-assured and street smart. As she talks I can see the cracks begin to show. Her brother might be some kind of criminal guy—that much I think is true—but she’s just a rebellious girl who has gotten good at sneaking things from other people, looking for some adventure during the summer. Emma really does have a loving family and a home to go back to every night. But from what I can tell she’s hungry to be a part of something, to get a taste of danger.
It’s funny: I never imagined people would actually go out looking for trouble or danger. I guess when you spend your life hiding from everything to keep something bad from happening, stuff like that loses its thrill. Still, when she suggests we go out and lift a few wallets or purses, I go along. I think of it as a game, or training. Lying. Hiding. Stealth. These are all things that Rey would technically approve of since they’re skills that’ll help keep me hidden away from the Mogs.
Right?
I find out pretty quickly that I’m not the best thief when I’m not using my powers. I only have to be chased through the streets of South Beach once to figure that out. Emma can’t see how I’ve made it so far without getting caught, but I just shrug. My role becomes that of the distraction. I’m the person who stops and asks for directions, or falls down in front of a mark while she picks their pocket.
That I’m not terrible at: I’m basically just lying and telling stories.
And before I know it we have a system that works and are making a lot of money. At least, enough that I’m never hungry or wanting for much, with a little left over to put in my Canada fund. We get good at what we do. We make a code—a sort of Robin Hood pact. We steal only from those who look like they can afford to lose a few bucks. They’re easy to spot, coming in and out of designer stores or hotels. We target tourists, not people who look like locals.
We see each other most days. About a week after first meeting Emma, I ask her why she’s into breaking the law and stealing from people. I’ve deduced by this point that she probably comes from a good enough home that she could just ask her parents for money or something.
“Respect,” she tells me as she tosses some woman’s now-empty wallet into a trash bin on the beach. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. When people respect you, you can do anything. That’s how you get real power in a city like this. Your name has to mean something to people.”
I want badly to tell her that my name does mean something. To a lot of people. I’m a savior. And a target. But the more time I spend with Emma, the less pressing these things seem, and the farther away Canada lies. With her I’m just a kid eating ice cream and street food every day, spending the afternoons sneaking into movie theaters and lazing around the beach at dusk.
Over the course of a few weeks Emma and I do get a reputation around the beaches—at least enough of one that Emma’s brother hears about us and tells her to lay off before she gets into trouble. I can tell that the locals have changed the way they think about me just from how they look at us when we pass them by. Some with respect. Some with a hint of fear. All of them with knowledge of who we are and what we can do.
It feels good to be acknowledged.
I carry my Chest with me wherever I go, too scared to leave it hidden somewhere. It’s all I have left of the island, and of Rey, which both seem so far away now. At night, I sleep with it pulled close to me. It’s in the moments between sleeping and waking that I find my thoughts drifting to my destiny and the rest of the Garde, to the war and fighting that surely waits in my future. I dream that I never have to be Five again. That I can do whatever I want, no longer bound by the destiny forced upon me by the Elders of Lorien.
But I know that’s something I can’t escape. Not entirely. Either I’ll fight alongside the Garde—seven super-powered soldiers who’ve never met one another, trying to take down an entire army—or the Mogs will kill all of us and take Earth as well.
I wish there was another way: a third option I’m not thinking of. But for the life of me I can’t think of one.
I might as well enjoy my time on this planet while I can.
One night, I spot the perfect target.
Emma and I are hanging out behind one of the fancy hotels that back up to the beach, divvying up what we’ve taken throughout the day. It’s nighttime, and the only people to bother us are a few late-night joggers who just nod to us as they pass us by.
The mark is in his midthirties or so and well dressed in a crisp black button-down shirt, gray pants and shiny black shoes that are impractical for a walk on the beach—even if he is keeping to the sidewalk. His dark hair is swept back and accentuates his pale skin, meaning he’s almost certainly not from Miami. And, most importantly, he’s alone.
Perfect. He’s practically begging us to lift his wallet.
I glance at Emma, who gives me a mischivious grin, one I recognize easily by now.
“What’s the story?” she asks.
“We lost our cat,” I say. “It’s black as night and we’ve been looking for hours.”
She smiles and nods, backing away from me. This is what we do. I provide the story and she does the “heavy lifting.”
As the man approaches, his eyes drift between the two of us but he doesn’t pay much attention. When he’s passed Emma, I step into his path. Emma positions herself behind him.
“Hey, mister. Have you seen a black cat running around here? We’ve been trying to—”
It’s funny: I never imagined people would actually go out looking for trouble or danger. I guess when you spend your life hiding from everything to keep something bad from happening, stuff like that loses its thrill. Still, when she suggests we go out and lift a few wallets or purses, I go along. I think of it as a game, or training. Lying. Hiding. Stealth. These are all things that Rey would technically approve of since they’re skills that’ll help keep me hidden away from the Mogs.
Right?
I find out pretty quickly that I’m not the best thief when I’m not using my powers. I only have to be chased through the streets of South Beach once to figure that out. Emma can’t see how I’ve made it so far without getting caught, but I just shrug. My role becomes that of the distraction. I’m the person who stops and asks for directions, or falls down in front of a mark while she picks their pocket.
That I’m not terrible at: I’m basically just lying and telling stories.
And before I know it we have a system that works and are making a lot of money. At least, enough that I’m never hungry or wanting for much, with a little left over to put in my Canada fund. We get good at what we do. We make a code—a sort of Robin Hood pact. We steal only from those who look like they can afford to lose a few bucks. They’re easy to spot, coming in and out of designer stores or hotels. We target tourists, not people who look like locals.
We see each other most days. About a week after first meeting Emma, I ask her why she’s into breaking the law and stealing from people. I’ve deduced by this point that she probably comes from a good enough home that she could just ask her parents for money or something.
“Respect,” she tells me as she tosses some woman’s now-empty wallet into a trash bin on the beach. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. When people respect you, you can do anything. That’s how you get real power in a city like this. Your name has to mean something to people.”
I want badly to tell her that my name does mean something. To a lot of people. I’m a savior. And a target. But the more time I spend with Emma, the less pressing these things seem, and the farther away Canada lies. With her I’m just a kid eating ice cream and street food every day, spending the afternoons sneaking into movie theaters and lazing around the beach at dusk.
Over the course of a few weeks Emma and I do get a reputation around the beaches—at least enough of one that Emma’s brother hears about us and tells her to lay off before she gets into trouble. I can tell that the locals have changed the way they think about me just from how they look at us when we pass them by. Some with respect. Some with a hint of fear. All of them with knowledge of who we are and what we can do.
It feels good to be acknowledged.
I carry my Chest with me wherever I go, too scared to leave it hidden somewhere. It’s all I have left of the island, and of Rey, which both seem so far away now. At night, I sleep with it pulled close to me. It’s in the moments between sleeping and waking that I find my thoughts drifting to my destiny and the rest of the Garde, to the war and fighting that surely waits in my future. I dream that I never have to be Five again. That I can do whatever I want, no longer bound by the destiny forced upon me by the Elders of Lorien.
But I know that’s something I can’t escape. Not entirely. Either I’ll fight alongside the Garde—seven super-powered soldiers who’ve never met one another, trying to take down an entire army—or the Mogs will kill all of us and take Earth as well.
I wish there was another way: a third option I’m not thinking of. But for the life of me I can’t think of one.
I might as well enjoy my time on this planet while I can.
One night, I spot the perfect target.
Emma and I are hanging out behind one of the fancy hotels that back up to the beach, divvying up what we’ve taken throughout the day. It’s nighttime, and the only people to bother us are a few late-night joggers who just nod to us as they pass us by.
The mark is in his midthirties or so and well dressed in a crisp black button-down shirt, gray pants and shiny black shoes that are impractical for a walk on the beach—even if he is keeping to the sidewalk. His dark hair is swept back and accentuates his pale skin, meaning he’s almost certainly not from Miami. And, most importantly, he’s alone.
Perfect. He’s practically begging us to lift his wallet.
I glance at Emma, who gives me a mischivious grin, one I recognize easily by now.
“What’s the story?” she asks.
“We lost our cat,” I say. “It’s black as night and we’ve been looking for hours.”
She smiles and nods, backing away from me. This is what we do. I provide the story and she does the “heavy lifting.”
As the man approaches, his eyes drift between the two of us but he doesn’t pay much attention. When he’s passed Emma, I step into his path. Emma positions herself behind him.
“Hey, mister. Have you seen a black cat running around here? We’ve been trying to—”
