"There's another one—a boy, maybe eleven or twelve, living like a wildling in a Florida forest."
Emma's voice echoed crisply in the Cerebro chamber, her fingers still lightly brushing the sides of the control panel as waves of mental data flowed into her mind.
The room held its breath.
"That's Number Two!" Smith's eyes widened with delight.
"This is incredible! She actually found them!"
Number Six practically vibrated with excitement, half-bouncing on her toes like a schoolgirl on sugar.
"Also, Two is eighteen, not twelve," she added dryly.
Emma blinked.
"Eighteen?!"
Her expression twisted. Your eighteen-year-olds look like that? She didn't say it aloud, but the thought was written all over her face.
Still—these weren't humans. That explained the discrepancy.
---
"If eighteen looks like twelve… Six, how old are you?" Raven asked, arms folded, eyebrow arched.
"Twenty-eight." Number Six said it like she was stating the weather.
"When we first arrived, I was shocked too. Earthlings age so fast. You look old by twenty."
She tilted her head.
"Then I learned… your lifespans are just shorter."
The room went still.
Raven: "…"
Hank: "…"
Copycat: "…"
It wasn't wrong, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
---
"How long do Lorien usually live?" Alex asked, curious.
"Three hundred years, give or take."
Three. Hundred.
Envy rippled across the room like an invisible current.
Who wouldn't want that?
Except Alex.
He nodded, expression unchanged. That detail matched what he knew from the I Am Number Four timeline. Even decades later, Six still looked like a teenager. Her race simply aged differently.
"For humans, that is… impressive," Hank admitted, adjusting his glasses.
---
"Emma, could you find the rest of our people?" Smith pressed, practically leaning in.
Emma gave a small smirk, then nodded.
One by one, she pinpointed the Lorien survivors.
Locations. Guardians. Health status. All of it.
The Nine were scattered across the planet—but no longer lost.
And now, with Cerebro, they could be brought back together.
---
Only one enemy remained.
The source of it all.
"Found them."
Emma's voice sharpened.
"Two hundred seventy-one Mogadorians. Hidden base. Rocky Mountains."
Once, there had been over three hundred.
Then Alex wiped out an entire forward unit.
Now?
Less than three hundred remained.
And that number was about to drop again.
---
"Emma, you look pale."
Raven stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"Overdoing it?"
"This thing is insane," Emma muttered, rubbing her temples. "It's like bench pressing the weight of a continent… with my brain."
"That's enough." Alex stepped in immediately. No room for debate.
Emma didn't protest.
She removed the helmet. The system powered down. Cerebro's soft hum faded into silence.
The session was over.
---
Later — Briefing Room
Plans were drawn in record time.
Hank, Raven, and Copycat would coordinate with Smith and Number Six to retrieve the other Lorien.
Emma's location data was now logged into the Blackbird.
Extraction protocol was ready.
---
As for Alex?
That wasn't his mission.
"Retrievals aren't my thing."
He turned, eyes flaring with intensity.
"I'll handle the Mogs."
---
No protest.
No backup requested.
Just a nod.
A heartbeat later—
BOOOOM.
A sonic boom rattled the walls as he vanished from the room, tearing into the sky.
Gone.
---
The Rocky Mountains — Mogadorian Base
Nestled within a secluded valley, invisible to satellite and human eye, lay the Mogadorian stronghold.
Dense trees wreathed the perimeter like natural camouflage.
Nest-like tents—dark, organic, pulsing with faint energy—sprawled across the camp like fungus. Some hung suspended from trees, others were half-buried in the rock.
At the center stood the half-destroyed Mogadorian mothership, grounded decades ago during atmospheric descent. Though unable to fly, its systems still functioned.
It now served as their command center.
Inside, the top brass of Earth's remaining Mogadorians were gathered.
The air was tense. Metallic. Like ozone before a storm.
---
"Black Robe's gone dark. No contact for seventy-two hours."
Commander Kild, tall and skeletal, slammed a clawed fist on the table.
"He's likely dead."
Murmurs. Uneasy shifting. A silent admission of failure.
"We lost an entire squad… and a Piken." Kild's voice was cold. "To a human."
Shock lingered. Disbelief held them in place.
And then—
---
BOOOOM.
Metal screamed.
The ship's hull buckled inward, as if struck by a wrecking ball.
Steel crumpled. Sparks flew. The lights flickered.
---
Dust swirled in the command chamber.
A hole tore open near the far bulkhead.
Silhouetted by sunlight and smoke, a lone figure stepped through the breach.
Black boots. Wind-swept hair. Calm eyes.
Alex.
He cracked his knuckles once, the sound louder than it should've been.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said casually.
"But this won't take long."
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