Yes, yes, this is Story #3, but trust me, it's worth it. This Maxfiction is goin' where no Maxfiction has gone before. And yes, someone should have thought of it, but sadly for them, no one did. HA.

Okay, so this is basically The Angel Experiment from Fang's POV. And if you don't know what The Angel Experiment is, then I suggest you go busy your time – say, not reading Maximum Ride fanfictions.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN MAX OR FANG OR ANYONE IN THIS STORY. I DO NOT GET WHY I HAVE TO SAY THIS EVERY TIME. I DO NOT OWN THE DIALOGUE EITHER. THIS IS ALL STRAIGHT OUT OF THE BOOK. IT IS ALSO KNOWN AS PLAGIARISM BUT WE ARE ALL PLAGIARISING JAMES PATTERSON SO I DON'T KNOW WHY IT MATTERS. AND I DON'T OWN IT.

Alright. Heeeere we go!

Hey.

I'm going to just get it out into the open now. Anyone who's expecting something like the work of art Max has made, get yourself over to the bookstore and buy it. If you want my crap, well, then, I warned you, didn't I?

This is basically how it all went down. Exactly. And instead of being inside Max's big head, now you can hear it from me: the spectator. Well, you know, I'm mainly in the thick of things, when it comes to fights. You can count on me when it comes to protecting my family. But when it comes to conversing with said family, well…you can count me out. I just really don't see the point.

Fact is, I'm a bit afraid of really letting it loose. Who knows what might come out. That's why I keep my inner turmoil inner and my outer turmoil nonexistent.

Okay. Now, to the story.

I understand that Max has hers open with some dream that she had. Well, mine's just gonna start with what happens after I wake up from said dream: I find myself lying in my cozy sheets, trying to remember exactly what woke me up. I'm having a hard time; my brain is, well, still a bit…fuzzy. Then I remember.

Another loud noise from downstairs has me shimmying into my dark clothing. Remind me to tell you later why I like dark clothing. I raced downstairs to find it peaceful and still, just how morning should be.

"Fine," Max is saying from the kitchen. "Miss breakfast."

I wonder who she's talking to for about five half-seconds. Hmm…I don't know how many whole seconds that is, given that I've never taken a math class in my entire life. Then I forget about fractions and walk into the kitchen.

Max freezes as I walk into the kitchen. Suddenly she whirls around, her tangled hair whooshing upward and then settling back down on her shoulders. My stomach twists, but I ignore it as usual, keeping my face blank and my eyes looking everywhere but her.

"Will you quit that?" she asks.

I look at her now, regarding her, pretending to consider her request. I have to look down on her because I passed her four inches ago. "Quit what? Breathing?"

I would if she told me to.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what," she insists.

Iggy rolls off the couch, and for the first time I register that he and Gazzy are sharing this lovely kitchen with us. "I'll make eggs," he says, and staggers over to the stove, still a bit brain-dead from his long night sleeping.

Okay, that just sounded dumb.

Max looks away from me, and I hide my automatic negative reaction under grabbing a juicy red apple and crunching into it. She surveys the kitchen.

"Fang? You set the table," she orders me. I go to get plates. "I'll get Nudge and Angel," she says, and darts up the stairs.

"Let 'em sleep," Ig mumbles. "I'm not in the mood for hyperactive kids right now."

"Too bad." Gazzy hops up onto a barstool at the counter; his swinging feet make regular thud, thud, thud noises on the legs of the chair.

"You're a hyperactive kid," Iggy points out. "So maybe I'm not it the mood for you." He cracks an egg on the skillet and lets it sizzle for a moment before adding two more.

"You're always in the mood for me," Gazzy laughs. I set down the plates, pick up my apple and take another bite. This time I go to get forks, knives, and spoons – normally described as silverware – with it hanging out of my mouth.

Gazzy lunges for the apple, ready to swipe it out of my mouth, but instead her knocks over a little glass of juice that he poured so carefully earlier. He pouts, sticking out his pink lower lip, before scrambling over the counter and ripping a few paper towels off the rack.

"I'll pretend I didn't see that," I say, pulling the apple out of my mouth so I can swallow.

"I just didn't see that," Iggy cackles. "No pretending involved."

I roll my eyes at him, something that he can't see because he's blind. Pulling the juice back out of the fridge, I hand it to Gazzy. He tilts it, using both hands to support it, and fills the glass back up.

Nudge trails into the kitchen, her hair piled on top of her head in a big mess that she somehow manages to make fashionable. Her shirt hangs off her smooth, brown shoulder, and her ratty pants trail on the ground.

"Is breakfast ready yet?" she yawns, and Iggy sets a steaming plate of eggs in front of her. She looks around bemusedly for a moment, then spies a fork and grabs it.

"Where's Max?" I blurt before I can stop myself, but no one takes any notice. Nudge shrugs and yawns again. "Doing Angel's buttons, I think," she says, taking another bite of yellow gush.

Just then, Angel comes clattering down the stairs, fully dressed, her little doll shoes making a racket on the hard wood. She's pulling Max along by the hand, and Max looks somewhat frazzled. I laugh in my mind, shaking my long bangs away from my face.

"Hi!" Angel says, bounding into the kitchen. She swipes a glass of juice and drains it in one gulp, setting it back on the table. Gazzy fills it back up again, enjoying being the under-appreciated bartender. He carefully makes sure it reaches the line, then sets it down on the table. Unfortunately for him, no one reaches out to grab it so that he can fill it again. He looks disappointed.

I sit and Iggy gives me a plate. Picking up a fork in my left hand, I shovel about half of the eggs in front of me into my mouth.

"Fang, that's gross." Max whaps the back of my head before settling into the chair next to me. My entire left side tingles, and my head throbs. That girl can pack a punch.

"I want to go pick strawberries today," Angel says, scooping more eggs into her mouth. "They're ripe now."

"Okay, Angel, I'll go with you," the Gasman says, then giggles. Too late, I realize why. There's no napkins or anything near me, so I just hold my breath and hope that the count of two hundred, my record for holding my breath so far, will be enough time to clear the air.

I start counting.

"Oh, jeez, Gazzy," Max says disapprovingly.

Nine, ten, eleven…

"Gas…mask!" Iggy chokes out, grabbing his neck. He bends double, pretending he's being strangled.

"I'm done," I say quickly, not wanting to release any more air than necessary. I'm at thirty and already beginning to feel a little short of oxygen. Hmm, not good. I stand fast, knocking my chair to the ground in my haste, and carry my plates to the sink.

"Yeah, Angel," Nudge says, her voice sounding all Klaxon-y from holding her nose, "I think the fresh air will do us all good. I'll go too."

Fifty seconds and counting. The pressure is building, but it looks like the Flock is beginning to recover a bit. Maybe…nah, it's not worth the risk.

"We'll all go," Max decides, and our day is planned.

I have a bit less than a minute under my belt. I wonder if I can really hold it in for two more of these. I decide not to risk it and bolt up the stairs to safety, letting my air out as I go.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at myself without really seeing anything. I run a quick comb through my hair and leap back down the stairs.

The Flock is assembled at the door, waiting for me. I slip on my shoes and stand at attention.

"Ready to go?" Max asks, and pulls open the door.

Sorry, I know it's not a good stopping spot, but the fam is barking at me to get off. Hope you like it! Oh, and like the summary says: if you read, you MUST review. It's in the Constitution under Good Payment for your Hardworking Author who Suffers So Much to Bring This to You.

Love, Schne