OK! So, hi. This is a new fanfic. Maximum Ride and Fang.

Summary: In a new modern world where people live-or die- for the gladiators' games, Maximum Ride's father, the world championship gladiator, died in the ring on live television the week before, and now Max's life is spinning out of control. As a rule of the National Gladiators' Association, Max must marry the guy who killed her father...or fight in the ring herself as the first female gladiator to ever enter the ring. Marry him or defeat him? Watch out. Max is playing with fire.

1

"Mom. Mom,"I groan. She's putting out dresses that she expects me to wear to Dad's next match in the ring. As his family, we go to every fight he's in, supporting him.

"Mm,"she asks absentmindedly. I roll my eyes, huffing. "No. I already told you. No,"I say. Mom slump over, sighing. Worry flashes through your eyes. "Max, please. Do this one time...before...before he loses,"she murmurs quietly, tears in her eyes.

"What?"I ask loudly. My hands grip the side of my mattress. Did I hear her right? Mom looks away, meeting my fiery gaze. "Max. Just...try to dress your best,"she says before flowing out of the room.

I sink onto my bed, sighing. Tomorrow is Dad's gladiator match with a rising gladiator. My dad's convinced that he'll win this thing by a landslide, but I'm concerned. When Dad acts this cocky around us, it's usually because he's trying to convince himself that he'll win. And judging from Mom's reaction, his next opponent must be very good.

I sigh, snatching the dress up and stomping into my dressing room. Tugging it on, I pray to any god or goddess hoping that this would be worth it.

"Max! Would you like any garlic bread?"Dad call from downstairs. I sweep down the ornate marble staircase, thinking about shoving the stuff into my face. "Mm! Coming! Ella, Ari, it's mine!"I yell. Dad chuckles, handing me a plate. I devour it, ignoring my brother and sister who ate the bread daintily like a normal elite person. One of our servants, Calliope, hands me more. Soon, I finish all of the garlic bread.

Calliope laughs, rubbing my forearm affectionately. "Don't tell him I said this, but I'm actually worried for your dad. His opponent is really good,"she says, smiling at me. I nod.

Our family walks to the hover limo and enter. From there, we go through the back entrance. Ella, Ari, Mom, and I walk to the lifted area for important people-that is, Dad's family. Some other famous and recognizeable people sit there, too.

Dad heads to the locker room for the gladiators, preparing. Once the announcer announces the fight, a guy enters first.

I'm not proud to say that I thought he was adorable. His eyes are onyx, his dark hair covering some of his face. He's tall and thin, but obviously very muscular. Dad comes out, and everyone cheers for the blood bath to begin.

Ella and Ari, even at their young age, enjoy the fighting since they've never seen someone they knew personally get killed. For me, I know how serious this can get. I've met some of the gladiators before they were killed. Ella and Ari cheer, grinning.

Mom whimpers, clutching her dress. Calliope stands behind my chair, smiling gently. The gong sounds, vibrating throughout the air. It sounds so stern, like we're at a funeral and a death march. I feel myself become immersed in the battle. It's not just a battle physically, it's a mental battle. Dad's scars tell his opponents that he's been struck, but he still stands tall and proud. He can use psychological warfare, a concept I'm very familiar with and even used at times.

There's a reason why people fear me. It's not just the fact that my dad's a world champion gladiator, I myself am a person that's considered dangerous and brilliantly tactical. Genes, I guess, but I've always had the knack of finding one's weakness and strength. And I am amazing at playing that information to my use.

Just like Dad.

The fight starts after they circle each other, testing the other's weaknesses. Dad's opponent is a very skilled warrior. I can tell. Both of them go into a flurry of movements. I'm stuck watching them, thinking in frustration as if I could send Dad mental messages telling him to watch his right side or keep his eye on the whip in the other guy's left hand instead of just focusing on the guy's spear.

I practically predict the guy's next move, which causes Dad to go falling into the dirt. I glare in frustration, throwing my hands up.

"Dad, watch it!"I cry, which is lost in the crowd's uproar.

But Dad's not as young as he used to be. Dad can't move as nimbly as he could before.

Dad's just not up for this challenge.