A/n: Here it is, my first published Maximum Ride story. Ongoing, for now. Let me know what you guys think, reviews are my energy, I thrive under your support. Also, I haven't written anything from Max's perspective in a while, so forgive me if i'm a bit rusty. Other than that, enjoy!
Casper wakes up midday, not to the sounds of his six pm alarm clock, but to sudden, boisterous bangs coming from the first floor.
The sounds of someone knocking, frantically and passionately.
He lifts his head an inch off his pillow, blinking blearily. Light shines through his curtains in even rays, each is a stab to his temples, and Casper groans. Man, he loathes hangovers. He throws his head back down, eyes closed, and relaxes in the swimming, instant darkness. Casper is tempted to thrust a pillow over his face and go back to sleep, but the knocks persist, louder this time.
He sighs heavily into his pillow. Great. He knows the knocks won't stop, and he won't go back to bed at this point. Almost robotically, his left hand reaches out to grasp a pair of dark sunglasses, which lie sideways on his blanket. By the time he sits up, the sunglasses are on his face, shielding his yellow slitted eyes.
For a millisecond, all Casper does is stare. His room looks like a hurricane hit it: mattress is knocked partly off its frame and now slopes downwards at an angle, blankets spilling onto the floor, Casper's red pajamas poke out in the gaps. There are three beer bottles lying overturned near the door frame, and it's hot. Stuffy. Probably humid from last nights party, he'd forgotten to open the window before bed.
Two seconds later, Casper stands. He doesn't trip over his own feet like they do in movies, even though he can feel the alcohol coursing through his veins. It's his energy.
He meanders down the staircase, a large iron thing with two spirals. He'd had the pieces sent over from London and installed by a reliable handyman, back when he thought it would be an interesting addition to the room. Now, it was plain annoying, he usually ends up jumping over it.
Casper yawns on the last step, then kicks some empty food bags out of the way. They fall onto the floor, joining the piles of empty wrappers, beer cans, and cups that litter the living room.
He opens the door. A large, middle-aged woman stands on the front steps, breathless. There is a thick string of beads around her neck. She does not look alarmed to see a russet haired teenager in pajamas at the door, in fact, her reaction is quite the opposite.
"Oh, Casper!" She gushes, in palpable relief. "I'm so glad I found you! from across the street says there's been an attack. And I heard all this ruckus from the market, it sounds like an explosion!" She pauses, leaning heavily against the doorframe, catching her breath. "We might be bombed."
"Right." Casper says. He'd be more worried if this wasn't a regular occurrence; Ophelia Smart came to his door every month claiming some new, horrifying disaster was afoot. Personally, he thought she watched too much Fox News. He squints down at her through his sunglasses.
"Ophelia, I'm sure there's nothing horrible going on at the market, as always. On second thought, if it is a bomb, I recommend you go board up your house, and sit inside for a good hour or so."
"Thanks for the warning," he calls as she hurries down the street.
Casper shakes his head, watching the receding woman's back, then flinches. His temples were hurting like the blazes, he'd fix himself a dozen aspirin's once inside.
At that very same moment, twenty miles away, six winged children take flight into the sky, undetected. They leave behind a smoldering crater, as if a meteor had just collided with the ground.
Later, reports of this event will vary, some will claim they saw a group of thugs attack civilians over a petty argument, others state the thugs attacked a pack of wolves. All parties agree it was most unusual. Fights, and this particular resultant explosion, didn't just happen out of thin air, especially in Cloverdale, Colorado.
The only accurate depiction will come from a small, ten year old boy, who was on vacation with his parents. He saw six children kick, punch and chop with impossible speed, like superheroes. Their assailants appeared to be a cross between a human, a werewolf and a yeti: tall, hulking creatures with fur, and teeth the size of a grown man's arm.
He tries to tell his parents this a few hours later, but they are too busy buying tickets for the next flight home.
"It's not safe here," his mother explains passifyingly. "Whatever it was, we don't want to be involved in any sort of violent crime."
The boy tries again. "It's not a crime, Mom. I saw it! There were six of them, with wings."
"Wings?" The father scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous. Creatures like that don't exist."
By eight, the sky has turned a flat, deep blue. No bombs go off, like Ophelia predicted. Inside, Casper sits lazily on his couch, and tosses empty food wrappers into the trash bin. Each time, the wrappers sail across the room, and land inside with soft plonks.
He sighs, pulls himself to his feet. His muscles ache a little from the movement, his body cramped from laying on the couch. Even if it's only been an hour, Casper's body needs movement, thrives on it, he always feels at his best when he's active.
He checks his watch, a Rolex. It was a good, expensive timepiece. He likes it a lot, bought it a year and two days ago. It reads eight o' one. He supposes now would be the time to change into something a little more fashionable than his pajamas, which he's worn all day. Casper allows his body one final stretch, then marches out of the living room. He stops at the iron staircase, surveys it with mild disgust, and jumps the ten feet to the second floor.
It looks just like a special effect, they way he moves from one floor to the other: someone might think he had teleported. It is a fast, powered movement of something not human. He steadies himself with a slight turn, and walks down the hall towards his dressing room. His sunglasses do not fall off, though they slide an inch down. Casper pushes them further up his face with two fingers.
Ten minutes later, he walks out of the bathroom in a suit. He screams money, lots of it. He's ready to leave, then, when he hears it, something that makes him freeze in place: the unmistakable whoosh of wings, the tap of something, or someone, landing on his front porch. It takes Casper a millisecond to react; he's flicked the lights off with a hand and moves five steps backwards. Without the lights, he's perfectly hidden, this buys him ten seconds of camouflage, time to move away.
Below, glass smashes inwards. Based on the sound, and the thumps that follow, Casper knows it's the window leading into the kitchen. He listens: there is silence, then rustling. Beneath his glasses, Casper's yellow eyes seem to glow.
Someone has broken into his home, and they had no idea who was waiting for them.
The moment they shoot up into the sky, Max knows her flock needs rest. The fight with the Erasers was sudden, unexpected, a very close call. She remembers: they had seven left to fight, when the largest one glowed red, and they all just exploded in big fiery kaboom. Max doesn't know how her Flock would have escaped otherwise, which scares her. That, and she had no idea where the Erasers came from, how they found them so fast. It was as if they had been tracked, or followed.
Instinctively, Max glances over her shoulder, but the skies are clear of any danger, a darkening blue. Behind her, the Flock flies, banged-up and silent, and she grits her teeth in anger.
Why the School couldn't they leave them alone, Max has zero idea. She pushes this thought aside. Now was not the time. Now, her Flock needs rest.
Rest, and medical aid. At her side, Angel's wings are grey stained, and her arm hangs limply at her side, sprained or worse Max can't tell. Nudge sports a black eye and a particularly nasty cut on her leg. Gazzy and Iggy seem unhurt, but silent, worn down. Fang has a scratch on his arm. He looks up at her, briefly. She reads the unspoken question in his gaze: where to?
Her mind reels. Her own head feels like it was splitting open. Now: They were hurt, nothing they hadn't recovered from before, but flying long distance was out of the question. Plus, the sky was too clear, they were easily visible (as long black shapes, but still.) Mac thought she saw a reporter's van back near the fight scene; it would be better to stay out of the skies for some time.
They needed to land.
Voice? Max asks. Got any ideas, here? It didn't, clearly. She hadn't expected a response, anyways, the Voice had been mysteriously silent this past week. Fine. Max had gotten along perfectly well without its help for years. She strains her eyes towards the city below: searching, looking… there.
At the end of a long street: a beige house. It was square, and it's back edge faced a forest, the perfect escape route in case things went south. Well, south-er than they already were.
"We land there." She instructs the Flock, pointing out the house with a cramped arm. As they descend towards it, Max prays there's no one inside.
Casper crouches in the shadows, low and waiting. There are six people in his kitchen, he's heard their thumps as they climbed inside, and he moves quickly towards the staircase. He slithers down the first spiral, waits. From here, Casper can see a blonde head, then part of an arm. Huh. Children, he realizes. Like him.
He swings his legs over the second spiral, shimmies down. The metal is cold against his hands. He drops to the floor soundlessly, moves backwards three steps so his back is pressed against the wall. Hidden. A feeling in his gut, strong and acute, tells him these kids are not dangerous. They won't harm him. And Casper always trusts his gut, trusts the feeling.
It's helped in survive for fifteen years.
It helped him escape them.
He takes a deep breath, then steps out into the light.
"I suppose you'd like a drink?" He says, and grins.