I know that this is kind of dark and a little OOC, but it's just a random idea that sprung to mind. Hope you guys like it. Reviews make the world go round.
(First story, by the way, so I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism.)
Disclaimer: If I owned Maximum Ride, I'd be a hell of a lot richer.
000
fifteen
It doesn't really matter much to him that Fang is gone. Sure, Fang's his brother and everything, but he's always been a bit of a, what's the term, lone wolf. Really, it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, before the designated emo flock member just up and left.
What really kills Iggy is seeing- so to speak- what it does to everyone around him.
So while Max cries when she thinks that no one can hear, he goes outside and stares up at the stars he can't see and hates himself because he knows that he'll never be good enough.
fourteen
They're always going somewhere, always running away from even more imminent doom. Max claps her hands and off they go, like a merry band of travelling circus freaks. Really, though, if he thinks about it, that's pretty much exactly what they are. Circus freaks. Kids strolling around with wings pulled tight against their backs, studying every face- well, he's excluded from this, because of the whole blind issue- for a potential threat, always ready, always on edge.
He's tired of it. Tired of running, of hiding, of fighting. He hates admitting it, hates showing this weakness, but he is. Because it's so much easier for all of them, even six-year-old Angel, because she can see. He can't. And it's true, what he tells Max; every time they move again, he has to start from scratch. And he's tired of doing this. Tired of being hunted, of being the prey. Tired of never knowing anything for certain in the entire fucking world.
And at this moment, sitting with his head in his hands and listening to the sirens drawing closer as Max tries to convince him to leave, to run, to survive, he's tired of living.
thirteen
It's a little flattering, that they just seem to completely forget that he's blind sometimes. He must be doing a pretty damn good job of keeping up with them, of convincing them that, for God's sake, it isn't really a handicap. That he can get along just fine without sight.
But sprawled out on the floor, pain radiating from his leg, muttered curses forced their way through gritted teeth after tripping over the table that someone moved again- really, this has to be the fifth time or something- it's hard to feel anything but completely ridiculous.
Humiliated, really, so when he discovers that Max was the perpetrator, to get back at her, he picks the lock to her closet.
twelve
Jeb leaves. Dies. Whatever.
Sure, the guy's the only reason why they're free, alive, but to be perfectly honest, Iggy has never really liked the ex-whitecoat. And he's fully aware that Jeb has never been all too fond of him, either. Must be the scientist inside of him.
Max is the leader. Fang is the second-in-command. Angel and Gazzy are the children. Nudge is the endearing chatterbox. And what is Iggy? A blind mutant freak. A mistake. Some part of Jeb, he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, has always thought that. Always seen that.
It doesn't mean that Iggy doesn't miss him, of course.
eleven
He teaches Gazzy to make bombs, and Max never forgives him for it.
ten
For the first time in his miserably short life, he can classify himself as free.
He's not in the School anymore. Not being injected with radioactive dye or forced to run mazes or shocked repeatedly to test his pain tolerance. For a brief moment, it doesn't matter that he can't see the sunrise or the shapes in the clouds or the shining cities or the greenest grass like the others can, because for the first time ever, he doesn't feel like such a freak anymore.
nine
Their cages are all lined up in a row, organized and pristine except for the six bruised, battered little kids with wings trapped inside. They aren't supposed to speak, aren't allowed to speak, because if they don't, the whitecoats can pretend that it's okay. That they're just dumb animals, not people, and there's nothing wrong with experimenting on them and putting them through what can only be described as hell.
Or maybe the whitecoats don't care about that, and it's just another one of their stupid rules.
They talk anyways, of course. When no one is around but the cameras that they never seem to bother to check. They've got their own little code so no one knows what they're talking about- and when his cage is kicked across the room with him still inside when he's caught speaking to Nudge, he smirks to himself despite the pain because he's still somehow beating their system.
eight
Max tells the little kids stories to help them sleep when the lights go out, quiet whispers that they all have to strain to hear. He isn't sure where she heard these stories- maybe she makes them up- and he doesn't really care.
Even though he says he's too old for bedtime stories, he finds himself listening anyways, because at the end of fairy tales, there's always a happily ever after.
seven
They strap him down to a shiny metal table, restraints clapped around his arms and legs and wings, and he's panicking- of course he is- because he's not stupid and they're going to do something to him they're going to hurt him and-
The needle stabs into his eye, and he screams, not only because of the pain, but because of the… the colors. He doesn't have a name for them all and they hurt and burn his eyes and he screams and screams and seconds minutes hours days weeks years tick by and then
Blackness.
Nothing.
No colors, no shapes, no light.
He almost prefers the burning.
six
Six years old, and he's seen more deaths than he can remember. Maybe it's that whatchamacallit, that thing he heard some of the whitecoats talking about- where the mind protects itself by obscuring certain memories, certain experiences.
It's an interesting theory, he thinks. (Theory is one of the only science-y words the whitecoats use that he actually understands.) And if that's what his mind is doing to him, for him, he's grateful, because there are some things that you never want to remember.
But peering through the bars of his cage, terrified yet unable to look away as he sees the failed experiment's flesh slowly begin to dissolve and melt from its bones while it's still alive and screaming, he knows that this is something that will haunt him for the rest of his life.
five
Sometimes, he wishes that he can't see. Because it would be better, he thinks. To be blind.
four
He isn't trying to fly. It's just a little flap, to ease the stiffness from his wings. But his toes rise a little bit off the ground and suddenly a whitecoat hits him, sends him crashing to the floor, yells and shouts about how he isn't allowed to fly. None of them are allowed to fly.
He wonders why he has wings if he isn't allowed to use them, but the question only earns him another hard blow.
three
Jeb is nicer to them. He gives them water when they're thirsty and lets them sleep sometimes when they're not supposed to. He has a kind smile and eyes but he always seems to like the girl a few cages down called Max the best.
two
The whitecoats begin to discuss dissecting his brain, but one of them says no, they can't do that yet, they can't jump the gun. Patience, patience.
He doesn't understand what this means, but he shrinks away into the corner of his cage and tries to shield himself with his wings.
one
The third successful winged experiment, seeming to suffer no immediate side affects to the two percent of avian genes he has floating around inside of him. Besides the wings, of course. Like the first two, he has wings, miniature yet complete, downy, almost fluffy, much like those of a young bird.
While they discuss what to do with him, how to test his abilities, sharing words so long it's a wonder they don't choke, he blinks up at them with wide trusting eyes.