As we all know, JP left out a chapter that we all wanted to read - Max teaching Dylan how to fly. Or rather, Max pushing Dylan off of the roof. This is how I imagined it.
Disclaimer: I do NOT - read it, NOT - own Maximum Ride.
"So, the first thing we're going to do," I said, "is push you off the roof."
I TOOK A RUNNING start and pushed off the ground, flying up to said place, and leaving Mr. Perfect to find his own way up.
I sat there, picking my nails (not to mention wishing I was with Fang instead) until he eventually managed to make it to the roof, huffing and puffing. I almost felt bad for what I did next. Almost.
As soon as Dylan had stood up straight, I lunged, sending him over the edge - literally, not figuratively. If the kid could fly, he'd better do so now. Otherwise he'd end up a bird-kid splatter on the pavement. Well, the ground. Whatever, you know what I mean.
"Flap!" I called down to him. "Move your wings!"
Dylan scrambled in mid-air for a second before righting himself, and then slowly, hesitantly, opened his wings. They jerked him to a near stop before slowing his decent. I knew how much that hurt; it was almost as if your wings were being pulled from their sockets. Still, I felt no pity. If they thought I was going to start to care about him after they shoved him into my life, they were dead wrong.
But he was still forgetting one thing - to flap. Having wings really wouldn't do much if he didn't. Besides, they didn't work like a parachute. You could only glide so long without dropping like a stone.
Looking over, I saw Dylan finally moving his wings. I don't know if you could really call it flapping; he was only just keeping himself aloft. I hope he realized it soon, or we'd be here for a while.
He looked like a hummingbird, kind of, if you got far, far away, tilted your head and squinted. If he was going to get himself back up to the roof - the goal - he'd have to flap much harder. He would have to learn to extend his wings so that they were parallel at the peak of the upstroke, and past his body on the down stroke.
I glanced at Dylan again, and was somewhat relieved to see his strokes getting bigger. Sure, I didn't like the kid, but I didn't want his death – any death – on my conscience.
He'd actually started to rise a little, and was getting faster. A bit longer and he had reached the roof. In an attempt to land a painful looking face-plant. I burst out laughing, nearly falling over in the process. Finally, I caught my breath.
"Nice… Y'know, flying isn't really what needs to be taught - it's instinct. Landing, on the other hand…" I gestured toward him. "Anyway. Now that you've pretty much got up and down, it's time you learned to turn. So jump." I motioned at the sky. "Or do I need to push you again?"
"I'll jump." Dylan walked shakily to the ledge. Wimp. "Okay. Flap. You've got wings. Nothing to fear. You were made to fly. Just-"
I ended up pushing him off anyway.
This time I followed and swooped down next to him. Hey, flying is 80% instinct, 30% skill. You have to give 110% every time, or else you're dead. So, basically you can fly without and training but your own, but you have to keep practicing, and you usually end up crashing a few dozen times.
"Alright, now flap and do what I do." I instructed him. He nodded and focused his gaze on me.
I demonstrated how to turn, accelerate, decelerate, and go up and down easier - the basics. I moved my wings, coasting on the air currents; I adjusted my wings and feathers to the right positions so that I could move like I wanted in the sky – an air ballet. It was wonderful, flying. Too bad Dylan had to ruin it – a fly in the ointment.
Dipping the tip of one wing slightly, I started a slow, wide arc, expecting Dylan to follow. He lowered his trembling wingtip and started after me. As we started the short flight back, I noticed his flying gradually get steadier until when we reached the house, he was barely shaking at all.
We landed- well, I landed; Dylan fell on his face again. But at least this time he managed to run a little first. It was a start.
Flying had calmed me down a bit, but that didn't mean that when Dylan ran at me to give me a hug (while thanking me profusely) that I didn't flip him karate-style. If he was my perfect other half, then he should have known better. My hugs didn't come cheap.
"Let's head in," I grumbled, my good mood gone by his almost-physical-contact.
At least I wouldn't have to do it again, and at least Dylan had learned that rushing Max, for any reason, always ended mucho badly for the person who rushed them. With that last thought, I headed indoors, the newly-flying bird-kid at my heels. Maybe now he and Jeb would leave us. It was a fat chance, but a girl can dream, right?
It was time to find out why he was here and why he brought along Mr. Perfect.
So, that's it. My take on chapter 35 ½ of FANG. It's not much, but the idea got into my head and the only way to get it out was to write and post it!
Review, please?
-Lizzie