A/N So this is my first Fanfic, sorry if I mess up. Sorry about the no Fax, but…it's not about Max. Or Fang. R&R, please! Flames are permitted, please try to avoid them though.

Okay so this is basically about that girl who Max saved from the Institute. If no one reviews I will not update. It's not just for me. I don't want to be taking up space with something no one's going to read.

Also, I've tried to keep it as accurate to The Angel Experiment as possible, tell me if I screw up.

Kisses,

maia schne

Chapter One (Holly POV)

"Subject Seventeen, please come in for your testing."

Ms. Sylvester opened the door to my dog crate. I only knew her by her nametag, which said MARGARET SYLVESTER in neat doctor writing. Or should I say whitecoat?

I unfolded my legs with a sigh. Why do they keep fooling themselves, I wondered. Testing was definitely not the right word for it. Illegal experimentation was more like it. I mean, they didn't even bother to give me a dog bed to protect my legs from the harsh metal bars of the cage. If it weren't for the thin layer of hospital gown covering me, my legs would look like a chessboard.

I stepped out of the crate and Ms. Sylvester grabbed my wrist. I had bruises there from the amount of times she'd done this – at least once a day for the past year – and one time she'd even broken it. The other whitecoats had not been happy.

Ms. Sylvester's frizzy red hair seemed to glow in the under the strangely bright lights in the underground lab. Her bejeweled, horn-rimmed glasses, together with her sharp-nosed profile, gave her the impression of a hawk circling its prey. At least to me. It wasn't like Monkeyman ever noticed. He was too busy sleeping in the crate above mine and drooling through the bars of his cage and into my hair.

We reached room 12A. Darn, that was one of my least favorite tests.

Ms. Sylvester flashed her ID at the scanner next to the door. Then she tapped the code on the keypad: 43845. (She thinks I don't know it, or that I don't know my numbers. Ha! – the things you learn from exposure.) Finally she spoke into a tiny microphone that extended out to her from the wall. "Margaret Linda Sylvester," she announced, and then opened the door.

A familiar sight met my eyes.

The room was white and sterile-smelling. There was a long counter that ran halfway along one wall. There was a sink in it, and a Bunsen burner on it. I think the burner's just a prop. But that's just between me, you, and that big elephant over there.

In the center of the room was a long metal table. There were different stations set up around it, littered with sharp tools. Seven whitecoats with blue and green scrubs on under their lab coats were milling around, getting various instruments ready for use.

"Marge," one of them greeted Ms. Sylvester. His stubble was poking through his chin, and tufts of glossy black hair sprouted from under his cap. "Did you hear? They've finally gotten subject Eleven in California! Can you believe it?" He sounded extremely jealous, and his green jammies fairly glowed.

"Subject Eleven?" Ms. Sylvester said incredulously, leading me over to the table. "Wow! Isn't that the one that got away a few years ago?"

"Yeah," said the whitecoat, frowning. His nametag said JUST JONES, PLEASE. "There were five others. Subject Eleven is six years old."

"She's only six?" Ms. Sylvester sounded like she didn't know if she should be impressed that she'd lived that long or let down that she was so young. "But from the reports, her abilities-"

"She's six," said Jones grimly. Ms. Sylvester pushed me onto the table and turned me over so that I was facedown, strapping my ankles so I couldn't run.

"Wings, girl," she said, tapping my shoulder.

Breathing slowly, I worked my back muscles and unfolded my wings.

That's right, I said wings. Well, what were you expecting? I live in a dog crate with a human-simian hybrid as my upstairs neighbor. What am I supposed to have? Horns? Whiskers? A duck bill? I think not.

I concentrated hard. If my wings hit the stations, they'd get sliced. Also, I'd be totally busted.

I finally got my wings stretched out – they were fourteen feet across – and the whitecoats continued their conversation as though this was something they saw everyday. Which, funnily enough, it was.

"That was the Incident," Jones said. "You must remember."

Even I remembered the Maximum Ride incident.

A few years ago, six winged children had escaped from the School, aided by the non-traitor Jeb Batchelder. Maximum was the ringleader of their cozy little flock, and also happened to be a girl. (Pretty sweet.) But anyway, we'd heard about them all the way in New York, at the Institute. The School was in California. I didn't know where California was, only that it was far away. Far as the moon, where I was concerned. And where I was concerned, the moon could be as close as Monkeyman – it's not like I'd ever seen it.

"Yes," Ms. Sylvester breathed excitedly. "Maximum Ride. Subject One."

Ooh, she was subject One, was she? She was probably really important.

I wondered how old she was.

That was my last thought before they pushed the plunger into my shoulder. Pain spread through my entire being, like I was being crushed by a house.

Naturally, I blacked out.

I woke about six hours later. I had no way to be certain, but that's what it felt like.

The whitecoats were comparing notes.

"She never changes," one of them grumbled, studying a graph. "We should put her on a different routine. Test her more often."

Testing me more often wouldn't change anything. Letting me fly would, I thought grumpily, shivering at the thought of more pain like this. 24/7, maybe…

See, I'd never flown before. I didn't even know if it was possible before hearing about Maximum and her flock.

"Are we done here?" Ms. Sylvester asked, coming in. "This has been a long session – ten hours at the most."

I gaped. Ten hours? I thought six was a long time – but ten? I couldn't even remember the last time I'd done a ten-er.

"Yes, we're finished," said Jones, without looking up. "Take it away."

I steamed while Ms. Sylvester unstrapped me from the testing table. I hated – hated – when the whitecoats called me "it".

"Come along, Seventeen," Ms. Sylvester said, gripping my wrist. She led me out and back into the warehouse room. The mutants stirred in their cages as we passed them. I was led back into my crate. Ms. Sylvester latched the cage securely, then lifted Monkeyman from his cage. She walked off with him in his arms.

"What took you so long, Holly?" said a voice.