"Raven."
Just five more minutes.
"Raven," this time, a bit more impatiently.
Oh, just leave me alone! Can't a girl with wings get some decent sleep around here?!
"Raven!"
A pair of hands shakes my shoulders, but I keep my eyes closed and let my head flop around on like I'm a rag doll. After a few seconds, they stop shaking me and I hear the door close. Finally! I might actually be able to sleep!
"Fang! Go ahead and eat Raven's pancakes! She doesn't want them!"
My eyes snap open and I fly, literally, out of bed and burst into the hallway, not bothering to give a thought to the fact that I'm still in pajamas. Max, my mom, leans casually against the wall in her usual t-shirt and sweats. She's pretty tall, at a little under six feet, with brown eyes and hair. In the few pictures we have of my family when they were kids, her hair is blonde, and then brown with blonde streaks. I guess, when you live in an underground bunker for twenty-five-odd years, the lack of sunlight does kind of make your hair darker.
"Nice entrance Rave," she smirks, her brown eyes laughing.
There is a thunderous crash, and we both look down the hall to see my little brother, who is about eleven, opens his door as dramatically as possible and jumps into the center of the hall, hands on his hips super-hero style. I cannot resist rolling my eyes.
"I heard the word pancakes!" He says in an abnormally deep and macho voice, chin held high. He makes it sound as if this were a tragedy and only he could mend the wrong. A little side-note for you: I look like my dad, and Max looks like our mom. He's got these big brown eyes that can get him almost anything he wants, and he's just as rambunctious. I don't even bother suppressing a groan as I stumble down the hall towards what was, at one time, the only private kitchen in the entire bunker. I'm not entirely sure why this room got it, but I'm not disappointed. It means my dad gets to cook, as opposed to the chefs in the mess hall, whose cooking tends to taste like something of my mother's creation.
"You heard right Max," my mom says, patting his shoulder. Yeah my brother's name is Max too. My dad's idea. He made it pretty darn confusing for us I can tell you that!
Sure enough, there are four perfect stacks of chocolate-chip pancakes waiting for us on the table. Max, both of them, dig in almost immediately, barely waiting for my dad and I to sit down. That's how it is most days in this house...er...bunker.
