A/N: Buckle your seatbelts, friends. This story is drama-filled. I can't help it. And I won't apologize for it.
FOUR
We'd only flown for fifteen minutes or so when shit hit the fan again.
Already.
I don't know why these things still surprise me, to be frank.
Fang called to the flock that we'd stop to rest once we made it to Pennsylvania, but I was too focused on not panicking to pay much attention. Admittedly, it was a little bit terrifying to be carried this high up. Like, imagine riding on top of an airplane (only four hundred miles per hour or so slower). Of course, I knew Fang would never drop me, and if I somehow did fall, Iggy was flying directly below us as a backup. These facts unfortunately do not change the innate survival instinct in all of us that recommends we don't dangle thousands of feet in the air. Unless we have, you know, wings that aren't out of commission due to gun violence.
Obviously, I would not be giving Fang the satisfaction of knowing I was capable of fear. So I started messing with him, as I've been known to do.
"You sure you can carry me for that long?"
Fang rolled his eyes. "You're not that heavy."
"Oh, I know. I was more concerned about your well-being and safety." When Fang didn't take the bait, I raised my voice. "You know, especially after I kicked your ass this—"
Insert that record-scratch sound from the 90s sitcoms where the narrator, Scrubs-style, offers some witty commentary.
This is about when things went from worse to dismal, perhaps. Or maybe, I bet you're wondering how I ended up a thrashing, screeching, blubbering mess in Fang's arms—stick around to find out after these messages from our sponsors to find out!
Cue the theme song, and then:
Blinding, bursting, unbelievable pain, infinitely worse than getting kicked or punched or shot, rocketing through my skull. I'd felt this pain before, several times: this was a brain explosion.
No no no no no—
I screamed—I knew that much—and somebody said my name, but then I was gone, gone, gone, down a dark hole of erupting agony, reliving terrible things as if they were real.
At first, they were things that I remembered vividly. Things I could never forget despite years and years of trying. Things that I kept locked in the deepest, darkest closet in the back of my mind, hoping to never think of them, let alone experience them again.
Jeb leads me from my dog crate and straps me down on an examination table. A male Whitecoat roughly spreads my knees and pulls on gloves, wielding a speculum. The Whitecoat tightens my restraints until I can barely breathe. I try taking gulps of air; when I can't get enough, I start to hyperventilate. Then I am violated. It is cold and uncomfortable and once I'm back in my crate, away from the Whitecoats, I cry so hard that I throw up. Fang is beside himself, demanding to know what they've done to me, fury shadowing his already dark features. I refuse to speak.
"Max?"
Jeb watches Fang and I in the courtyard. I am sobbing hysterically, restrained to the chain link fence as Fang is beaten to a pulp. They are conducting a study on our "humanity," whether or not we have sustained the ability to form meaningful relationships and feel human emotions despite our bird genes. We have. We are seven years old. Afterward, we swap places. The Eraser breaks six of my bones. Fang breaks two of his own trying to twist free of his bindings.
"Max!"
Jeb returns Iggy to us. He is weeping and newly blinded. I knock my dog crate to the ground so violently that it cracks open. In the next moment, I am racing down the hallway and trying to strangle the nearest Whitecoat. I earn myself several injections of something that knocks me out for the rest of the day. We are upgraded to wrought-iron cages.
"Is she hurt? Fang. FANG! Is she hurt?"
Jeb sits across from me at the kitchen table at the E-house, telling me about these horrors, some that I don't even remember—things that my tortured, overloaded mind has blacked out because they are so terrible. Then I am sprinting into the snowy woods, curling around the trunk of a fir tree, and crying myself hoarse until I fall asleep or pass out, I cannot tell which. Lines of good and evil, right and wrong, black and white have blurred into a murky shade of grey. When I wake up, it is because a panicked Fang is shaking me awake. The afternoon sun has long been replaced by the blackness of night. I am frigid and the tears start back up immediately. Ice has started to frost my eyelashes. Fang scoops me up and tears through the forest. When we get home, he lays me by the fire in the living room, throwing blanket after blanket over my shuddering form, shaking my shoulders and demanding to know what happened. I don't speak for days. And I never tell him.
What came next was what I couldn't possibly have been prepared for: those things that I didn't remember. The things I'd only been told about from Jeb. The unspoken horrors of my childhood.
Jeb supervises an experiment that tests my stamina. I am on a treadmill. I am told to run until I collapse. When I falter, I am jolted painfully with an electric shock. Hours pass this way. Eventually, I call out that I can't go any further, I can't do any more, that my lungs are going to explode and spatter all over the walls. The treadmill does not stop. My vision gets hazy, my chest bursts with pain, and I am falling, falling, falling. The shocks come but I am beyond reach.
Then, I am opening my eyes. I am on a gurney with Jeb running alongside me, looking at a heart monitor. "Wait! We got her back," he breathes, relief spreading across his face. "Stop compressions, hold the epinephrine—she's back. Oh, thank God, we got her back." I wonder if God has anything to do with it. If he did, I think, he would've killed me, spared me, long ago.
"Max. Open your eyes. Max—look at me. Look at me, dammit—"
Jeb hovers over me in a procedure room. The table beneath me is cold. I am naked. With the white surgical lights shining behind him, he looks like an angel. I struggle with this thought as they secure me in place more heavily than usual—I cannot writhe, I cannot move my arms or legs. A Whitecoat brandishes a giant instrument that looks like a saw and I prepare for the prick of a needle for anesthesia. But it does not come.
The saw whirs to life and they crack me in half. There is a pain unlike anything else. White-hot. Indescribable. The horrible, slurping sound of suction makes me want to vomit. Halfway through, one of the Whitecoats smiles. "Incredible, to have a subject awake like this. Uncharted territory, medically speaking. And—look at this. When she screams, the air sacs bob ever so slightly. Magnificent." I am eight years old. For weeks afterward, Fang pushes his fingers through his crate to mine, stretching them to try to reach me. He begs me to speak. I don't. I'm afraid that if I open my mouth I will start screaming again and never stop.
"Fang—Fang, we have to do something—why is she screaming like that? Fang?"
Jeb sits next to me in one of the labs. His face is somber and serious. He explains that they will be taking me for another examination. The hushed tone of his voice tells me it will be gynecological in nature. This time, he says, it will be different. They will be inseminating me. When I ask what that means, he tells me they will be taking sperm and putting it in me in an attempt to get me pregnant. He says it is for research. He says I won't feel anything. He says I am the most important thing to happen to science since the Human Genome Project. I am beyond scared, beyond violated.
Jeb tells me not to be afraid. "It's Fang's sperm," he says. I don't know what that means. He says that, if it is successful, it will be Fang's baby. I am not sure if I feel better or worse knowing this. I am not sure if I feel anything at all. I am eight years old. I still have some of my baby teeth left.
"Put her down—on her side—"
Jeb, across from me at the kitchen table in the E-house, telling me I am so, so brave. So strong.
These were not clues or visions—no, they were memories. Memories my subconscious had filed far, far away. Memories I didn't remember. But memories all the same.
The pain ebbed away slowly. As my senses came back from whatever hellish place I'd gone to, I recognized Fang's smell, near and soft and familiar. My muscles relaxed a fraction. I felt my chest expand with a deep breath, but it was all so, so distant.
One of Fang's hands was brushing my cheek ever so slightly. Far away, what sounded like an injured animal wailing echoed—wait, no; it sounded like Angel. My hands clenched into fists but even that was too much energy to expel.
"Max?" Fang whispered. "Can you hear me?"
I barely mustered up a whimper. One of my hands found the hem of his shirt and squeezed it feebly. A warm gush of air spread over my face—Fang was exhaling with what I assumed was relief.
"You're okay," he mumbled, but I think it was more for himself than for me. I felt his forehead press against mine. I still couldn't manage to open my eyes. "I've got you."
Evidently, that was all the permission I needed, because the curtain of unconsciousness fell over me like a dead weight.
When I woke up, it was dark. A rocky ceiling that could only belong to a cave hovered over me. The rain we'd expected back in West Virginia had apparently caught up with us; outside, thunder and lightning rolled and crashed. Angel and Nudge were curled up on either side of me. I could hear the Gasman's soft snores somewhere behind my head. Iggy was inches from spooning Nudge, his long arm draped over her so it could brush my shoulder. Total was nestled between them.
My heart lurched. There was no question about it—I'd terrified them.
Very carefully, I extracted myself from the pile, checking limbs and organs as I went. My back still hurt like a bitch, but it was remarkably improved from before. My shirt had been swapped for a thicker long sleeve and my dressings felt new. An ace bandage was wrapped tightly around my ribcage, something I immediately recognized as Iggy's go-to method for stabilizing minor rib fractures. One of Fang's thick, dark flannels had been draped over me in my sleep; I pulled it on over my shirt. My head was pounding, but that was pretty status quo.
Physically, I was doing alright. But that was about all I had going for me.
Of course, the last time this infernal explosion of misery in my brain had happened, an unwanted squatter had taken up residence there. I hadn't heard from it in a year.
Voice? I asked tentatively, but there was nothing.
Little victories, I guess. For now, at least. But why the hell had I seen all of that?
The last time I had brain attacks, I'd been given clues; names of places, photos, directions. The Voice had helped us navigate New York, offered obnoxious advice, filled in blanks for us, bludgeoned me with obscure riddles, harassed me, etc. But this time seemed like nothing more than torture. I couldn't imagine why having firsthand experiences of these terrible things would be beneficial. I felt shaky and tired and incredibly unstable.
I mean, not that shaky and tired and unstable wasn't my baseline. It was just more so than usual.
A small fire burned at the lip of the cave, barely protected from the torrential downpour outside, about two hundred feet from where the flock slept. Fang's shadowed form sat cross-legged next to it with his laptop in his lap. I stepped on a twig on my walk over; he jerked to his feet in a blur of darkness.
"At ease," I croaked.
He didn't move as I advanced. I sat next to where he stood, but he only stared down at me.
"Hey," I said feebly. "Come here often?"
Fang didn't move.
"What?"
"Just making sure you're not going to get shot, or pass out, or start screaming again on me."
"Ha."
His face was taut. "You laugh, but the past twelve hours haven't really given me much faith."
"Twelve hours?" I said incredulously.
He nodded and gestured to the group with his chin. "Terrified them." His eyes indicated that I'd terrified him, too.
I scooched as close to the fire as I could without actually throwing myself in it. The heat felt incredible. "What did I miss?"
He sat back down next to me, close enough that our knees were touching. "We had to land. You were inconsolable. Once you passed out and we were confident you weren't going to die on us, we flew another few hundred miles."
I studied my surroundings, checked my internal compass, did some quick guesstimations. "Pennsylvania?"
Fang nodded, closing his laptop. "Right outside of Philadelphia. Started looking into that company, Vector. Haven't been able to find much. Whoever's in charge up there does a really good job of covering their tracks. We'll have to dig up more clues."
I dumped my head into my hands and rubbed my temples. I couldn't take another year of this. Of not knowing what to do, of surprise Voices in my head, of the kids wanting nothing more than a normal life. Of Fang suggesting we find a stupid island.
I noticed Fang had tensed next to me a split second before he spoke; he was watching warily as I rubbed my head. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying and failing to conceal the note of urgency in his voice.
This was some serious business. Fang hadn't hovered like this in a long time.
"What the hell happened?"
Fang raised an incredulous eyebrow at me. "You're asking me?"
I deflected. "Was it really that bad?"
Fang looked away, which was as much of an answer as I needed. His jaw was tight, shoulders set, and the veins of his right arm bulged as he prodded the flame. Huge dark circles had formed under his eyes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him this exhausted.
"I thought we were losing you," he said finally. My stomach dropped. "After Ari, and his expiration date… I kept checking, over and over, waiting for it to show up. I was convinced."
I tried to put myself in his shoes. To swap places. It was way too much for me to handle, so I put the kibosh on it instantly. "Fang," I started, but he kept talking.
"We had no way of knowing what the hell was going on. You weren't talking, just thrashing around and screaming and crying. I thought Angel was going to pass out, she was sobbing so hard. Iggy had to get her out of there. If I didn't know better, I would've thought she was being tortured."
Tears filled my eyes and threatened to fall, but I swallowed them down thickly. I looked back at the dogpile that was my flock, wanting nothing more than to scoop Angel up and crush her to me and never let her go. And then rinse, lather, and repeat with the rest of them.
"We were about to take you to a hospital, but then it was over. You were able to acknowledge that you were hearing us. We figured it was just a really bad brain attack, like the first few before the Voice came into the picture."
It was such a gross understatement that I had to laugh. "Well, no Voice this time, at least," I said.
Fang grunted in response. Then the two of us sat next to each other for a long time, both lost in thought.
It took me until Fang stood up to throw another log on the fire to realize that he was waiting me out, like a predator with its prey. He was going to sit here until I talked. And if I didn't talk, he was coming after me.
"Sorry," I said quietly, tracing a circle in the dirt with my finger. "About before."
I'd uttered these exact words a year ago as I bled out on a beach. The look on Fang's face indicated that he hadn't forgotten.
"I've never seen you like that. Or heard you make those sounds." He poked some life into the fire. The coals flashed an angry red-orange, highlighting his profile. The bruise on his right cheek from our spar was turning a sickly shade of green. "What did you see?"
He was determined to get to the bottom of it, I knew. I also knew he wouldn't stop pushing me until he did. The breakdown I'd had was so unlike me and so unlike any other I'd had over my many impressive years of totally losing my shit.
I sucked in the biggest breath I could manage. Something deep in my chest was burning with anxiety. Here we go.
"There are things that they did to me, back at the School," I began, swallowing the impossibly large lump in my throat, "that I never told you about. Things that I don't really remember. Sometimes bits and pieces, but mostly I just remember feeling terrified. Not even angry. It's like… it's like I felt too… sad, I guess, or defeated, to feel angry."
Fang's gaze could've cut glass. Slowly, he rose, plucking another log from the pile to toss over the first one he'd grabbed. Apparently, he didn't think the first log had enough life in it to last the entirety of this impending conversation.
When he sat back down, I steeled myself and continued.
"When I turned twelve, Jeb told me about them. The things they did. He thought I deserved to know. I don't know how he knew that I didn't remember any of it, I don't know why he was decent enough to tell me. Maybe he thought since he was going to leave us in a few weeks, he owed me something."
Fang, who remembers everything that's ever happened to him, ever, probably since his conception in the womb (or a test tube, since we weren't entirely convinced that anyone was telling us the truth), jerked his head up pierced me with that relentless stare.
"That was the night I found you in the woods."
I heaved out a sigh. "Bingo."
I still hadn't answered his question, so he asked me again with his eyes: What did you see?
"I saw some of them," I managed in the tiniest, breathiest voice. "Those memories. And the worst part is that Jeb was there for all of it. Supervising. Instructing. Like they were his idea all along. And then he had the nerve to look hurt when I started screaming, or when I was scared." I scoffed, fighting the twisting in my stomach. "What a bastard."
I was trying to play it off casually, as if I wasn't being absolutely gutted from the inside out by the onslaught of these memories, but my nervous hands betrayed me by playing with the loose thread at the hem of Fang's flannel.
"That seems to still be his M.O.," Fang said carefully, eyeing me in such a way that said I am not buying your bullshit façade for one second. "One minute he's chasing after us, trying to kill us, and the next he's telling us he's on our side. A true bastard, through and through," he agreed.
It was insane to think we'd ever trusted him. Because he'd freed us, we'd followed him blindly, loved him as unconditionally as we loved each other. We were young and naïve, eager to have someone to love, to have a parent, to have a caretaker. Clearly, we didn't get the fairytale ending we'd always dreamt of.
"The things I don't remember were mixed with a lot of stuff I do remember, which are bad enough, but the other ones are…" I struggled to find a word powerful enough but came up empty handed.
"Fucked?" Fang offered quietly after a moment.
This startled a bitter laugh out of me. "Even that is an understatement."
Silently, with only his facial expression, he asked me what I meant. I pulled the neck of my shirt and sports bra down a bit to show the top few inches of the long, jagged scar that split my torso in half. Fang didn't react; he'd seen it a billion times.
For the first twelve years of my life, I had no clue what it was from. I assumed some sort of procedure, but I had no memory of it. Fang told me later that I'd been kept from them until I was fully healed, and I hadn't spoken for weeks afterward.
"You know that scar you have, Max?" Jeb had said. Because I have so many, he specified. "The long one, down the center of your chest?" When I nodded, he'd said, "They did a sternotomy. Do you know what that is?"
Then he proceeded to explain. Said they'd kept me awake for it, described how quickly I'd burnt through the numbing agent they'd given me, recounted how I spent the long hours of a massive thoracic surgery wide awake, screaming and crying, as they studied my lungs and heart. I hadn't understood the weight of this fully until today, when I'd experienced it. I squelched the urge to vomit.
I recounted the memory to Fang, blinking back tears, and watched his usually so guarded face contort into one of rage. His knuckles were white in the firelight. Blood dripped from the palm that held the stick in it.
I reached forward and wrapped my hand around his wrist. "Quit it," I scolded gently. I forced his fist open and pulled the stick away.
He pulled his hand from mine and wiped it on his jeans. I added clean and bandage Fang's hand to my never-ending to-do list.
Then he did something totally unexpected: he raised his other hand in front of me, extending a long finger to trace the very tip of the scar. A shiver rippled down my spine when we locked eyes. Fang's face was more expressive than I've ever seen it: anger, pain, sadness, and a dozen other emotions painted his handsome features. His eyes were apologetic, although none of it was his to apologize for.
He pulled his hand back and started to prod the fire. I had no idea what to make of him lately.
"What else?" he grunted through gritted teeth.
"Mostly things I remember," I said quickly. "Them sedating me the day I went apeshit because they blinded Iggy. Our 'humanity' experiment—when you broke your arm trying to twist free from the fence. Waking up in the snow that day, you nearly throwing me in the fireplace to warm up."
Fang didn't react to my feeble attempt at a joke. Instead, he narrowed his eyes. "What about the other things? The ones that you don't remember?"
I fixed my gaze on the fire, wondering what things would've been like if I was normal, if I'd grown up like Ella Martinez, if I'd never had wings or even a flock to take care of. It suddenly felt like way too much.
I cleared my throat. "I, uh, guess I…" I thought back to the memory of the treadmill, how my heart had felt like it was bursting and then I'd woken up on a gurney with Jeb hovering over me.
All it took was that: suddenly, I couldn't shut my mouth.
"I guess my heart stopped. I mean—they got me back, obviously. But they had me on the treadmill, doing one of those stamina tests, but I was only six, and I told them I couldn't do it anymore, and then I was having this pain in my chest and the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes as they wheeled me into the medical bay with Jeb telling them to 'stop compressions' and 'hold the epinephrine.'"
I'd known him long enough to know Fang needed to break something. I tried to backtrack a little, make him feel better, but the damage was done.
"Clearly, I survived."
"Why not me?" Fang whispered, shaking his head. "Why didn't they do any of this to me?"
"Maybe they did. Maybe you just… don't remember."
"I remember everything, Max."
I sighed shakily. I couldn't argue with that, but I tried anyway. "I thought I did, too, but then…"
"You must have blackout periods. Lapses in memory," Fang said. "I don't. I remember every single brutal test, every single near-death experience, every single time any one of us was taken from that room."
I opened my mouth to disagree with him, but then I actually tried to think back. And he was right—I could recall, back to a certain age, every time I'd been forced from my cage, but there were certain instances where I wasn't sure what happened immediately afterward.
"I just don't understand," he said quietly. "I'm barely younger than you. The oldest male recombinant. They did a lot of things to me, things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but nothing like that. Why wouldn't they have taken me instead? Why would they have…" he shook his head, white-knuckling the branch again.
I smacked the back of his hand to make him loosen his grip. "Stop. And—hey," I said in as accusatory of a voice as I could manage. "Just because you're a guy doesn't mean—"
Fang groaned. "You know that's not what I mean. Jesus, Max—don't get into that with me. I'm just saying—you were their first, the epitome of success. Why would they have gambled with your life like that?"
I fiddled some more with the torn hem of his flannel. "I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe because I was more vocal. More outspoken. Or because I was the first, and everyone was an upgrade after me. Maybe they figured if anything went wrong, I'd be the best one to lose, and at least it would've been in the name of science. Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters," Fang said brusquely.
"Well, I'm glad it was me and not them. Or you."
Despite the look of supreme unhappiness and disapproval on his face, Fang said nothing.
His knee started to bounce, like it always did when he was immensely stressed. It was hard to look at him. He was so plainly exhibiting emotion in a way I hardly ever saw. His calculating, logical mind couldn't fathom the things I was telling him, just like it could never fathom the circumstances of our lives. It just didn't add up to him, why people would be this way, why it was us it happened to. I had a long-standing theory that this train of thought contributed heavily to Fang's inner darkness.
"You can't try to make sense of it, Fang," I said, resting a hand on his knee. It stilled under my touch. "It's nonsensical. The things they did to any of us. I mean, look at Angel. She was only a baby. We might never know the things they did to that brain of hers. Thank God she can't remember any of it. And don't even get me started on Iggy. Operating on his eyes like that while he was awake..."
"They cut you in half while you were awake," Fang spat.
I didn't really have much to say in response to that.
Fang brushed his hands off on his jeans again, shaking his head violently, as if to clear it.
"There's something else," he said after a few minutes. "Something you're not telling me."
I turned back to the fire, picking idly at my fingernails in lieu of answering. Fang took one of my hands in his, running the calloused pads of his fingers over the lines of my palm. "You can't keep this all to yourself."
This seemed like an awfully hypocritical thing to come out of his mouth. I tugged my hand back. The cold air lapped hungrily at where his warmth had just been.
"I'm sorry," I said sarcastically. "Let's take a step back to reflect on the last time you opened up to me."
"This is different and you know it is," he growled.
"Interesting. I don't seem to think so."
"I keep everything at distance. There isn't much that stays close to me. You do. They do." He gestured to the flock. "That's it. The rest… I can't let it."
"Ah, yes. Fang, the paradigm of health and well-being, giving me advice."
"I'm not saying it's good, you idiot!"
Hi, everyone. Me, here. Your narrator. Let's zoom in on one of Fang's tragic flaws: channeling fear and concern into anger. Again, I refer you to books one and two.
"Listen," he said, much more delicately this time, "I'm not pretending that I'm well-adjusted. The point is, you feel things. It's what makes you a good person. But you put so much pressure on yourself to be perfect, to never make a single mistake, to never show a chink in your armor, that it consumes you."
He took my hand again, slowly this time, and turned my arm over, letting the puckered scars from The Beach Incident flicker in the fire. My cheeks flooded with embarrassment, just like they always did when it came up.
"I'll never forget this day," he said softly. "You scared the crap out of me. But earlier was…" He searched for a word, but it never came.
We were silent for a long while. I considered what he'd said. He was right, obviously. I didn't have to like it, but it wouldn't change the reality. Maybe I wanted to be like Fang—stoic, unflappable, imperturbable. But I wasn't.
Instead, I was overemotional, outspoken, and brash. Loyal and self-sacrificing to a fault. Fang had told me years ago that these things made me a better leader, a better mother. But keeping it all in did nothing but backfire time after time after time.
"There's more. I know there is. So you can either tell me now, or wait until it comes out the next time it all becomes too much. I just hope I'm not too late to the beach next time."
Dread spread like wildfire through me. How could he do that? He knew exactly what to say to make me feel just awful enough to talk. Just like that, I was spilling my guts.
"They tried to breed us," I blurted. Immediately, I cursed inwardly, wishing I could reach up and snatch the words back. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
To his credit, and maybe to my own dismay, Fang's expression didn't change.
"Me and you," I clarified.
He blinked without flinching—Fang's way of displaying complete and utter befuddlement. "Somehow, I think I'd remember this."
I shook my head and forced the words out. "Not like that. They… inseminated me. With…"
I couldn't bring myself to say it.
Thankfully, Fang's not a complete moron, so he put two and two together. His eyes widened. "They what?"
I had an overwhelming urge to throw myself in front of a tractor trailer. "Obviously, birds reproduce a lot earlier in life than humans do," I muttered. "Our reproductive anatomy is similar, in some way, to birds'. Or mine is, at least. When they tried to take Nudge in for testing, I made them take me again."
A quick sidebar here: for those of you with any knowledge whatsoever about the reproductive systems of birds, yes, all of our external tender bits are still one hundred percent human. It was more of the nitty gritty stuff (e.g. I only have one ovary, don't have a menstrual cycle, that sort of fun, exciting science-y crap).
Despite my explanation, Fang still looked completely dumbfounded. I wasn't sure if my words were even getting through to him. Under different circumstances, it might've been funny to see him so flustered.
Not today.
"They thought we may be able to reproduce early on. So they tried it. It didn't take. Obviously."
"How old were you?" Fang asked. The surprise melted away and underneath it he looked horrified—too horrified to be angry. I couldn't remember if I'd ever seen him this way before.
I knew he'd ask. I didn't want to answer, but I said as quietly as I could manage, "Eight."
"Fucking hell, Max," he choked out.
Fang was absolutely despondent. Powerful waves of some sort of cocktail of rage, pain, and bloodlust crashed over me. He was the source.
For the first time, the weight of having a child at eight years old hit me. We weren't positive, as far as reproduction went, what exactly would happen. All signs pointed to "probably not laying eggs," but we couldn't be sure. I'm sure the Whitecoats then, and certainly still now, were desperate to find out. At the very base of my deepest, darkest nightmares, I always worried that if we were to be captured again, at this age, if we'd finally be subjected to that kind of experimentation.
But the fact that they'd even considered it at all—the fact that they'd tried to impregnate a child—well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but certain things will never lose their shock factor, I guess.
When he spoke, it was a thin whisper, a sad kind of disbelief. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The million reasons I could've given him all flooded my mind at once. Because it doesn't matter. Because I'm supposed to be strong. Because the past is the past. Because life sucks and then you die.
But instead, my traitorous heart overruled my mind and told the truth, as it had done a million times before and would surely do again.
"Because," I choked out around a sob, hating myself for being so weak, "I never really believed any of it was real until today."
For a second, I thought I could hold it together. I sucked in a deep breath and time stopped as I begged myself not to cry. But when I looked up and saw Fang's face, impossibly soft and sad, I was a goner.
So, for old times' sake, I dissolved into hysterics, and Fang's arms, warm, strong, and safe were around me, threatening to never let go.
A/N: Well, I'm 2 for 2 on MR chapterfics where Max is tortured in fun and exciting ways, so if I wasn't officially a sociopath before, I certainly am now.
I struggled with tense a lot with Max's memories/flashbacks. I initially wrote them in present tense and couldn't bring myself to change it to past—I wanted it to feel authentic, like she is living them right now, rather than remembering them. I am not an English major, but regardless of grammatical accuracy, this is how I wanted those moments portrayed.
I recognize this is a lot of drama to start off a story. Guilty as charged. This one is coming out of me full-speed ahead, so it may be a short, action-packed fic. I haven't totally decided yet.
I do want to give three quick shout-outs:
Firstly, to everyone who has reviewed. Your kind words and enthusiasm for this story are really motivating me to write, and it's fantastic. I have this entire story mapped out at this point (I'll never be one of those writers who writes the entire story and then publishes slowly - I don't have the self control for that).
Secondly, to Flowersocks2137, who has not only read every single chapter of every single Maximum Ride fic I have published to this site, but has left a thoughtful review. I always value what you have to say, and thanks for reading. I wish I could respond directly to your reviews but you're a guest, so here's a whole shoutout :)
Thirdly: there is a fic called Maximum Rewrite by kiboeme. READ IT. Honestly. Absolutely stellar writing, awesome characterization of the flock, and a fantastic revamp of The Angel Experiment. I truly wish James Patterson had written the first novel like kiboeme has done with this fic. If you enjoy how JP channels Max's personality into her first person narration, you will LOVE the way kiboeme writes her.
Finally, whoever can tell me where the hell Lustrex went gets a million dollars.
