There are a number of swears in this chapter. It's mainly all Becca, too. But she has a reason to be PO'd, don't you think?

The theme song for this chapter is "Heroes" by Shinedown.

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Incredible

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Rated T for language and violence.

She could no longer hear the voices. He ceased to repeat them. Her abundant voice lost all meaning. He didn't know what to listen for anymore. She was beaten of her will, her Voice having left her for dead. His voice was lost forever to the violent wind.

But the ones who created them made a crucial mistake when taking apart their miraculous creation. Now their experiments are getting minds of their own, and they're pushing at the time-weakened, crumbling walls. How much longer will they stay standing?

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Chapter Eighteen: Collision Course: Part Three

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'Then the big, black clouds rolled in, and her cell phone lost its signal…

and dropped the call.'

Sunday, November 21st, 2010

Owen looked up at building before him, lit up by the night lights of Dallas, Texas. Somehow, when he pictured his father, the man was always a deadbeat, someone not worthy of his time. He was definitely not a big-shot businessman who worked in a chrome-and-glass sky-scraper.

But apparently, a business man he was. Owen sighed, strolling forward through the big glass double-doors.

"Name?" the secretary asked at the front desk of the cavernous lobby. Definitely three stories tall, the teenager mused.

"Owen Dinardo," he told the secretary. She nodded, writing up a visitor's pass and handing it over. "Elevators are to your right."

He suppressed a groan. Elevators. Death traps designed by the sadistic mechanical engineers that enjoyed making him squirm—believe it or not, they were out there. He hated how he always felt so… panicked, as the doors slid shut. It would have been nice, for once, not to worry about possible hyperventilation or a panic attack. Or, even… maybe… no. But… Owen couldn't help but wish there was someone else who felt the same. Someone who got him, without having to say a word. Like that girl, the one from the phone.

Sure, and if he ever tried to call her again, she wouldn't call the police. She'd smile and laugh and be happy to talk to him! Yeah, right.

As the elevator doors slid closed, Owen instructed himself to breathe and his eyes squeezed shut off their own accord—it was a reflex, but it kept him sane. And, with his eyes closed, the sensation wasn't all that bad. He could almost picture himself shooting upward, propelled by his own dark wings.

Still, the chime as the elevator door slid open was probably the most welcome sound in the world, right up there with her voice.

Owen walked into the tiny waiting area, complete with a single sofa and a gaudy vase sitting atop a stout end table. A receptionist sat behind the carved wood desk, clacking away on the keyboard. Her eyes flicked up to the young man; the clacking stopped.

"Owen Dinardo?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face. What ever she was looking for, she found lacking. Her eyes glazed over with confusion.

"Yeah," he sighed.

"Mr. Ashwood will be with you shortly. He is busy at the moment." The receptionist nodded to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable." With that, the clacking started up again, and the lobby fell into a tense quiet.

Who could my father possibly be talking to at ten o'clock at night? Owen wondered. Who in their right mind would schedule a meeting this late? Why would anyone want to have a meeting this late?

The door into the office opened, and the end of the conversation slipped out.

"I just can't believe you." A young woman's voice filtered out, furious and distrustful. "I don't believe you. How could you have possibly known?"

A man—presumably his father—heaved an exhausted sigh. His voice caused Owen's stomach to clench angrily, as if this man was not one to be trusted. "I wish it were that easy. I'm sorry that you had to find out this way, Rebecca. You were honestly never supposed to know. You were safer when you didn't know, in fact. Your father wanted to keep you in the dark."

"You know my father?" It was a question, posed as a threatening statement.

"I can't tell you who he is, dear. But, yes, we are… close, you can say. Rebecca, he only wants your safety."

"Bullshit!" The young woman shouted. "He wanted to get rid of me, that's what he wanted! You're all lying bastards!"

The man exhaled and said in a placated tone, "If it's any consolation, your sister didn't know." It sounded as though he was looking down, away from the young woman at the door.

"What?"

"Riley. Your younger sister. No one told her."

Owen sat straight, his gaze flitting to the receptionist—her mildly startled gaze flicked quickly back to the monitor. She appeared not to be interested in the conversation. But he was, with that name bouncing around in his head. Riley, Riley, Riley. He leaned closer to the door, his gut aching in his absolute need to hear more.

"How do you know this?"

"I keep in contact with your father, and he keeps in contact with your aunt."

"What about my mother?"

Another sigh, this one thick with remorse. "She's dead. Died giving birth to your brother."

"I have a brother?"

"No. He's dead, too." There was actual regret, palpable pain, in that voice. Owen's father had been close to this family, by the sound of it. But not the daughter, for some reason. The daughter who knew his Riley.

"What happened to him?" her voice was quiet, scared.

"He…" The man's voice cracked, petering out as he thought of the right words. "His body wasn't right, not normal. He couldn't… he just couldn't live any more. He was seven."

There was a pause. The figure, the young woman, standing in the doorway stiffened. "Lying asshole," she spat, her voice heavy with grief.

Then the door burst open, and the distraught young woman stalked out, her head held high through her pain. Her thick brown hair had given up on its bun, and now hung in angry strands around her face. Light-brown eyes—familiar brown eyes, though they weren't the right color—flashed dangerously as she spun and screamed, "In case it isn't obvious, I QUIT!"

Owen couldn't tell you exactly what it was, but something about her screamed familiarity. It could have been the slope of her jaw, the slight upturn of her nose, the wide-set of her eyes. But it was probably how she held herself as she stalked out; back straight, shoulders back, head held high. She cast him a glance as she walked by, a glance that said, I'm pissed enough as it is. If you cross me, I will retaliate. And you really wouldn't want that, now, would you?

She reminded him of her. Of Riley. No, of Max.

Only when the elevator doors slid shut did Owen stand and walk over to the open office door. He knocked twice on the semi-opened door, poked his head into the room, and said, "Is this a bad time?"

The man sat with his elbows propped on his desk, his fingers part-way combed through his graying blonde hair. When he looked up, distraught blue eyes widened and he wiped the emotion clean off his face to replace it with a cool curiosity.

"Owen?" He cleared his throat to eliminate any last trace of the previous conversation. "Owen Dinardo?"

The young man nodded, his hands in his pockets. "You're my dad, I'm guessing." Though they looked nothing alike, though there were a thousand and one voices screaming in his head telling the seventeen-year-old not to trust that man, though every muscle wanted to wring his throat, Owen sat down in the empty chair across from his father.

The man at the desk cracked into a smile. "Owen. Boy, you've grown up."

"Mom sent pictures?"

"Yes." Mr. Ashwood straightened, digging through a drawer before pulling out two slips of laminated paper. Tickets. "For the football game on Thursday," he explained, pushing them across the desk. "I thought you'd enjoy it. It's the Cowboys against the Bears."

Owen had just been about to open his mouth and inform the businessman that he didn't enjoy football at all. But… there was that pang of recognition in his chest; not as strong as when he had spoken with Riley, but strong enough that he took notice of it. "Cool." He reached over and picked up a ticket, smoothing his finger over their row and seat numbers. They'd be up close to the field, right under the stars. He wondered if the cheerleaders would be there, too. Owen laughed to himself, imagining a blind boy sitting next to him in that very stadium, begging him to describe the cheerleaders… and his amazing, wonderful, badass best friend, quietly seething in the other seat next to him.

Yeah, he could go to the football game.

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A/N: Hmm. There's a lot going on in this chapter, I'll admit. (Really, though, you gotta love dramatic irony.) Sorry, I had a mini English-teacher moment there.

All righty, I've got a little contest for y'all (originally, this was worth cookies, but not any more). There are two characters in or mentioned in this chapter that are both cannon characters, original to James Patterson's Maximum Ride books. The first one has only been mentioned once before this (in a VERY early chapter) and the second stars in that SAME chapter, and again, that was the first and only time you've met him or her prior to today in this story. A quick hint: The two characters are the same gender.

The thing is, if you know this, it creates a whole bunch of other plot points that will be utilized in the future. So I'd really like to see who can figure this out! Quite a few people got it the firs time around, but not everyone. (Well, everyone got the first character, but not the second.) I'll give you the answers next chapter, but I'd like you to really think about this!

But I am very excited. Owen's going to the football game! And THAT is very exciting, folks. To get you all psyched up, the climax (the football game) covers the last three chapters, and all of them are longer than normal. The last chapter is definitely up there in my top five, too.

Well, I really need to get working on homework so I don't die at school tomorrow. Maybe you could give me a boost and leave an awesome review?

Your faithful author,

Lea