So, I totally said one week, and it turned into two without an update. My bad.

On the plus side, I have the next chapter after this planned out, just not written (which I recently discovered is half the battle).

Just because I am curious, if you read this beginning author note, in a review (if you review), include the word corndog in there somewhere. Just curious.

Also, I just read a very inspirational book. It's called 365 Thank Yous, and it's by John Kralik. Check it out and be amazed at this true story.

Anyway, it is totally time for this story!

Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to the masterful James Patterson.

"Why are we here?" Max asks, confused.

Currently, we are walking up to a small white house with shrubbery surrounding a small front porch. The roof is missing a few shingles and the grass is a little brown, but overall, the house is picturesque. The mailbox reads Marti, the n of Martin having faded.

"Who are the Martis?" Max asks, becoming more impatient by the second. I haven't fully disclosed the total details of my plan to her yet, since they aren't too finite and depend on the participation of some key persons.

Starting here.

"I don't know who the Martis are, " I say, smirking, "but the Martins have a son named Iggy, who has been and continues to be a very reliable friend of mine."

"Iggy Martin? The Iggy Martin? The Iggy that blew up Mrs. Krowski's entire bagpipe album collection his senior year of high school but never got in trouble?" Max questions, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

"Yep," I answer monosyllabically.

"Well… why are we here?"

"We're going to need his help." Duh.

"What is he going to do? Set another collection of bad music on fire? My cousin has a Miley Cyrus album I'll willingly sacrifice."

I roll my eyes.

"No," I begin, "His secret passion is food. You've never eaten well until you eat an Iggy meal. Combined with my secret fetish for fettuccini, we'll just cater our way to victory."

"A fetish for fettuccini? Yeah right. The only talent you have with food is the ability to consume massive quantities of food in a single sitting," Max retorts snarkily, placing her hands on her hips.

"No… well, yes, but my early comment was sarcastic, idiot," I reply, giving her a look. "However, I do play a mean harmonica."

Max stares at me.

And stares.

And stares.

"Great," she mutters, "I've joined forces with Lunatic Boy and his side-kick Muffin Man."

I hip a lip twitch in response. "Welcome to the Club, Lieutenant Sarcasm."

Max laughs, and I let my face relax and grin before I grow serious.

"Look, Iggy is a genius at pyrotechnics – not to mention he can pick a lock in ten seconds easily. He grew up having to deal with bullying from a pretty shady crowd, so he knows down-n-dirty street fighting – something worthwhile when we have to fight cronies. He's very loyal and valuable, and he's helped me through seven years of my mother abusing me. I trust him extremely," I spill.

Max looks at me in wonder. "That was a lot of words for you, Fang."

I roll my eyes. "Don't expect it often."

Max's face takes on a concentrated look as a thought crosses her mind. Then, she says, "Iggy is the boy that set your bones when you broke your legs, isn't he? He told my mom he was going pre-med."

I nod. "Yep."

Then, a thought crossed my mind.

You! In the back!

I will kick you out if you keep commenting on my mental capacity!

…Anyway.

"Iggy's never seen my wings," I mutter to myself, surprised.

"What?" Max exclaims incredulously.

"Iggy doesn't know," I repeat louder. "About the wings. I'll have to show him."

"I heard you the first time. How does he not know?"

I turn to face Max. "You weren't supposed to know, either. It was an irrational impulse influenced by the strength of hospital pain killers."

As soon as I say it, I see a sliver of hurt enter Max's eyes, and I realize I should have left that bit out.

"So this is all a mistake?" Max questions, trying to sound strong, but her voice is a notch too quiet to pull it off completely. "I wasn't supposed to end up wound up in your life like this?"

I mentally groan, looking up to the sky for answers. "Max, stop taking everything I say so personally."

"Stop making unintentionally insulting remarks -"

"It was a mistake," I interrupt, "but I never said I regretted it."

I look at my shoes.

"I don't, by the way. I'm glad." I say quietly, feeling uncomfortable about speaking such an emotional thing.

Silence follows the remark, and I awkwardly shift my weight, sticking my hands into my pockets.

God, why'd I say that? She's all closed up, now –

Something bumps my shoulder.

"Hey," Max says, causing me to look up. "Thanks."

I give her a half-smile, but my expression slips quickly back to an impassive stare as I realize we are at Iggy's house.

We walk up the steps and stand in front of Iggy's door. I raise my hand to ring the doorbell.

Here goes nothing.

Ding dong!

…

Well, that's what should have sounded out.

Instead…

I'm, too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts.

Oh, jeez.

"Bet his parents don't know 'bout that yet," I speculate, trying to stifle a chuckle.

"He still lives with his parents?" Max asks.

"You still live with your parents," I retort.

"Touché," Max responds.

"Don't judge too quickly with Iggy. He's very –"

The door opens.

…to a half-naked Iggy.

Oh, good Lord.

I rub my temples, feeling the phantom fingers of a migraine emerge as I realize this meeting is going to be interesting. "What the hell?" I mutter.

"Well," Iggy begins, and I know instantly this is going to be bad, "I had just exited the shower when I heard the doorbell call out to my sexiness. Not wanting to disappoint such eager company, I covered up and answered. And here I am!"

His eager, smiling face falls a bit as he assesses us. "However, you two are not young, available, hot women seeking my company. No offense," he says, looking at Max.

She rolls her eyes, and I'm tempted to keep a tally of how many eye rolls Iggy can extract from us in a few meager minutes.

"Iggy, you didn't come out of the shower," I respond, rolling my eyes.

Count: 2

I continue. "One, your hair isn't wet. Two, you have a fetish about always wearing trousers whenever you interact. I can see your shirt behind the door, and I know you are wearing shorts under the towel. Drop the façade and let us in. It's important."

Iggy scowls, but drops the towel, revealing his camo shorts.

"You always ruin everything," Iggy whines, grabbing his My Chemical Romance shirt from behind the door.

"You have a clothing fetish?" Max questions, laughing.

Great.

I give her a look. This is what I meant about judging.

Iggy's scowl deepens. "You know how some people have nightmares about being in front of crowds in their underpants? Yeah – that was my middle school experience."

Max snorts audibly. "What a dork."

Iggy's nostrils flare and I start to get uneasy. Iggy's temper closely resembles a stick of dynamite; the more you press on the trigger, the closer you get to a very loud and messy explosion that a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser won't fix.

Iggy turns to me. "And she's here why?"

I give Max another look.

Shut your trap.

I pause, then add on.

Please.

Max glares at me while simultaneously raising her eyebrow.

What trap?

I narrow my eyes.

Don't screw this up – we need him.

Max glares steadily at me for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling and puts her hands on her hips. Her shoulders relax, and she lets out a sigh.

Whatever.

"Not that I don't completely and utterly enjoy you guys's silent convo – that doesn't involve me, BTW – but is there a reason you are here? Or did you just want to ring my doorbell and mock me for kicks and giggles?" Iggy asks, annoyed, but there is genuine curiosity behind the anger.

I turn to face him, completely serious.

Wait – it already was serious.

Let's rephrase.

I stare Iggy down, looking into his eyes to make sure he was fully focused.

…Eh, I don't like it. I can't phrase it right, but whatever. You get the point.

"Iggy, I need your help," I begin.

Max looks on somberly.

Iggy is focused.

This is a good sign.

"An – "

"Fang has discovered he is turning into the blue fish from Finding Nemo and wants you to build him a life-sized fish tank," Max interrupts.

Iggy stares at Max.

I stare at Max.

Iggy stares at me.

I glare at Max.

Must… not…throttle…

I feel my left eye twitch, a vein throbbing.

Iggy's eyes widen at the twitch, but then he bursts into laughter, clutching his sides.

"Ahaha! I've never been able to make him twitch like that!" Iggy chokes out, cackling like a little kid. "How do you do it?"

"Oh, I've made his eye twitch very often. It's a gift," Max says, giving a smirk.

I roll my eyes.

Count: 3

"That's magical! You, Max, are welcome here any time – just for that."

"Look, really – " I try to start again.

"Can I see your gills, Aqua-Fang?" Iggy spits out chortling.

My eye twitches again without my permission.

"Your… face!" Max says, breaking into heavy laughter.

"Will you shut it?" I snap. "Iggy, listen –"

"Iggy, you better measure him for his tank – don't want it to be too small!" Max exclaims.

"This is serious –"

"I'm sure – turning blue doesn't happen every day!" Iggy exclaims.

I groan.

"You okay? Your health at the moment seems a bit… fishy!" Iggy shouts, slapping his thighs at the bad joke.

My eye twitches yet again. Stupid bodily impulses.

I close my eyes for a moment.

When I open them, however, red fills my vision, and I see Iggy and Max with knives in their heads, bleeding heavily.

And I desire it.

As soon as the fantasy floats in, I shove it away. It's just the remaining drug in my system. The thought feels foreign, trying appeal to my anger, but I ignore it.

No.

I have to get Iggy's attention. My temper is small, contrary to popular belief. I just don't show it easily. I'm stressed – majorly – about Angel's safety. I have no idea what my father could do to Angel.

And that is the most frightening thing in the world – the unknown.

It's time to get this chaotic group focused – if only so my temper doesn't snap like a Kit Kat and try to murder Iggy – and at this point, the only option left is to pull out the big guns.

Or, rather, the big wings.

"I think I've got goldfish somewhere. Need some company?" Iggy snickers, his face turning red from oxygen deprivation. "I'll go grab one and you can see if you –"

Iggy stops, eyes wide, as I whip out my wings.

I stand just in front of him, wings unfolded completely to their fourteen foot glory. The black feathers gleam dully under the fluorescent light bulbs, but they seem to reflect fully in Iggy's wide, blue, shocked eyes.

"Wah…," Iggy stammers, flabbergasted.

"I'm not going fishy, Iggy, nor am I turning into a deer, platypus, or tiger. However, I have wings – I've had wings, for several years," I say calmly, gauging Iggy's reaction.

To make sure he doesn't faint, have a heart attack, or throw the nearest lamp at me.

Ya know.

Iggy remains motionless, bug-eyed and wide-mouthed.

Max looks at me, saying with a look 'Well, that was one way to do it.'

"Max has known for a little while," I explain slowly. "I've meant to tell you about it, but I was too nervous."

"…dude, what the hell?" Iggy stutters out.

"I'm sorry I've hid this, but I had to now –"

"You know how many awesome pranks we could have pulled off with the wings?" Iggy exclaims, making an exaggerated expression of hurt.

I stare. "What?"

"Iggy, you are the most simple-minded person I have ever met. And that is not a compliment," Max says.

Iggy bows. "It's a natural talent." He looks at me again. "So, they work and everything?"

For an answer, I flap them once and launch up a few feet, hovering above the ground a few seconds.

"Gnarly," Iggy responds. "Angel wasn't lying."

"What?" I exclaim, dumbfounded. "Angel told you? You knew?"

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't believe her at first. But then, it sort of made sense and stuff. So what's the im-por-tan-te occasion?"

Finally – back to business.

I land on the ground, folding in my wings. "Angel's been kidnapped by my newly found father who turned evil. I need your pyro assistance to recapture her. You may be put into highly dangerous situations where you may be seriously hurt and/or killed. Situations may require you to use hand-to-hand combat, explosives, and/or witty banter. You in?"

Iggy sits, contemplating, but then asks, "How many bombs can I have?"

I feel my lips twitch into a smile. "As many as you can carry on your person."

"That's what I like to hear," Iggy says, winking.

He grins in my direction.

"I'm in. What's the plan?"

And this chapter is dedicated to Help Is on the Way by Rise Against.

On the plus side, I have the next chapter planned out, so maybe an update soon?

For more curiosity purposes, if you read the ending author notes and you review, include the word 'fangtastic' in the review. Just because I'm curious.

Thanks for following my story and leaving behind reactions and bits of wisdom! It makes the story better, and it makes me a better author.

Here's to improvement and the love of reading and writing!

R&R?