A/N: Oh, jeez. Okay. Okay, people!
We're doing it. It's crazy but it's awesome and I can't not do it. I think it is going to be amazing. I just wrote an outline and an epilogue, so trust me here, folks!
It's gonna be a ride. I hope this story doesn't get too stressful... All questions will be answered in due time. Sorry for the slow burn. If you remember my old stuff, you probably aren't surprised.
It'll be a minute until the next update. I promise I'll be back with good stuff and some answers.
Warning: Language and suicide content (no self harm/character death).
If you have questions, ASK!
EDITED ONCE: Accidentally deleted a sentence. Thank you, staphylococci.
Disclaimer: James Patterson owns the Maximum Ride characters and universe. I just play with them.
M
Why, why, why, why, why?
I spiral through the air, running on pure adrenaline and anguish. It powers me for at least a few minutes, until I'm gasping for breath from screaming and crying and grasping wildly at the hairs sticking to my wet, cold face. The entire times, my wings beat at an unbelievable speed, carrying me far from the house and the others.
What is happening to me? How do I survive this?
I look around. Look down. I'm breathing so fast, everything has been happening so fast. I'm gasping like a fish out of water. I can't focus on a single thing. I can't stop hearing that flatline beep. I blink a few times, forcing myself to breathe.
There's nothing in sight. It's a clear but cloudy morning, and I'm high above the clouds. I have no idea how far I've gone. All I see below me are clouds, fluffy and distorting. I sniffle, trying to form coherent thoughts, trying to cope with the warring emotions bubbling through my severely cracked reserve. Trying to calm down a minute and think now that I'm so absolutely alone.
Fuck. I fucking knew this case had something wrong with it from the beginning—who could've predicted this, of all things? I'm…a clone of the real Max. The original Max.
A clone.
It's not fair. It's not normal. It's not even widely considered possible.
And…yet.
I look down at my hands, shaking before me. Having a better idea in the moment, I rip my pack off my shoulder and pull it open, reaching for the tiny pocket mirror attached to the inside. I tilt it up and stare at myself, flying stationary while I gaze at my face. My face. The face I've always had, attached to the body I've always dealt with. Living the life I was created to live. The life I remember.
Right?
I let out a guttural noise, a sound of grief I had no idea I was even capable of. My fingers drag roughly down my face. Besides the shock, other emotions are begging for attention as I try to clear my head. Anguish, guilt, disgust—with Jeb, with myself, with my entire creation and purpose. I try to remember to breathe through all this.
I remember my hatred for Max II, upon meeting her. Of course, she was created for a different purpose entirely, and she wasn't the same as me—Max II had been told she was a clone, trained as a weapon for the School and never given her own identity. She consciously had to learn how to be like Max. I didn't—I understand the difference.
But I had been so offended—so violated at the idea of someone cloning me.
Oh, God.
I gulp, shaking my head, saying out loud to myself softly with a raspy voice, "No, no, no, no…."
It can't be true. I remember everything. I remember the School, I remember meeting Fang, I remember escaping with the kids and our first night at the E house. I remember it all. I've never known anything different!
Not that I would. I had been programmed with the same memories and morals as the original Max, apparently. According to Jeb. If that were the case, there would be nothing to remember. I had been created to step in and function while the real Max was away. Jeb had even said in the video, Opportunity there for longer intervals without Max. She could easily be brought to the School…
Still crying, still aimlessly flying, I try to stay on track mentally. I have half a mind to fly until I just drop out of the sky somewhere. Never to be found. Gone as recklessly and aimlessly as I'd been brought to life.
Jeb's plan failed. Instead of being able to play parent trap with Max twins, he killed the first one. I was left to fill her shoes.
I am her. She is me. Is that how this works?
I'm wailing aloud, and only just realize it. Digging my nails into my palms painfully. I look down, feeling this awful, burning hatred for myself that seems to pour out of me with every breath. The pain of truly wanting to cease to exist is unlike any other. I thought I had felt this before. I was wrong.
Fang. Oh, God, Fang. Fang and I weren't programmed for each other; not technically. If anything, Jeb cherished Max's relationship with Fang. The real Max. It must've only been a bonus that I was compatible as well. Another successful outcome of the duplication.
Fuck!
I consider it.
Who knows where I am? Who knows where I would even land, once I get through these fluffy clouds?
If I drop out of the sky right now, what does it solve?
I consider it more.
Maybe my problems, but not the problems of the Flock. Fuck, but the Flock is my problem. They always have been my problem. But, why?
Because I was created as a placeholder? Because the real Max died and Jeb couldn't allow that to happen?
What is the actual point of continuing? I wonder. I grasp for it. Beyond my family, I see no reason. My world in shambles, my brain unable to connect two thoughts without shorting out and falling into chaos.
How do I even…cope with what I am? Am I real? Do I have…a soul?
For a split second, I'm gonna do it. I pull my wings in a bit and drop substantially, falling through the clouds. I see below me suddenly that I'm above a large plateau in the mountains. Not a soul in sight. I throw my wings back to full length, catching myself hard, and push down roughly, lifting a few feet in the air.
I know what you're thinking. Max, you've been doing so good. You're learning to communicate and decode your feelings, and this kind of stuff—the suicidal, split-second stuff—never helps. You know better than this, how could you possibly come to this?
But—and I don't know if you know this already—all that self-respect flies out the window when you find out you are a clone of someone else, living someone else's fucked up life. Because of a fluke. A mistake. And you were never created to be anyone but someone else.
Eight years. Eight real years. The rest is stolen. Implanted but not mine.
I swallow, getting stopped up by my tears and trying again. I look again frantically around me and below, for anyone. No way the others could find me. I'd left no trail and Angel had only seen me shoot nearly straight into the air above the house. If she'd followed me, I would have heard her already, in my mind.
The others. My family. My Flock. Mine. They are. They have been—if not since dog crates, then since the day I met them. I remember even the moments I didn't really experience, the early ones. The evil, unspeakable ones. The gentle, meaningful ones that bonded us.
Regardless, they are my Flock. Regardless of what anyone thinks.
But what will they think?
What if I'm evil? Programmed to go bad, or lead the School to them? We thought that before, it isn't impossible. If anything, it's more likely now. Because I'm not Max.
Shut up, you are Max. I am Max. Max is the only me I've ever known. How am I supposed to unlearn that? How am I supposed to be anything different? How do I continue to live a stolen life?
I'm gasping, wheezing, still looking down at the mountains. Torn.
Too much, all at once.
What's burnout on top of trauma on top of this dramatic plot twist equal?
It equals a long, deep breath in.
Holding it.
And tucking my wings in tight to my back.
No one tells you that the part falling is hard. Feels like it takes so long. A fatal fall, even if intentionally taken in the midst of mental break, is horrifying. Every inch of me is itching to whip out my wings and stop this but at the same time...
I'm still crying, screaming at the top of my lungs. What do I do? What am I doing? What can I do?
I wish I could change everything.
The rock of the cliff below me is approaching so much faster than I thought. I try to swallow, my mouth dry and throat thick with tears. I can't stop thinking about Fang—
I scream, furious I can't do it, whipping my wings out and catching myself with great effort. My sneakers scrape the cliff rock as I push hard with my wings, which are already aching from unfurling midair at such speed. My muscles ache and my body crumples to the rock. I just sob there in a heap. For a moment, the only sound is me crying hysterically, freely.
So, I chicken out easily. I could always take away my chance to. I eye my sweatshirt through blurry eyes, sobbing pathetically. How dare I even try? I lie there until I lose my voice wailing, finally whimpering into the dust below me, feeling like the worst kind of garbage.
I hear some rock crunch to my left and choke on a breath, feeling my skin prickle.
"Go ahead, try again. You won't ever be able to do it."
I freeze like an animal spotted by a predator. Not even because someone is suddenly here, on this open, unobstructed stretch of cliffside that I'd just examined and found empty. But because without even looking, I know who it is. That voice.
It's me.
I look up, wiping my eyes hastily, speechless at the sight before me.
"What the fuck."
I don't ask it, I state it. She says it with me, at the exact same time with the exact same inflection. She grins then, and stands up from her squat, rubbing behind her neck absently. "Anyways, like I said. You won't kill yourself, Max. You can't. It's not what happens." She shrugs, looking down at a small device in her hand. "Can't believe this thing works. Gazzy will be pleased."
"Who are you?" I croak. She looks just like me, but different. Longer hair, softer smile. She's wearing a grey fleece and leggings and looks relatively normal—despite the wings on her back, halfway unfurled and resting, the same exact color and pattern as mine. "Are you the real Max?"
She just looks at me thoughtfully. I'm sure at this point I'm losing my mind. Finally, she says, still in my exact voice, "I'm a clone. So are you. I'm the real Max and so are you. We're the only Max left."
I roll my eyes, weakly sitting up and trying to get a bit away from her as she leans closer. I don't know who or what she is but I don't want her to get any closer. My whole body aches. My head is throbbing from my tantrum.
"Where did you come from?"
She shakes her head. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"We'll get there."
I smack my head a few times, blinking. I must be heavily hallucinating. Maybe I actually crashed and died. Maybe I fell and hit my head. I must be having a real breakdown right now.
I'm suddenly gulping for air, and she looks unsurprised. If anything, she looks annoyed, rubbing the back of her neck again. She mutters, mostly to herself, "Is this thing supposed to hurt so much?"
"What?"
She looks down at me, clearly not intending the question for me. She gets as close as she can without me tensing into a defensive stance and says nothing. She yanks up her sleeve.
I stare down quietly at the gnarled scar on the inside of her arm. Right where mine is. Exactly the same as mine. Chaotic and jagged as the day I carved it, trying desperately to take out my chip. That's my scar. My scar from trying to saw my arm open, when I was fourteen.
Now. Even if there are hundreds of Max clones out there in some twisted version of my own hell…I'm the only one with this specific scar.
Explain that.
I gulp up at her, my skin feeling ice cold. My stomach turns and I look her over once more, feeling extremely nauseated. The worst part? I don't not believe her. Not enough to fight her.
"You're me." I repeat it, but I'm still not convinced.
"I'm you," she says with a nod. She winces, reaching behind her head once more, rubbing lightly. "Ow! Fuck! I need to go back. Max, go home."
I gape at her, still not at all believing any of this as real. "What?"
"Go home. Take that pill. Work the case. Finish what you started. We're going to stop him. I'll see you again…I need your help." I gape at her. She looks me over, looking sad, then starts to walk away. "I still can't believe this thing works. Fucking incredible."
"What? Who the fuck are you?" I splutter.
She scoffs in frustration, turning on me. "We covered this."
I scoff back at her, not capable of much other movement yet without intense agony from my muscles and knees. "I'm just supposed to believe, what… that you're me? You're a fucking lunatic."
She glares at me. She seems to consider something; opens her mouth to say it, and then shuts it abruptly. She then says, "Falling from the sky to your death? Doing that to the Flock? Fang? To even consider it."
I glare at her, wishing I didn't feel so depleted so I could kick her ass to next fucking Tuesday. She's right. I hate myself more, if possible, for that stunt. I gasp through tears that are still somehow leaking out and say nothing.
"I know you've considered this, but if you turn your sweatshirt around you'll have more luck following through next time with the death plunge," she says, monotone. "But you better be sure it's what you want, because once you do that there's no last minute save. And you know this, Max, because you already thought of it. You don't want to die. You're just so hurt and angry you…want to die."
She stops, rolling her neck with a wince, looking at me finally. Shrugs. "I'm the only other person who knows what that feels like. What this exact moment feels like. I know, Max. But the Flock loves you. And they still need you." She frowns, shaking her head slightly. "Go home. If it helps, this interaction goes exactly the way I remember it going."
She pulls the small pen-like contraption out of her pocket, clicks a button and vanishes.
I fall back against the rock, gasping. Flabbergasted.
The exact same scar. How is that possible?
I'd asked her if she was the real Max. She said yes. She said, I'm the real Max and so are you.
We're the only Max left.
Feeling insanely ill, I try to ready myself to roll over. My back and wings are the worst, aching urgently after my late save. I roll to my side, levering up on my elbow, and feel my stomach twist one final time in an awful manner. I lean to the side and get sick, vomiting for a moment before rolling away and flopping down against the rock, looking up at the sky.
The device she had. She'd said, Can't believe this thing works. Gazzy will be pleased. Gazzy? My Gazzy? If she's me…
I shake my head, finally feeling able to stand. I pull myself up with great effort, moving farther from my puke spot, wiping my eyes and dragging in a few breaths.
I need to clean up. I need to go home.
I need to comprehend what the fuck just happened to me. I scramble, checking myself for injuries, still not convinced I saved myself. Maybe I have a grave injury and haven't noticed from the shock of it…
But, no.
No blood, nothing broken. My wings are tired and aching but functional, and the worst thing is my headache. I wipe at my dusty clothes, trying to pull together a train of thought worth following, finding myself on one goal that hasn't changed; my one constant.
The Flock.
In a minute I'm in the air, slow this time, taking my time with my sore muscles. I head away from home, landing near the edge of the forest when I reach a small gas station outside of town. There I stumble inside and find myself in the single bathroom. I lock the door and turn to face myself in the mirror.
My face is covered with dirt and streaked by my tears. I look like a train wreck, quite frankly. My clothes are covered in the same dusting of dirt. But beyond the filth, I look exactly how I feel. Stunned, unhinged, uneasy. I make my way toward my reflection, eyeing myself carefully and leaning forward. I turn on the tap and let it run, reaching forward for a scoop of cold water. I splash my face a few times, taking a long breath after through the droplets running down my face. I rip a few paper towels from the rack and dry my face, patting it and wiping around my eyes as gently as possible. They are stinging like hell.
I throw the towels in the garbage and sigh, eyeing myself once more. I'm still a mess, but I look a little less monstrous. I doubt Iggy and Angel are expecting me to look perfect, considering. I hope they're the only ones still at home. I still feel myself reeling, shaking from the shocking events of the last hour. I've still yet to really cope with any of this, but I know it's not fair to leave them wondering and we're supposed to do this stuff together. I can only hope this doesn't change their opinions of me. I can only hope they accept me.
I don't even know what to think of my doppelgänger.
Despite all this, I ready myself and leave the gas station, taking off for home. I push aside the craziness of the last hour for a moment and trudge home, praying they want me back at all.
Max…or, me, or—whoever she was—said The Flock loves you and they still need you. Whether she was a hallucination, a projection of my own delusion, or really me, somehow—I hope she is right.
