A/N: No one has guessed correctly yet—and, I'd just like to say, I won't tell you if you guess right.
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Warning: Language and emotional drama!
Disclaimer: James Patterson owns the Maximum Ride characters and universe. I just play with them.
M
"Does anyone want a drink or a snack or anything? I have some water here, right across from you, Iggy. There are some vending machines down the hall if you want something else."
Alana neatly stacks her cassette tape cases again. Third time. I don't suppose she enjoys watching us experience this so far—she can clearly tell we're shaken. She knows nothing about the time travel, so she probably assumes everyone is jumpy and cautious because of the case. She not wrong, but it's not just that—it's the location, it's the time travel, it's the fact that we haven't seen a normal day in weeks and this entire thing has flipped our worlds upside down.
We're in a dull conference room at the police station she'd chosen, a thirty-minute flight from home. We're seated around a large, oval table, spread out along one side while she sat, alone, on the other. We're squeezed in and I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with Iggy and Fang. I feel claustrophobic and nervous as hell, but at least we have privacy. And it is not an interrogation room.
Alana has a tape player and her files on the table before us. To the left she has a few water bottles and little plastic cups.
No one answers her, I guess waiting for me. I shrug. "We're not going to get comfortable, so it's best to just show us what you got."
"Fair," she says, nodding in agreement. She flips open a folder in front of her, reaching for a handful of papers inside. "First, we found documentation of birth for each one of you."
My skin prickles. She pauses and in the silence, I feel like I can hear myself wheezing as I try to breathe. Who's birth date, really? Max's, maybe, but—
"I know what you're thinking, Max," she says, cutting through my panicked inner monologue. "But, wait."
She proceeds to lay out five different documents, all packed with detailed descriptions and lists of vitals and other attributes. I assume one for each Flock member, minus me because she isn't going to rub it in my nose that much—to make me look at the real Max's birth record.
Before any of us get a good look at the documents, Alana says, "These are the creation records for five…clones, I suppose. Clones of Max. As an infant, immediately after having the avian DNA grafted. They all have the exact same date as Max's birth record that we found with the others, although I'd assume they were created a short time after."
I ball my fists in my jacket. Of course. If Max meant anything to Jeb, she was a giant fucking lab rat. That's it. The moment he succeeded with his first avian mutant, he cloned her. Like insurance.
The entire situation, as infuriating and unbelievable as it is, is also just crushing. Soul-crushing to think about. To consider the number of children created and used for experimentation only, neglected and stolen away from a real life. Or created from some other vile, desperate grab for science-fiction, like me.
What a waste.
"Only two survived past infancy," she says, sliding three away.
"One that he used to make an exact copy of Max, and one for Max II," I say. It's somehow just easier to talk about myself in third person, completely removed from the entire situation. The others sit in uncomfortable silence. Alana looks confused, so I helpfully inform her of the evil Max clone, trained by the School as a weapon against us. A weak one, at that. I don't give her all the details, but a quick summary.
Alana's jaw hangs open at the story of Max II. She's never conducted full interviews with any of us—and let's be honest, even if she does, it will take weeks to give her all the details of our entire journey through hell with Jeb and his goons.
"Anyways, that checks out."
Alana blinks a few times, nodding mechanically, trying to get back to her train of thought. "Well, yes. Two clones. Jeb mentioned another that survived, and we knew that was true from the documents, but we just…didn't know what they did with her. Makes more sense than Jeb somehow creating a perfect clone of an eleven-year-old. This means the Duplication Jeb mentioned was in reference to Max's memory. Duplicating her mind fully, somehow, and implanting it into a clone that already existed." She shakes her head, looking up from the documents. "I really…can't wrap my head around this stuff. It's…science fiction."
Everyone is really tense around me. I can feel their caution and I know Fang is watching me hard—I can feel that, hot on the side of my face. They probably expect me to just lose it, but… this whole thing is so unbelievable and shocking that the only way I can really survive it right now is to block it out.
I almost feel like I'm listening to all this information, but it's not about me. Not me. It changes nothing for me. It's like I'm watching this happen to someone in a movie. And, honestly, it's a welcome feeling of numbness, rather than the painful internal dilemma I'd been torn through yesterday.
So I just nod understandingly, meeting Alana's gaze only. "Yeah, you could say that about the wings, too, though, right?"
She lets out a short, surprised laugh. "Yeah, about all of it, really. Anyway…I want to be clear, we have no confirmation of knowing which document is yours."
I nod, still letting this potentially soul-crushing information just bounce off me like cotton balls. I truly can't even try to work this into my self-image right now. My body is a deep cold and my mind is racing and it hits me so suddenly that although I promised Fang, and I meant it whole-heartedly—
I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to do.
"I don't just mean these," she says, pointing again to the creation records. She opens a new folder. Taps the top document with her pen. "This is the birth record for Max. Considering we have no idea Jeb's process of the duplication, yet—we have no evidence of it happening, no record of seeing two Max's in any of the tapes—"
"Wait, nothing?" Fang asks suddenly from beside me.
"Did he have any other notes about it, or recordings?" Iggy presses.
She shakes her head slowly, looking over at Fang, then Iggy. She has a regretful frown on her face. "None so far. We still have a full shelf of boxes to go through—should be done by the end of the week. We don't know what to think of the clone story yet. You've just confirmed the cloning thing is possible, considering Max II. So, I guess it's more plausible than I thought yesterday."
I scowl hard at no one, staring at the documents before us. She doesn't even believe there is a clone. So, what, she doesn't think Max died? Why would Jeb fake that? Document it? Document sending her body to the School? Does she have a reason to think it's planted evidence, other than the fact that Jeb seemed disturbingly interested in knowing my reaction?
No evidence of it, yet. Maybe it is a sick joke from Jeb.
Isn't it all a sick joke either way?
Alana shoves the clone documents aside and hands out around the large round conference table the birth records. I look down at the one for me—Max, I don't know—surprised to see a different birth year than I'd always thought.
"Wait," I murmur, looking up. Fang is, too, quite surprised, eyebrows both shooting up as he read his own record.
"Jeb lied about our ages?"
"What? Really? Mine says I am eleven," Angel says, sounding a bit upset she isn't secretly older. "Apparently July fifteenth."
"Mine too," Nudge says, closing her eyes to do the mental math in her head. She then grins, nodding down at the document. "I mean, I'm seventeen, but technically, according to this, my real birthday is next month in December. I'll be eighteen next month!"
Nudge reaches over then to read Iggy's, again doing the math. She gasps dramatically. "Twenty-one?"
"Who, me?" Iggy asks incredulously. He looks up curiously, eyebrows drawn. "Why would Jeb lie?"
Gazzy shrugs, saying his is also accurate. He's thirteen, but his 'real' birthday is in February. I meet Fang's eyes across the table and he sighs.
Finally, he admits, "Mine says January fourth. I'm twenty-one."
"Twenty-two," I say quietly, pushing the document back to Alana. "Barely. Birthday was three months ago."
I close my eyes, thinking. Twenty-two. I'm a full year older than Fang and Iggy, a larger age difference than we'd ever been told. And the three of us had been told we were younger than we thought—probably in order to keep us together with the others? Who knows? Jeb helped us figure out our ages, we didn't just make those up. Why would he lie? So we felt like children?
Not that it would've been hard to convince us. We are built small, anyways—skinny, at least. And upon being released from the School, we were underweight and under-educated.
Twenty-two, twenty-one, seventeen, thirteen and eleven. What's with the ages? Is there any reason? Did it only matter when he was able to find people willing to participate—or when he found children that were easy to make disappear from their parents?
Was there a reason? For any of it?
Or are all the little details just random bits of Jeb's crazy?
"Listen. A lot has happened in the last month."
Alana takes off onto a summary of their progress since opening the case. She explains patiently that multiple facilities have been implicated by Jeb's documentation, and promptly shut down and investigated deeply. They'd been able to take certain evidence to local law enforcement, allowing them to locally persecute companies that have been involved. A decent list of individuals that were specifically incriminated in Jeb's recordings have been brought in by the FBI for questioning and would eventually be charged in relation to our case.
As they take down more locations, they recover more files and documents—but it seems nothing to do with the Flock.
"Makes sense," Alana reasons, "considering that after the School in Death Valley was compromised years ago, most of the information was destroyed. Thankfully, Jeb personally archived all the files he ever produced about the six of you. So it seems. Anything that happened to you should be in the files we've recovered from the house." She shrugs, though, shaking her head. "But…Jeb's barely coherent now. And who knows what is real in this case. We only really know what you or anyone else can confirm for us."
I scratch my forehead, still feeling the radiating ache of an awful headache coming on. The kids aren't saying much, but they look just as overwhelmed as I feel. It's comforting to not be alone in the feeling.
Iggy, looking particularly uncomfortable, asks, "What about that room? At the house in Colorado? What was in there?"
Alana frowns. "Never found the key. We've done multiple searches of the house. We have a team going out there next week. Right now, my main focus is the evidence we do have access to. We'll get the door open."
Iggy isn't pleased with that answer, understandably, but keeps his mouth shut.
"What about the evidence? How does Jeb know we're seeing it?"
Alana looks at me, completely honest, and shrugs her shoulders helplessly. "I have no idea."
She reaches for the top cassette in her stack, moving to pop it out of the case and place it in the large player on the table. Old fashion, but clearly it gets the job done.
"I want to play you some tapes from our interviews with Jeb recently," she says, looking around for consent from the group. No one says anything, and I nod. She nods back, continuing to prepare the first one. Once she clicks it into the player, she closes the slot and clicks a button, turning the volume dial up.
"Batchelder, it's over. We need real answers. You don't have any other options."
The voice is male. We all sit stone still, listening intently. Alana watches us attentively as we listen.
Jeb's voice, when he finally speaks, is more hollow and uneven than I've ever heard it. He's always been one to wear many faces and fit many roles. He's fallen into each character perfectly—never faltering. Mad scientist, father, mentor, enemy. But to hear him like this, now. It feels damn good.
"I don't need options."
You can hear the frustration grow in the interrogators voice; he very clearly is used to getting pointless, vague answers from Jeb. Makes sense, that's practically what the man is known for. Besides the genetic mutation stuff.
"Why'd you do it? What happened to you that drove you to destroy so many lives—to recklessly impose danger on your country? Do you understand the magnitude of your crimes? Do you understand the consequences?"
You can hear Jeb scoff. No response. The man questioning him takes a different approach.
"No one will ever know what you were trying to do here," he says finally. "Don't you want people to understand your side?"
Silence for a dreadfully long time. We all sit in it, wait for the response.
"They'll understand one day."
The tape clicks off, and I look up at Alana, astonished.
"That's it?" I ask incredulously.
She nods grimly. "After weeks of interviewing him, that's the first we ever got out of him. And it gave us nothing. Ominous, vague. Useless."
I snort. "Sounds like everything Jeb's ever said to me my entire life."
It's annoying now, to think how hard I'd considered all of Jeb's "fortune-cookie advice." He was just fucking crazy. And I ate it up.
She quickly readies the next tape. We listen as they continue to bait him, trying to get a response. A woman, this time, goes on about reasons and motives, tempting him by offering clearly incorrect ones.
He never makes a peep. Not to disprove her theories, not to argue his own perspective. He's being careful; being purposefully unhelpful. He knows he's caught, and he doesn't want to give them anything they want.
The woman changes course abruptly. "Let's talk about the house."
Out of no where, Jeb finally decides to burst in with a response.
"Let me tell you about that house," Jeb says airily. "They loved that house. It was fucking paradise for them, for her. They needed their time there to survive."
The detective stays calm, quiet, prompting gently: "Why?"
Jeb scoffs again. "These kids spent their formative years in cages, never seeing a bed or a toy or even a real meal. In order to function, they needed to assimilate. Learn. Gain social skills beyond survival and abuse."
How humane.
He talks about it all so seriously, so casually. He just…believes it, through and through. That's the scariest part. Fang's hand is on my knee below the table, thumb rubbing slow circles.
"So, you did it for them."
"If they couldn't adapt to normal life, they were useless. It was always a necessary step. That's why the house was built."
"So, what about when they ran? All those years hunting them. You wanted them to assimilate, but didn't want them to escape?"
There's a frustrating silence.
"They were stronger than I expected, smarter," he says monotonously. "They ruined it, but I'm smarter than that. I had a plan. I wish they could've just understood. And now, because of Max, we all get to lose."
My skin prickles at the eerie threat lingering in his quipped responses.
"What does that mean?"
No response.
We listen as she prompts him a few more times, each time going unreceived. Alana clicks off the player, sighing as she reaches for the last one.
"Everyone alright so far?"
I look around, getting nods and shrugs. Fang squeezes my knee, no doubt dying for me to answer that very same question. Not a chance.
"He sounds awful," Nudge says, sounding pleased.
"He sounds scary," Angel adds, frowning at me worriedly when I catch her gaze.
"Why is he still acting so cocky?" Iggy demands, looking heavily annoyed more than anything. "I mean…why does he sound like he's got something up his sleeve?"
Alana frowns hard, closing the last recording into the slot. "Wait. This is the one that worried me the most. This is the interview where we mentioned the procedure. This recording is disturbing. Max."
As if they all haven't been. I can feel my stomach already rolling, my head aching. I nod at her tiredly, blinking down at the recorder. I have no choice but to finish listening. We need to know everything he's said—to help us understand how he's still a threat and why our future selves are meddling to stop him.
She clicks play.
"We've come across something rather interesting, if you care to comment." We hear the muffled sound of a file being dropped onto a table, the sound of pages being flipped. "The duplication? Procedure X30067M?"
You can hear the handcuffs and chains clatter as Jeb shifts. He finally says slyly, "What about it?"
It makes my skin crawl to hear him, stuck like a prisoner with all the facts laid out, still acting like he has all the cards. He sounds excited to talk about this.
"Is it real?"
Jeb hums, delaying answering the question. He toys with the detective a moment, you can hear his mocking hums of consideration. "There were always three Maxes. We wanted more, but three is what we got. It all still worked out."
"Three," the detective repeats, leaving a pregnant pause to allow for Jeb's instincts to let him fill the silence. Amazingly, he does. He's chatty about this topic—bragging.
"Well, and of course the failure of the procedure was an accident. But for the best," Jeb says compassionately. "The replacement Max was just an impressive, and her reproduction capabilities safely intact. She and Fang progressed exceptionally—so, no harm done. Like starting over. Refresh."
Alana pausing the player suddenly. For a split second I even wonder why she did that—then it hits me. It must've already been clear on my face. I'm going to puke. Seriously, right away.
I can't think to do anything but grab Fang's wrist. He notices, and says, "Trash can!" frantically, spinning my rolling chair around for me as I cover my mouth. Angel's already shoving a small bin from the corner of the room under my chin.
He actually called me that. Replacement Max. To hear him speak of it at all, let alone so carelessly—it is just revolting in the most immediately sickening way. I don't vomit a lot, but enough to need the basket, and when I'm done Nudge is returning with haphazardly ripped paper towels from the bathroom down the hall. I scoff at myself, embarrassed and disgusted. Iggy slides a bottle of water to me wordlessly from the many stacked next to Alana's files and I chug it down wordlessly. Everyone is silent, I guess trying to give me space or something. Honestly, all I feel like I'm getting is more humiliated by the second.
"Are you alright, Max?" Alana asks gently. "It's almost done."
Fang nearly growls, "I think it's done."
I touch his wrist, feeling how taunt his body is with worry. I slide my fingers around his wrist, making him look down at me.
"Fang, it's fine. It's just—"
"It's fucked up, Max," he says, eyes troubled. "Why do we have to hear it?"
I shake my head stubbornly, having no energy to talk this out with him or even comfort him.
"If you don't want to hear it, leave. Alana, go ahead."
Iggy and Fang both scoff at me, and I see Nudge watching me worriedly. Angel and Gazzy sit silently, a bit shaken but not arguing. I know Angel wants to hear it as much as I do. I ignore them and focus once again on the task before me, watching Alana resume the tape. The detective's voice comes through, next.
"How is it no harm if Max died?"
Jeb's response comes almost immediately. Incredibly, he's most comfortable talking about this topic. I can't believe his openness.
"Think of a life spread across three bodies," Jeb says easily, his voice the same gentle, manipulating tone I remember from childhood. "Imagine losing a vessel, but not the person inside."
Fuck, I cannot take this. His rationalization of the entire thing is worse. Not like I thought any reason of Jeb's would make this easier to swallow, but…fuck.
A vessel.
"How did you know which one was which?" The detective asking questions is either unmoved by his bizarre responses or is amazing at keeping cool. He sounds genuinely interested, which Jeb must hear, too. "Maxes, I mean."
He's as casual as Jeb, and maybe that helps keep him talking.
Jeb laughs.
"They were never around each other. Never exposes. And the infant was cloned and one was brought back to my lab a week later," he says offhandedly. "They all had the same level of function at that stage. Honestly, there's no telling."
This is a stunning admission. I know this means a lot and adds weight to the Flock's argument. Who knows which Max was the original—fuck, it could be Max II. It doesn't really matter. I hear muffled reactions and Nudges gasps something, but I try to keep listening. Either way, to me, it's a goddamn mess.
He's comfortable, and they must've waited him out to see if he'd say anything else. There's a full minute of silence, and then finally:
"That's what you don't get. I did create the mission, the plan, but there's a whole team beside me. They have their orders." He chuckles, the room still silent. I can't imagine the aura in that room, with such an evil man being so openly careless.
"We have your team," a man's voice says harshly. "We have almost every lab that's ever done business with you shut down. It's over."
"It's over when I say it's over," Jeb says, his voice haunting. Now, just now, he truly sounds like he has nothing to lose. None of the detectives rise to his bait, so he continues.
"Anyways, what does Max think of all this?" he asks suddenly, still casual and relatively smug. "I know she's finally seeing my files, after all these years. It doesn't stop her. Despite everything. And maybe now it's over. But, I guess we'll see."
Alana finally ends the tape, dropping the room into complete and utter silence. She looks at me, having the audacity to look unsure of what to do now. I gape at her, feeling the Flock rustling and growing anxious around me. It takes me a second. I have no words. I let all of Jeb's ominous hinting and narcissistic rambling wash over me, taking it in. The clones, the birthdays, the because of Max, we all get to lose bit.
I don't even know where to start.
