A/N: Sorry it took so long, but I had a lot of stuff going on this month. I had finals, got a job, graduated, found out one of my favorite people has cancer, solved the meaning of life, and wrote like a bajillion thank you notes.

Nick and I have to ride on the floor in the back of the van because the seats had been removed. We both rest with our backs to the side of the van. I grip a loose seat belt in my hand, in hopes it would catch me in case of an accident, which, with the driver's crazy zig-zagging, is almost likely.

"Hey, Nicky. When's the last time you heard this song?" The driver leans into the radio to turn the music up. My ears are assaulted by slang and curses that would make even Iggy blush. The man sitting across from me—the one who's hand I probably broke—bobs his head and even mouths some of the more disdainful phrases while avoiding making eye contact with me.

Nick has to shout over the bass shaking the vehicle. "I couldn't tell you, there's a lady present." I raise an eyebrow. The man in the passenger's seat guffaws.

So the next ten minutes pass. I sit in silence for the majority of the ride. Okay, all of it. I figure I've blabbed enough about myself today; listening to the conversations of the men surrounding me may actually prove beneficial (if it doesn't lower my IQ). They talk about money. Alcohol. Fights they've been in. In the matter of a few minutes, I learn more about gang life than I'd ever care to know.

So I zone out and focus on my other concern. I mistook the thugs for Erasers. They're attractive enough, proud enough, and, from what I can tell, think the same way. They travel in packs. Take orders from this mysterious "boss," who they never call by name. I assume it's the woman I saw nearly get toasted last night. Anyways, I study the three men to a point where it's almost creepy. If they aren't Erasers. . .

If they are Erasers, I'm in trouble.

It makes sense. Nick could be a clone; the School probably stores samples of the Flock's DNA in little test tubes meticulously boxed away for future testing. Maybe this whole thing has just been a setup. Luring me into the van means no hassle, no "damaging the merchandise." As the thought dawns on me, I have the sudden urge to escape the tin can that's currently flying down the streets at too-fast miles per hour.

Then I notice the plastic bag innocently lying in the corner, as though tossed haphazardly. But I know better. The second I show any intention to escape, the one with the broken hand will grab the contents of the bag-probably a syringe and some restraints- and dose me with enough tranquilizers to take down a hippopotamus. Then the Erasers and the Fang clone will ship me to the nearest School, where I can be processed, tested, and killed accordingly (maybe not in that order).

But then I remember this morning. If Nick was with the Erasers, he could have easily dosed me while I dozed. (See what I did there?) Besides, I've already ruled him out as a clone. He didn't even know about the wings. No need to go worrying down that road again.

So, maybe Nick is just an innocent bystander in all of this! What if he's being lured into this trap with me? There's only one bag, hardly large enough for the equipment needed to bring down me, much less another human. But the Erasers wouldn't be allowed to leave any witnesses.

Woah. Wait.

I'm assuming these common thugs are Erasers.

I broke that guy's arm because he didn't properly defend himself. There's no way I have to worry about them, despite their arrogance and disconcerting attractiveness.

Of course, they're still thugs. If I had had parents, I bet they would have warned me about getting in vans with strangers.

Nick shifts his position on the floor next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I scoot out of his reach and prepare to launch out the door the second he tries to pull anything. He doesn't notice; I follow his stare to the window opposite us. We've stopped at a light; something easily avoided if we had just walked. Across the street from us is a small shop selling electronics. The window boasts no less than four televisions, all playing the same channel. I realize that it what's on the screens that has Nick so interested.

The light turns green, and the driver slams his foot on the gas at the same time as Nick lunges for the dashboard, causing him to lose his balance. I rise to a crouch and help steady him, not wanting to have to lug him around because of another concussion. He ignores me, already busy with the radio controls. The bass suddenly disappears, leaving my innards feel hollow and numb.

"Hey, man, I was listening to-"

"SHH!" The radio gurgles through a few stations before Nick finds the one he was looking for.

". . . only been a week since the last one. Janice, with more details."

"Thanks, Don. I'm in Washington, D. C., standing in front of the pile of rubble that was Independence High School. At approximately eleven o'clock this morning, the school received a phone call that would change the lives of the students, faculty, and staff of the school forever. The school received a bomb threat, and though most of the school was evacuated before the explosion, thirty-six students remain unaccounted for. While many of the students declined being interviewed, a few stepped forward to provide further details."

"There-there was this announcement over the intercom, and we evacuated-"

The guy in the back in the van with me interrupts, "Hey! Sounds like Chuckles!" Nick's face pales, and the guy realizes his mistake. He stops talking.

"-the teachers took attendance. And there were almost forty kids missing. And then. . . we heard the explosion."

"The ground shook, and I could see bits of bricks and stuff flying up into the air."

"I remember the smoke. But I mostly remember the quiet. It was like. . . like all of the sound had been suctioned up with the school or something. Everything stopped."

"We were holding our breath, waiting for them to pop out and tell us how it was all a joke or something."

The somber voice of the newscaster is back. "It is the school's policy to notify the police after every such event, and so the authorities arrived within an hour of the bombing. Two hours later, and search teams have yet to find the thirty-six missing students."

"Thanks, Janice. Our hearts go out to the families of those missing. NWN will keep the nation updated on this story. In other news, the mother of heartthrob Caleb Mirello, the actor who plays Jackson Thompson in the new-"

The driver of the vehicle turns off the radio.

We ride the rest of the way to Nick's house in silence.

I'm so absorbed in my own thoughts that I don't even realize we've stopped until Nick heaves the door open and jumps out. He offers me a hand down, but roll my eyes and nimbly exit the vehicle. I land in grass that would reach my knees if it hadn't been beaten down by frequent use. Not what I would expect, based off Nick's personal appearance.

Of course, I didn't guess he was in a gang, either.

"Hey, Nick. Come 'ere a sec." The guy in the passenger seat gestures him closer. I scan the yard, pretending not to eavesdrop. "I'll let you know if anyone hears about the boss. Until then ...just. . .watch yourself, man. Alright?" Nick, obviously sensing the gravity in his words, nods. With that, the van speeds away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

Nick stands in the settling dust, hair tousled by some rising wind, covered in soot and his own blood. He looks lost. Then he notices me watching and drops any emotion from his face. In that instant, he looks so much like Fang my gut flutters.

From home-sickness. Nothing else.

I squelch those feelings and direct my attention at the gnawing in my stomach. "So, Nicky , how about you bring my food and a backpack, and I'll get out of your high-maintenance hair?"

Nick doesn't miss a beat. "My hair is fabulous. You'll have to come inside to get food, and as an added bonus I'll show you my hair care products." He pseudo-examines the dirty rat's nest I call hair. "You could use some, too."

I roll my eyes. Honestly, it would take more than some cheap conditioner to make my locks luscious. Although a shower may help.

No. Not going inside.

"You bring it out here, or I'm leaving." Ooh, my Leader Voice came out. Nick stares at me for a second, and I fight the heat creeping to my face. Luckily, just as I'm about to lose, he turns and knocks on the door. He waits for a second. Knocks again. When nobody answers the door, he jiggles the doorknob. Locked.

A soft expletive.

A little worried about how long I've been standing out in the open, I say, "Everything okay over there?"

Nick, flustered, glances over while running his fingers around the door frame. "Yeah. Door's locked."

"This is your house, though?" Nick digs into a (dead) potted plant.

". . . Yes."

"You hesitated."

"It's the Boss' house."

"You're breaking into your Boss' house? How stupid—"

"It's. . .complicated," while he shoves at a rusty grill without making any progress. It only takes me a small nudge it slides right on over. I catch Nick's slightly surprised look out of the corner of my eye and smirk.

Nick, after another minute of searching, runs his hand through his hair with a huff. "Okay, I could have sworn the spare key was under the grill, but whatever. I'm going through the back." He jumps over the railing of the porch and jogs around the corner. When I move to follow, he stops me. "No. Stay."

I cross my arms. "Since when did you get the idea that I follow orders?"

Nick mirrors my motions. "Since when did you get so interested in seeing my bedroom?" He wriggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, and I step backwards in disgust. Ew.

So I climb back onto the porch and keep watch for curious neighbors. I realize then that the house is pretty much isolated from prying eyes, which would make it ideal for whatever the "boss" of a gang does. The only sounds are that of the window Nick is displacing on the other side of the house. A crash. Great, the idiot's broken the window. I go to peek my head around the corner.

Fatigue settles on me then, like I'm pushing through water to move. I don't pay it much attention; I mean, I'm used to being exhausted, especially after the week I've been having. When I try to step over the empty plant pot, though, my foot hits the side. Confused, I glance down. The world starts to tilt and gravity pulls a little harder at me. It takes a few tries, but my hand finds the wall of the house, and I try to hold myself upright.

I take a deep breath with my eyes shut, fighting the nausea building in my stomach. When I open my eyes again, they struggle to focus. Crap. The world takes a violent tilt, and it takes the pain in my hips and head for me to realize that I've fallen over.

The door opens a crack, revealing a pair of dirty, black, name-brand sneakers.

"Look what I f—Max!" A crinkled sheet of paper falls as the shoes approach.

With a final heave, darkness takes over.

A/N: I realize that I didn't make it very clear in the last chapter that the thugs aren't Erasers, so I tried to clear that up a little here. In case you didn't get it, they are not mutants. They are just semi-attractive people who chose an unattractive lifestyle. Don't do drugs, kids!