A/N: Hey, guys! Nothing much relevant to say, except for my New Years' reflections. Fun fact: I've been on this site since Phoenix Fanatic was still updating Diary of a Lovesick Mutant. (A staple fanfiction in the MR universe. Highly recommended). Since the MR section of had only 12,000 stories. Since Catherine Hardwicke was announced as director for the (non-existent) movie. (BUT THERE IS A WEB SERIES IN PRODUCTION AND ALLIE EVANS IS PLAYING MAX). Since School's Out-Forever's cover didn't have sunglasses photoshopped onto Fang's face. Since "Fang's Blog" still existed as a website. Sigh. I've been writing this story for over three years now, and I've only just started to write it. It has over 3,700 views and a hoard of precious reviews that I sometimes reread when suffering "writer's loss-of-interest." Thank you so much, everybody! I probably would have given up a long time ago if it weren't for you!

Oh, and before I forget, aries4me pointed out some continuity errors I made on a previous chapter. Looking back through it, I found several more. If y'all are ever confused because I've made a stupid mistake, please let me know! I'm terrible at proofreading.

Without further ado:

Not-a-nurse locks the hospital door.

"In fact, I was hoping you'd say that."

I rest a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Think you can walk yet?" He nods, his eyes locked on the threatening container.

"You won't be going anywhere." Not-a-nurse lifts the bottle, preparing to splatter its contents all over me. I plant my foot in the middle of his chest and kick with all my birdkid might. He hits the wall behind him and sinks to the floor. I leap out of the way as the bottle of chemicals flies in my direction. The container bursts, spewing the hazardous material everywhere. Not-a-nurse writhes away from the growing puddle of pungent liquid before it reaches him. I almost trip over his flailing limbs as I scoop up the clipboard on a hunch.

"Nick! We're leaving."

Oh, shoot, we're going to attract a lot of unwanted attention. Luckily, I spot a wheelchair folded up in the corner. When Nick gets on his feet, I push him down into it, avoiding his bad shoulder.

"I can w-Ow!" I remove his IVs with as much care as an exasperated parent pulling dozens of burrs from a toddler's hair. (Angel had a few bald spots for a while).

"Sorry." Except I'm saving your butt, so you can't complain. I drop the clipboard in his lap. "Take a look at this."

"My medical records?" He doesn't sound impressed. He flinches as I push him over the writhing not-a-nurse (yes, you read that correctly). We wheel down the hallway a little too quickly. It draws the attention of a woman in teddy bear scrubs.

I lean down and hiss in Nick's ear, hoping it looks like I'm sharing an inside joke. "Pretend like you're injured."

"But I am—"

"Now pretend to laugh." He obliges with a depressingly fake chuckle. The nurse shakes her head that clearly expresses 'kids these days.' I give her a smile as I push Nick past. We arrive at the main hub of the fourth floor, where three long hallways intersect, without much interference.

My heart pounding, but far from out of breath, I push the elevator button repeatedly. "Come on, come on, come on you stupid tin death trap!" I like elevators about as much as I like being underground.

Nick's eyebrows furrow, flipping between two pages of the clipboard. "Wait a second. This is Eric. And that's the leader of the Reds. I recognize him from the fight." He looks up at me. "It's a hit list."

"Leaving so soon?" The elevator pings right as not-a-nurse rounds the corner, the back of his scrubs smoking slightly.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Phillip is allergic to death." Okay, not one of my best lines, but I have a lot more to think about right now than witty comebacks. For example, Nick tries to get out of his chair. If he gets up, it will raise more suspicion. No need to drag innocent bystanders into this mess. I rest my hands on either of Nick's shoulders and not-so-gently press him back into his seat. "I'm taking him home."

Not-a-nurse laughs. "We'll meet Nicholas there." He turns to my wheelchair-bound friend as the elevator doors slide open. "3641 Creekside Road, right?" Nick stiffens. Not-a-nurse smirks. "You really think a shrubbery is enough to keep our eyes and ears out, boy?"

I don't give Nick much time to process it. I push his wheelchair into the elevator and press the ground floor button. When not-a-nurse tries to follow, I tackle him to the ground. His head cracks against the tile floor; I land on top of him with an audible 'oomph'. Nick starts to get out of his chair again, but I thrust my free foot out and kick him backwards. He and his chair ram into the far wall. I risk an apologetic glance as the doors shut. He doesn't look too happy.

Not-a-nurse uses the temporary distraction to roll. He straddles my stomach, pinning my arms to the floor on either side of me, (not that it's very effective, me being a mutant and him a weak human). Some acid drips off his coat and hits my forearm, where my scabs have healed to little more than thin red stripes. I hiss. Several heavy sets of footsteps approach. The hospital security. Frankly, I don't feel like fighting, and definitely not like fighting fair. I raise my knee and nail not-a-nurse where all men's greatest weakness lies. (No, not his ego). He collapses to the side and I slide to my feet.

The constant pain in my ribs reminds me of its presence a little too forcefully. My breath catches. The guards are almost on me, though, and I can't afford leaving Nick alone for more than a minute. For all I know, he never even made it to the first floor. So I steel myself and ram through the stairwell doors. I only make it down half a flight before the doors swing open again and two burly guys are chasing me. One of them calls for backup over his radio.

I take the steps two at a time, flying around the corner of flights of steps with the grace of a drunk squirrel navigating an iced-over tree. (Long story). As I pass the landing for the third floor, another guard bursts through the door. He's a little too close for comfort; his hand brushes the trailing hem of my jacket. In a panic, I fumble to zip the thing and keep it closer to my body. As I round the next corner, I stick out a leg to ricochet off the wall instead of slowing down to make the sharp turn.

If Gazzy were here, he would yell "Parkour!" and immediately start doing fancy flips down entire flights of steps. A small pang of homesickness shoots through me.

No, I'll find my family. Soon.

The doors on the first floor open and I watch as guards, accompanied by a doctor or two, pour into the stairwell. Looks like I'll be making my exit early, then. I skip the last three steps and burst through the doors leading to the second floor, headed for what I hope I correctly remember as a second stairway in the middle of the hospital. Surely the hospital doesn't have enough guards to cover two stairwells. If they do, they need to reevaluate their security; not-a-nurse didn't seem to have any trouble getting in. I dodge the errant hospital worker in my sprint down yet another white tiled hallway. See, if the building had an alarm system, people would know they should stop me. As it is, they think I'm some escaped patient from the psych ward or something.

I make it through another set of double doors to the front of the hospital. I was almost right when I though there was a stairwell here; one lies at either end of the long balcony that wraps around the massive lobby and reception desk. Below, I catch sight of a mop of unruly black hair waiting by the door. A sigh of relief. At least Nick got down safely. And he's still in the wheelchair.

But even as I head toward the steps closest to the exit, a figure approaches Nick from behind. Fluorescent lights glint off a poorly-concealed syringe. Shoot.

"Nick!" He turns towards my voice. Idiot. "Behind you!" He doesn't even look; with a push of his wheels, he sends the chair flying backwards into his would-be attacker. Thatta boy.

The sound of the double doors slamming into their walls announce the arrival of my posse. Oops. Gotta run. I begin sprinting back towards the steps, only to meet another group of guards, whitecoats—I mean, "doctors"—and nurses.

How many guards does one hospital need?

A clang from below catches my attention. Nick rolls out of his overturned wheelchair before the janitor lunges at him with the syringe. Even from up here I can hear Nick's grunt as he hauls himself shakily to his feet. He's suffering from a stab wound, a re-located shoulder, and a week's bedrest; I'm not sure I can trust him to take on a baddie by himself.

But when I turn back around, I'm surrounded.

I hug my ribs protectively and back into the balcony's railing. My erratic heartbeat has nothing to do with my recent exercise. A doctor steps forward, holding out a gloved hand in peace. "It's okay. We aren't here to hurt you."

I scan the small crowd gathered around me for wolfish features. But everybody looks pretty much like you'd expect from people who have been on their feet for the last eleven hours. So, no goons. But then there's a flash, and my attention is drawn towards somebody toward the back of the crowd, pointing the camera of his cell phone in my direction. Even a normal human being—much less an escaped mutant freak-would find that suspicious and more than a little creepy.

My hand closes around the railing behind me. Twenty-five feet to the floor. I could land twenty-five without damage. Of course, it's tile over concrete; I could also shatter my legs. And either way, my ribs. . . I wince just thinking about it. But they just became tolerable!

Behind me, there's a crash. I glance down in time to see Nick roll from his toppled wheelchair, the janitor a millisecond from jabbing him with the syringe. A few people watch with fascination, but no one moves to help. They, like the nurses and doctors, aren't questioning the authority of 'the man'. Probably don't have a single adventurous cell in them. Never stuck a fork in an outlet to see if the cartoons were accurate, never snuck out of the house for a three-day camping trip next to a waterfall, never went through the rebellious teenager stage.

I roll my weight into the balls of my feet and tighten my grip on the railing.

The kind doctor guesses what I'm thinking. He takes a step towards me. "Woah, there." I look past the doctor's furrowed brow. The guy with the camera phone has slipped away, probably to send evidence to his contact. The doctor scoots closer. Too close for comfort. "Let me help you. You're safe here."

Somebody downstairs screams.

I make my decision quickly. "No, I'm not." I topple from the balcony.

No wings allowed, I free fall for a few agonizing seconds. A floor of hard rock and bloody bodies flashes past my vision, and I panic at the resurgence of my nightmare. I'm going to hit the ground and go splat and there's nothing I can do about it. But then my feet make connection with the floor, and I tumble head-over-heels a few times to absorb as much shock as possible. My momentum helps me finish on my feet.

The man who had attacked Nick is sprawled on the floor, looking much like I should have after my literal leap of faith. The syringe sticks out of his bicep. I should probably feel remorse, but he was about to do the same to Nick without batting an eye.

We aren't in the clear, yet. The guards and doctors are on their way down the steps. Nick grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of the front doors. "Come on."

I tug right back. "No, this way." I lead him through a small side exit and pause to wedge a chair under the doorknob. It works in movies, right? The second door in the small hallway leads outside, to a loading bay of sorts.

The car is exactly where I left it, strategically parked between the ranges of two security cameras. Nobody would have us on tape, er, DVD. What are those kids using these days? Nick mumbles as he adjusts his seat to accommodate his long legs. I roll my eyes as I take my seat behind the steering wheel.

I twist the keys in the ignition. Nothing. "What?!"

"You have to—"

"I know how to drive, Nick!" A lie, but he doesn't need to know that. Nevertheless, his hand closes over mine on the keys and swivels it forward, back, and forward again with a little jiggle at the end. The car grumbles before sputtering out. As the car dies, there are shouts from inside. I glance in the rearview mirror, squinting through the light of the rapidly-falling sun. The door to outside isn't moving, but it will soon. "We'll have to run."

Nick slaps his palms on the dashboard of the old car. "Dang it, Dory, pull yourself together!"

With that, the car suddenly revs up. I can't hide my smile as I slam the gas pedal into the floor, speeding out of the parking lot just as security pours through the front doors.

I rush through a red light or two to put as much distance between me and the white-washed walls of the last week as possible. When I turn onto a road devoid of too much traffic and slow to under sixty miles per hour, Nick relaxes his grip on the handle thing above his door and takes his foot off the brake he wishes were on his side. We ride in silence for a moment, absorbing what just happened.

"Why did you name the car Dory?" I ask, watching Nick from the corner of my eye.

He half smiles. "She speaks whale." As if responding to his statement, the car groans as I turn down another neighborhood street.

It takes a few false starts for Nick to spit his question out. "He knows where I live." Well, it comes out more as a statement than a question.

I can't help but correct him. "They know where you live." Nick suddenly becomes very interested in the bullet holes marring the passenger door. I feel the need to continue to fill the silence. "With what I heard over several phone calls, Not-a-nurse has contacts. And I think there may have been more than one or two people planted in the hospital." I grimace. "I think they took pictures." Great, all I need is more evidence of mutant freaks out in the world. I'm sure that won't put the Flock on the hit list of every mad scientist, bounty hunter, freak show host, and poacher in the vicinity of Earth's atmosphere. (Sarcasm).

Nick nods his head, and I get the feeling most of my words went in one ear and out the other. I watch him stare out the windshield vacantly, leaning heavily against the passenger side door. I want to say more, but I realize that, if Nick is anything like Fang, (which he definitely is), he's comfortable with the silence. Needs it, even.

So I'm surprised when he's the one to break it. "I'm coming with you."

"What?" My foot taps the breaks, nearly causing the car behind us to crash. The man driving flips the bird as he passes. I don't pay him any attention. "Not a chance."

"It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

"It's too dangerous."

"Danger is my middle name."

I roll my eyes. "Nick—"

"No, don't say that. You need help." He cuts my protests off with a raised hand. "I don't know what it is, what's been eating you all this time. Yet. But I want to help you, because you've helped me. And. . . and if there are really people hunting me, it's better I've got someone to watch my back."

"I watch your back, you watch mine," I mutter under my breath.

"Exactly." Nick nods decisively.

I sigh. "No, Nick. I'm not risking it."

"If I come with you, and I get hurt, it wouldn't be your fault." I bite my lip, not wanting to think of going through another experience like the one that eventually landed Nick on the hospital nurses' "favorite patient" radar. "It would be my own fault." He waits until I look at him to continue. "It's my choice, Max."

I allow a second to pass before answering. "It's more than that."

His hands clench in his lap. "What? Your past? I can tell it's. . . screwed up." He must catch my flinch, because he softens his fist and continues with a softer voice. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

I take a deep breath, using my focus on the road as an excuse not to answer.

"Max." The gravity in Nick's voice makes me look at him. "You can tell me anything."

I want to. I really, desperately need to share all of my fear, anger, and loneliness with somebody who might even be able to relate. I turn my eyes back to the road (much to the relief of the drivers in the other lanes of traffic). In that moment, I can almost pretend that Nick is Fang, silently reading every expression that crosses my face and understanding every bit of what I'm going through.

And as Nick searches me with sincerity in his swollen eyes, something clicks.

I lick my dry lips. "I can't." A shudder runs up my spine. "I. . . can't lose anybody else."

"Then take me with you."

I hate how small my voice sounds. "I can't."

"If you leave me here, I'll be dead within a week." His voice is stone cold, stating fact. And as much as I hate it, I can't argue with him. He smirks, understanding what I'm thinking by reading my face, knowing he's won the argument. The familiarity of his expression almost catches me by surprise.

Almost.

"Besides, you already promised you wouldn't leave me alone."

I knew that would come back to bite me in the butt. I clear my throat. "We need to ditch the car."

Nick raises an eyebrow at my not-so-smooth transition but nods anyway. "I think I know where. Take a right up here."

A/N:I think Max is warming up to the idea of having a tag-along. (Wink). Not my smoothest ending for a chapter, but the phrasing of the next one can't be easily broken up. So, to keep you from having to endlessly scroll, I'll cut it short. (BTW, out of curiosity, are any of you reading this on your phone? I recently found out there's an app; is it worth the download?)

Let me know if I've made another dumb typo. Or if you like this story. Or if you hate this story, (though I don't know why you've read this far if you hate it).