Hi guys! It's Dot!
So this is my newest story. It's the first one I've written from third person, so just bear with me. Even though this is my first 3rd person pov story, I still really like it a lot and will try my best to stick with it even though I am the worst updater in the history of writers. I do have the first ten chapters prewritten though, so I'll try my best to remember to update once a week.
I'd really appreciate any constructive criticism if anybody has some to offer.
With all of that said, read and review!
He enters the dimly lit room with caution. After all, it is a room full of assassins.
He takes a seat directly in the middle of the room, in between a brute that must be three hundred pounds of pure muscle and a wiry looking fellow twirling a blade in his hands.
The bartender gives him his usual drink and he sits back in his chair, chatting with another regular, The Gasman, who is famous for his killings with deadly gasses, hence his name. They chug a few cold beers and then Gazzy leaves, going on and on about some new mission he had gotten from some rich guy who despises his wife.
Fang sits there alone for a few moments, knowing the seat beside him wouldn't be unoccupied for long.
He is right; it is quickly taken by a small woman, whom he had seen only a few times, with red flowing hair and emerald green eyes sparkling with mischief.
He chats while she flirts, twirling a small lock of hair in her fingers, her eyes undressing him. She speaks with a seductive tone and only looks up at him through her eyelashes, doing all she can to get him to go home with her.
Her efforts are wasted, as he quickly grows bored of her and sends her on her way, declaring that he has a job to attend to. It isn't hard to believe. He is good—one of the best actually—so he usually has rich men and women asking him to do their dirty work.
After she—Lissa, he recalls her name—has left, he orders another beer and sips it with the company of his friend Iggy. They've been friends since before Fang became an assassin, but not before he had become a killer. So he is probably Fang's best friend, but still not trusted enough to know everything.
As they chat, Fang surveys the room, checking to see if maybe the owner, Jeb, was here. Instead he finds a young woman sitting in the back corner of the bar, sipping vodka and categorizing the competition.
She has long brown hair with streaks of blonde. Her tan skin is perfect, not a mark to be seen, which was unusual, considering her profession. People in his line of work always get dinged up in some way, and sometimes the wounds leave a mark. But he doesn't see a scar anywhere on her body. Her eyes are what drew him in, though.
Chocolate brown with just the right mixture of emotions. Mischief, fire, the sadness that is always in killers' eyes plus a little bit more, and his favorite, deadliness. He could tell she was good just by looking at her.
He points her out to Iggy, who immediately swallows his sip of beer – nearly choking on it – and smacks Fang's hand down.
"Don't point at her!" he hisses, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"Chill," Fang says, a small smirk on his usually impassive face. "Just pointing out somebody that could be fun later."
Fang doesn't need to describe what he meant, Iggy knows. They are all deadly killers in this place, you have to be to get in. A perfect place to get a job, and a perfect place to find a companion for the night. Fang is deadly with a gun and even more with a blade, and a complete player.
With you one moment, with another the next, that's his game, and his motto.
"Not with her, unless you think being killed is a good time," Iggy informs his friend, turning away from the girl. Fang turns with him, eager to hear information on his latest prey.
"That's Maximum Ride," Iggy begins, his voice hushed. "Nobody knows her real name. All we know is that she could kill all of us right here, right now." Fang nearly scoffs when he hears the genuine fear in Iggy's voice. She might be good, but she is just a human.
The dark haired man sits back after a minute, digesting what he had been told. "So, they say she's the best?" he asks his companion. Iggy nods. "Well, she hasn't met me yet, has she?"
With that he rises from his chair and strides towards the woman. He blatantly ignores Iggy's protests and doesn't stop until he reaches the empty chair beside her.
"Fang," he introduces himself, catching her attention and holding out a hand to be shaken. She takes it, amusement in her eyes as their hands touch. Her grip is strong enough to alert Fang of the muscle hidden beneath her coat.
"Max," she tells him. "Maximum Ride."
Fang takes the seat without invitation, and places his feet and legs almost uncomfortably close to hers.
It is then her dry amusement transforms to hatred. She gives him an ice cold glare and scoots a few inches away, enough so that the two are no longer touching. She knows exactly what he wants. It is in the alcohol in his breath. It's in the way he leaned closer to her, as if he expects to be kissed. This meeting has already gone from casual to possibly deadly for Fang. She already dislikes and distrusts this man. And dislike is plenty for a death sentence in that bar.
"I saw you from over there, saw you were all alone. I thought that was strange for someone as pretty as you," Fang says, smirk still on his face. Yes, he is smiling and talking more than he usually does, but he feels proud about having the courage to talk to someone Iggy had made out to be so scary. Now that he's close to her he can study her. But she doesn't look like a hardened killer. She just looks like a gorgeous woman that hasn't done much in her life.
"I like being alone. I don't like people who interrupt my alone time. Therefore, I don't like you," she nearly growls, the amusement in her long gone, now burning with a powerful anger.
Fiery, he liked that.
"Aw, don't be like that," he says, moving his chair so that she could smell his cologne. It was faint, which means he is much too close. He knows he sounded like a creep, but he is technically a serial killer—having killed over three people—so he's allowed to be creepy. And it's not like he would do anything against her will. He knows there are awful guys out there that would try, though. He might be a murderer, but he knows that no means no.
Technically everybody here is a serial killer. Well, everybody that he knows. He doesn't know about this woman yet. Yet being the word he smiles at.
"Like what?" she questions innocently, "Like this?" With that her foot slams into his, and her combat boot's heel digs in.
He hisses, trying to pull his foot out from under hers. It was obvious that she isn't hesitant, she will hurt him any chance she gets. You don't earn a reputation like hers for being hesitant, though, so Fang should have suspected something like this might happen.
"Why do you already hate me?" he asks her, composing himself. He's an assassin; she shouldn't have gotten him like that. Maybe he needs to train more.
"Yes, I am a killer," she begins. "But that doesn't mean that I like guys like you." With that she gets up and marches out, and all he can see is her light brown hair swinging back and forth across the back of her leather jacket as she exits the bar. She never even looks back at him.
His body heavy with defeat, he lumbers back to Iggy, who hands him a beer. "Nice try, but nobody can get Maximum Ride," he says in an I-told-you-so voice, tipping back and placing his feet on the bar.
Fang just nods. He is already thinking of a way to break her.
MAXIMUM RIDE
She hurries down the dark streets, trying her best to stay away from the streetlights that cast their light on the pavement. She doesn't like to be seen. Actually, the last thing she wants is to be seen.
As she walks, she thinks about her encounter with the man in Jeb's bar. It is obvious that he's good at what he does (and she means both his job and trying to get woman into bed like he was trying to get her into bed). She could see it in his eyes and the way he wouldn't let her go.
Yes, she thinks with a smirk, he's good, but not good enough to get me.
Maximum Ride is untouchable. As both an assassin and a girl. No cops have ever come close to catching her and no men can have her. Well, the very few men that could usually end up with a knife in their backs. Except for—no. She can't think about that. She isn't allowed to think about that. She had promised herself that she would never think, talk, do anything about him again.
As quickly as she can, she regains her composure and continues to walk. While she travels, she wills herself to think of something, anything else. She cannot let herself fall down that path again.
Fang. He's interesting. Not good enough to get her in bed, at least by the skills he had shown her. He must know the rumors that go around the bar. They aren't difficult to hear. Everybody knows them, and everybody is eager to gossip. They all love to talk about how deadly she is, all the jobs she's completed. She can kill them all if one of them makes a mistake. That's why she continues getting better. No matter how hard anybody else tries to best her, she'll always be one step ahead.
But that's not even what interests them most. It's her unknown origin, her most likely tragic backstory that prompts the most discussion. Everybody in that bar has a theory of where Maximum Ride came from, and how she got to be where she is. A killer like her doesn't just appear out of thin air. Something has to have driven her to her profession, and for some reason, every patron at the bar likes to talk about it.
As her feet continue to hit the ground, she lets her thoughts drift. They are now safely away from the subject of – no. She is not thinking of him tonight. She is not letting herself fall again.
With a shake of her head, she tries to banish the thoughts from her mind. When that doesn't work, she begins to count the street lights on the way to her home. It's dull enough that it does distract her. Her mind has been pulled away from the danger zone.
Finally, she reaches the small shack she calls home and enters, flicking on all of the lights—which is really just a light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the first room and a small lamp in the only other room. Now that she is in the comforts of home, she allows herself to relax at least a little bit.
Once she is as calm as she ever gets, she exits the house and enters her small back yard. Her feet take her to a small shed, which she only opens after unlocking the four different types of locks that bar her from its innards.
When it is unlocked, she reaches in and grabs her weapon of choice. Her personal favorite is the bow and arrow, but she is capable of killing with anything from an injection to a gun to a blow dart.
She took the bow to the shooting range full of bulls' eyes and began shooting. Unsurprisingly, she hit the bulls' eye every time. Shooting the weapon is like breathing. It's normal, peaceful even. It calms her more than anything else ever will.
After a few minutes of listening to the slam of the arrows sticking into the bull's-eye, she sets the weapon down. The first time she had ever shot the weapon flies back to her mind. The first time she'd ever touched a real bow.
He had taught her. Max sighs, remembering the feel of his arms wrapping around her as he helped her pull the bow back. The way he'd always plant a kiss on her neck when she hit the target. It felt like he was actually there, quietly telling her how to focus. With a stomp of her foot on the grass-less dirt, she lets her mind wander away from him and back to the target.
Before she shoots again, she glances around the barren, empty yard that is at least double the size of her house. It's empty, save the shed and shooting range, which she uses nearly every day in order to stay sharp. The targets are falling apart and ancient, decaying from years of use.
Somewhere in her mind, she remembers how he helped her plant grass seeds here, telling her that her yard should at least compare to her own beauty. A grimace graces her face as she recalls that event. Damn, she is really doing an awful job at blocking the past out tonight. She really should have finished her vodka back at the bar. Then, maybe she would have been able to succumb to sleep immediately and this pain wouldn't be ripping through her; shredding her from the inside.
Hours and hours later she puts down her arrows and walks inside to rest. She crawls onto the couch and falls into unconsciousness. Her sleep isn't bliss, just a needed time between realities. Even while her eyes are closed she is alert. That's how she stays alive in her line of work.
She is awoken by the ringing of her only electronic—a small cell phone.
"Hello?" she asks with the curt tone she saves for business calls.
"Ah, Maximum," Jeb, the owner of the bar she frequents, answers. "I need you here. There's a woman here who says she won't have anybody but you do this job."
A deep breath readies her for what she's about to do. "I'll be there in a minute."
MAXIMUM RIDE
He's still at the bar. He's aware that this is stupid and that he should leave, but every time he places a foot on the floor he ends up ordering another drink. His mind is a swirling mess, alerting him that he is almost knock-out drunk. Almost. He has to give it to himself; he knows how to handle his alcohol.
Tipping back in his chair, he closes his eyes only to snap them back open a second later. He turns to face the door to see what had alerted him. Maximum Ride, the woman he had wanted to return all night without even realizing it.
The woman doesn't even spare a glance for him. She just hurries straight into Jeb's office and shuts the door behind her. Fang is unable to control his drunken brain and stumbles towards the closed door.
At first he can't hear anything from inside the room, which tells him the people inside are speaking in hushed tones. After a minute, the voices rise to audible levels.
Fang presses his ear to the door, not knowing this would change his life.
MAXIMUM RIDE
"Max, this is Anne Walker, she wants a job done," Jeb says, gesturing to a tall blonde woman who looks like the type of woman you want to babysit your children, not the kind that hires cold blooded killers.
Max nods curtly, shaking her hand.
Anne speaks up. "I want somebody taken care of," she says, her voice steady. Something in her voice makes Max able to recognize Anne as a murderer. There was ice and hatred buried deep within her. "A man named Nicholas Martinez."
On the other side of the door, Fang is falling. That's his name. His real name, anyways. Maximum Ride is going to kill him.