This is where I got the whole idea for the fanfic from - this one chapter right here. I've been dreaming about how to do this part for a while. Pleased to say that it didn't come out horribly. I really hope you like this chapter.

It was later the next day. I had gotten up even later than the day before, sometime in the afternoon.

I fiddled with the pieces of what was to be a time bomb. I had no use for bombs now – I didn't think so, at least. Who knew? Maybe an Eraser would show up. Never knew when one of those would pop up, usually at exactly the wrong time.

The pieces were scattered all around me. I inserted the negative attachment wire into the bomb, my sensitive fingers finding and locking the metal in place, and it was pretty much done. The outer shell just needed to be put on now. I specifically chose this specific type of time bomb because I didn't need to know the colors of the wires, so I could do it by myself.

There was a knock on the door.

"Yeah?" I called.

The door creaked open a little. "Oh good. I didn't feel like looking all over for you," my mom said.

I turned away from the mechanical stuff to listen to my mother. "What were you looking for me for?"

"You have nothing planned for the weekend, right?" she asked casually.

I snorted. "No," I said with an air of what-did-you-think?

"Good," she said. "Because we were planning something. A few people are going to be seeing you this weekend."

And with that, she had my attention. "Like who?" I asked warily.

"A couple people who're going to ask you a few questions," she answered way too coolly.

"Questions?" I said robotically. "What kind of questions?" I never felt comfortable being asked questions. Like those people at the hospital. When asked a question, it had been taught in my nature to lie.

"Just some things about you, like your past and stuff."

I clenched my teeth together, gripping the bomb in my hand. This had better not be what I thought it was. "And where are these people from?" I asked.

"Magazines, newspapers, things like that."

I didn't say anything. I tightened my grip around the time bomb. She had gotten newspapers to come here and ask me questions – interview me. Like the freak I was.

"I asked you not to tell anyone."

"It's only a few people," she comforted. "They're not going to hurt you, I promise."

The metal of the bomb pressed hard into my hand. I was like that bomb. Ready to go off any second, but no one knew when. Tick, tick…

"I only asked you one thing, and that was not to tell anyone," I snapped quietly. Tick, tick, tick…

"James, I don't see what the problem with telling people is–"

Click. Kaboom. "Because I told you not to!" I shouted, jumping off the bed. "I only wanted one thing here, and that was hopefully to stay as normal as possible. And you go tell newspapers? Magazines? I can't believe you!"

"Calm down, it's not that bad—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" I shrieked. "I'm the one who's been…" I sought for the word, "betrayed!" You think I'd know that word off the top of my head by now, considering how often I have to use it.

"What's going on?" my dad said, coming from nowhere. He must've walked in while I was shouting.

"'What's going on?'" I repeated. "I'll tell you what's going on? My own parents betrayed me, that's what's going on!"

"Betray? What?" he said bewilderedly.

I threw the bomb on the ground in frustration. It started ticking, unfortunately – I had forgotten that this one was pretty much finished. I scooped it up, feeling it roll in my hand, and every tick sent a soft sensation through my hand. "I wanted you to do one thing for me – one! To not tell anyone about me! That's it! And you went ahead and did it anyway!" The bomb continued ticking. It would go off in about fifteen, twenty seconds.

"James, what is that?" my mom breathed.

I threw the thing, and I heard it whiz past them and clunk in the hall outside.

"I'm a freak!" I continued angrily. "Don't pretend I'm not! I'm a freak of nature! A human being with wings! Freaks go into freak shows! That was the one damned thing I didn't want! And you go ahead and put me in one!"

"We are not putting you in a freak show!" my dad retorted.

"You're displaying me for the world to see!" I screamed back. "Newspapers, magazines, TV shows, too, I bet! How many of them did you call??"

There was silence as they didn't respond, then a huge, ground-shaking explosion rippled through the floor. It wasn't too much, but it would certainly at least blow a hole in the wall.

"What the—"

"How many?" I demanded, ignoring the bomb.

There was another silence, but I could feel the tension in the quiet. They wanted to know what my bomb had done to their hall. Screw that, they could wait.

My mother answered very softly, very quietly, almost imperceptibly. "Eight," was the almost silent reply.

"Eight???" I shrieked, in an absolute rage. "You called eight?? My own parents called eight separate companies that would put me on the circus sideshow? Parents aren't supposed to do that! My parents are not supposed to betray me!" Parents couldn't do that. They just couldn't. People like that simply couldn't be related to me. "Maybe you're not my parents," I suddenly understood. "You can't be. You just can't."

"Now listen here," my dad said, as if he were actually trying to take authority of the situation. "You are our son and we are your parents."

"No!" I grabbed a handful of bomb supplies and threw them with all my force at the wall, scattering them everywhere. The woman – my mom, maybe, but I wasn't sure – yelped in surprise.

"A parent is someone who watches over their kids, and cares for them!" I shouted, a shudder in my voice. "A parent is someone who does anything for their child, and protects them, and is there for them, through thick and thin! You're not that," I spat. "You didn't even last real parenthood for a week!"

The impact of what I said sunk in. It sunk in even more on me than on them, I think. Of all the kids on the planet, I needed more support than just about any other. And my 'parents' just made my life worse. That's not what a parent does. So they weren't parents. They weren't my parents.

"I should be able to trust my own parents!" And then it hit me. The truth came out, and the revelation broke through. "I should have listened to Jeb," I hissed. "I should have remembered what he said. He said you can't trust anyone. Not anybody. Not one single person. I didn't think that included my parents.

"Then again, even he betrayed us, and he was our dad for two years."

"Just calm down for a minute," Mrs. Griffith said, brushing my arm with hers, her soft skin barely touching the hairs on my arm. I pulled away, and stepped back, my leg hitting the wooden bedpost.

"I've only been able to trust five people!" I shouted, my voice returning to a fervent roar. "Five! Imagine that! You've been able to trust a ton of people, I bet! Tons! I've been able to trust five! And I left those five so I could be with you!"

"Please, you can trust us, James—"

"Don't call me that!" I shrieked in anger. "My name is not James! My name is Iggy! It has always been Iggy, and it always will be Iggy! Just because you chose a name fourteen years ago for me, doesn't make it my name! My name hasn't been James, and it never…will be!"

I shoved past them. I couldn't stay here. Not with people I couldn't bear the sound of, the very presence of. I had to go back to my flock – that was my family.

"Where are you going?" Mr. Griffith called to my back.

"Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Griffith!"

There was a pause as I entered the hall, and the still smoldering smell of the bomb pervaded the air.

"Thank you," I called back, "for a fun visit!"

I was already racing down the stairs when I heard Mrs. Griffith's call behind me, wailing, "Ja—Iggy! Iggy! Son! Come back!" Tears stained her words, and I couldn't bear hearing her with anger making my body shake. She wanted me back? After going behind my back like that?

In her dreams.

"Iggy!" the two called, running behind me. I shot out the front door.

Never to return.

—

"He'll return," Tom reassured himself, nervousness tingeing his voice, as the married couple stood in the door of their little house. "He has to. I mean – he didn't take anything with him. He can't just leave without anything." He let out a feeble chuckle.

"Tom," Rita whispered, watching her only son go, his hair, a mimicry of her own, shining in the sun, his avian wings rippling in anger beneath his jacket. She's never gotten over that weird, freakish surprise.

"Heck, all teenagers get angry. They always come back. They always do in the movies." He looked down at his wife for reassurance. The movies were the only way he'd been able to imagine how life could have been if his son had never disappeared.

"I don't think this is a movie," she said under her breath.

"But," he said, James – Iggy – still walking even farther away, "he has to come back. I mean, he left here with nothing. No clothes, no money…" He nervously laughed again.

"Tom," his wife whispered, gripping her husband's sleeve. "He…came…with nothing. He's never needed anything. Even when he thought he needed parents, he didn't."