Chapter Two: The Softening of Maximum Ride

I was not, in any way, prepared for this. Let the record show that, if it shows nothing else in my favor.

I had known Hans since we were students together, what seemed like a lifetime ago. I had thought us good friends - when almost the entire scientific community cut itself off from me when I was institutionalized, Hans alone continued to write to me, to actively seek me out when he could. I had returned the favor, writing whenever I could spare the moment, calling when I had access to a telephone and was not too tired to speak.

But how long had it been since we met in person?

I couldn't be sure - I counted backwards in my head, trying to make an estimate. Before I had left Germany, certainly.

"Last May," I told the almost-stranger in the wheelchair, and she grinned, with a look in her eyes like that in a guard dog's before it attaches itself to your leg or some other body part of which you are fond.

She shrugged. "I'd never seen him before two months ago. Maybe before then he was in a wheelchair and living in Germany."

I doubted that. I knew him almost better than he knew himself - he had always hated traveling, and the aversion only increased after the accident. He might have been persuaded to come to Berlin, perhaps under duress and after much pleading from me to Paris or to London, but never to the United States.

I couldn't just say that to this girl, though - I had to think over my response. To speak hastily would be to destroy my whole endeavor to save her, and I could never forgive myself if I caused her, however indirectly, to die. Despite any bad press to the contrary, I do not enjoy having blood on my hands; I prefer to keep my metaphorical guilt representations to the lowest possible amount. Although if you listened to Americans of certain political beliefs, I had already shed enough blood to fill a metaphorical swimming pool. My literal bloodshed is still a very small amount, mostly attributable to drunken fistfights before I attained my doctorate (and a very few afterward, I am ashamed to say but must admit in the interest of full disclosure) or to my clumsiness in shaving.

"No," I said, "I'm certain he hasn't left Germany. We shall see, though, which of us is correct."

I was done with the discussion, at any rate - I was growing increasingly more confused the more I allowed myself to think about what she said. Assuming she wasn't lying (which was always a dicey proposition with Maximum Ride, savior of the universe), one of my oldest friends must be.

I could, however, solve this problem quite simply once I had satisfied whatever demands the girl made of me; call Hans and ask him where he was. To my mind it was, while not foolproof, a quick test as to his whereabouts, if of nothing else: the only number I had for him, you see, was that for his landline telephone in Stuttgart.

A thought struck me. I could also ask Max a few questions that could help greatly in this mystery.

"Tell me - does the Gunther-Hagen you know have a limp?"

"Not that I noticed, no," she said, absently tapping the fingers of one hand against the armrest of the wheelchair. "Maybe he got physical therapy or something, or maybe I just wasn't looking for one. Does he limp?"

I felt an unwelcome tightness in my throat as I spoke, the proverbial 'lump in the throat'.

"Johannes Gunther-Hagen," I told her, "is missing both of his legs above the knee, and has been since 1987." I could have told her the exact date he had lost them, and almost the exact time with some adjustment for time zones, but I left it out - there is such a thing as too much information. If she asked, though, I could tell her.

To her credit, she didn't seem surprised at all, though I saw her eyebrows lift slightly, which is a common reaction attributable to many emotions, not only surprise. "Yeah, maybe that isn't him. The guy I met definitely had legs," she mused. "They could still be the same guy, though."

"How is that, do you suppose?" I said. To the best of my awareness, even Itexicon had not had the ability to replace lost limbs to that extent. A foot they could have managed, but the complex jointing of the ankle could not be generated in the lab as yet, nor resurrected from the cadaver. And to restore Hans's legs to him, they would have had to not only create or successfully restore two ankles, but also two fully functional knees. Neither of those joints are very complex in and of themselves, but a single wrong part in them and it all fell to bits.

As to prosthetics - I was on solid ground here, and I knew that Hans firmly rejected the idea. His wheelchair, he said, was good enough for him.

Would he take a new set of legs - real, living legs - if he were given the opportunity?

That I did not know.

She grinned, showing that same guard-dog smile. "I'll tell you - after we tour your laboratories, and after I get some lunch."

"Fine."

I was determined not to get into an argument with a child. It was far too early for that; it would have to wait at least until afternoon. Coffee alone was not enough to prepare me for such an entanglement.

I rose from my chair and called Josie to me with a snap of my fingers - I am quite proud to say that she was not a product of any laboratory, but instead an accident of nature. Her biddable nature is not my doing, and I might be embarassed if it were - cats, after all, are supposed to be disobedient, not to come at the call of their names.

"Then let's go tour the laboratories," I said to Max, stepping toward the door with Josie at my heels.

She snapped off a salute. "Jawohl!"

God have mercy on my soul.

We didn't get very far.

Accompanied by me, Max was allowed to enter the laboratories; this she managed quite well, not even knocking over a single lab tech with her wheelchair. She navigated with alacrity, which rather surprised me; most people are quite clumsy in a chair on their first day using it, but not she.

I report with some degree of pride that Max only ran over my toes once during our tour, and quick-footed Josie kept out of the way entirely.

So it was neither the wheelchair nor the laboratories which caused the trouble: it was the contents of the laboratories, as she insisted on calling our hospital wards. (Truthfully, they don't look much like hospital wards, which explained her terminology difficulty.)

"Oh my god what is that."

In my inattention, I walked right into her as Max suddenly stopped, and had to jump out of her way as she began slowly moving backwards.

"What is what?" I said. I had been occupied by my own thoughts, and was less than pleased, I admit, to have been removed from them.

"That thing!" She pointed with a shaking hand to the corner, where a familiar orange form was using its pseudopods to feed itself. "What is that?"

"That would be Morry," I said as the Thing in question turned its attention to us, apparently having heard our voices, or otherwise become aware of our presence. Its pseudopods retracted from the bowl of candy on which it had been feeding, and it emitted a cheerful, high-pitched noise before moving rapidly in our direction.

"You gave it a name?" said Max, scooting behind me as I stepped seamlessly in front of her and knelt to intercept Morry on his trajectory for the new arrival in his home.

"We gave you a name, didn't we?" I said with a bit of a grunt as Morry collided with me at full speed. He emitted a happy squeal and wrapped himself fully around me.

"That's not funny oh my god is it gonna eat you?" I heard a startled mrow! and the fast patter of feet as Max, evidently, scooted further backward and almost ran over Josie.

"No, Morry is not going to eat me," I said, allowing myself to smile as Morry released me from his grasp and moved backwards, extending pseudopods to wave them excitedly. "He eats only sucrose- and glucose-based foods: in the vernacular, Morry lives on candy. He might enjoy tickling you, however."

"You... created... a tickle monster? And you named it... Morry?"

I patted Morry on his uppermost surface, the closest he really came to a head; he emitted pleased chirps and snuggled against my hand. "Your name is Maximum Ride. I don't really think you have much to say on the matter of naming. And he doesn't just enjoy tickling-"

Morry sprang. For a fifty-four-kilo, amoeba-like mass, he can move. There was a faint squeal as Max almost went sliding backward, but managed to arrest herself somehow.

"Oh my god," she said as Morry wrapped himself around her torso, chirping happily all the while. "Oh my god."

"-he also enjoys, ah, 'snuggles'," I finished as Morry began to engage in the activity in question, nuzzling against Max in much the manner a puppy might.

"Good," she said, "I'd hate to die by tickling. Why do you need a tickle monster?"

"We don't need one," I said as Morry extended a pseudopod upward and 'licked' her face - I wished I had a pocket camera to better capture her expression, but I knew I'd have to make do with the security logs. "Morry needed a home and we gave him one."

"That is so not your style," she grumbled, without nearly the sarcasm she had shown earlier.

Morry continued his snuggling, though his excited vocalizations had lessened in number and volume.

I shrugged. "He also has a measurable antidepressant effect. We're trying to reproduce the compound that gives those effects as a pill, but we're not having much luck."

"You know, usually when that happens you guys vivisect your victim and move on." She would've had more effect, I must say, if she hadn't been mostly covered in a cooing orange animal that was rubbing a pseudopod against her cheek contentedly.

"Morry has too good of an effect on morale for us to get rid of him," I told her honestly. That, and anyone who suggested we get rid of him would be the one to get vivisected. "He's not hard to keep, either."

"You could make more of him," she suggested, "sell them as house pets. Work like a charm."

"If we find out a way to do so, we will," I said, thinking of the security tapes. Maximum Ride nonconfrontational... perhaps if we kept Morry around her at all times... think of the property damage it would prevent. How could I pitch that to Morry's 'fan club', though?

"I kind of want one," she admitted, gingerly patting Morry's back, causing him to emit a sound not unlike the purr of a cat. "Like, gimme a call when you make more..." She smiled, and then seemed to suddenly realize what she was doing: she locked eyes with me, a deadly serious expression on her face wiping away the smile. "This never happened, right?"

"Never," I agreed.

"Good," she said, and gently pushed Morry away from her. "Down, boy. Don't want anyone to think I'm going soft, right?"

"Exactly," I said, as Morry briefly curled himself around my legs before slithering to the corner to finish his feeding time. I would fulfill Max's wishes to the best of my ability, but intra-facility sharing of these tapes would be invaluable as a demonstration that even the most destructive of people can have a soft side, and as an exhibit of Maximum Ride's encounter with our resident snuggle monster.

It would also make for excellent blackmail.

I slipped off my shoes in the vestibule of the next ward Max had shown interest in. This was more of a room, rather than a large ward, but there were still special precautions to follow.

I didn't touch the keypad, turning instead to face Max. "No sudden movements, no sudden noises," I said. Josie, who had draped herself across the back of the wheelchair, yawned hugely, and I had to stifle a smile. "Is that clear?" I didn't have to ask her to take off her shoes, since she was in the wheelchair, but I still had to be clear over the other requirements.

"Sure, sure," she grumbled, hands poised on the wheels. "Let's go. It can't be that bad."

I entered my keycode and waited patiently as the door opened; due to the nature of the occupants of this room, there could be nothing startling in the vicinity, including the door.

The door eased fully open and I stepped inside, the tile floor cool under my sock feet. The tile was the reason for the no-shoes rule; shoes on tile were deemed too startling for the occupants of this room, as were alarms, which were instead mounted near the door to the hall.

Max wheeled herself in after me, and I stepped aside to let her pass. Josie hopped down from the back of the chair and rubbed herself against my calf; I bent down to stroke her. "Good cat," I said; in response I received a mrow.

The talking-cat project was still in development.

The wheelchair stopped - I could see it in my peripheral vision - and I heard Max's incredulous voice.

"Kittens? You brought me to see kittens?"

She wheeled around to look at me in disbelief, eyebrows raised and arms spread to indicate the kittens gamboling on the floor.

"Not just kittens," I said, keeping my voice low and even. "There's a reason we have special containment procedures for these, ah, creatures. And I would thank you not to shout, please."

As I should have expected, Max ignored me.

"Seriously? Kittens? I cannot believe this-"

The kittens demonstrated the reason why we had them in containment by puffing into nine not-quite-identical balls of fur, all mewling pitifully. Four of the kittens had been sleeping in the corner where their bed lay, and remained awake for only a moment before falling back asleep - as soon as they lost consciousness, they resumed normal kitten form, which was a fascinating and well-studied consequent of their abilities: the ability to 'puff' was only available when one of the kittens was conscious. If one was awake, the rest had the ability to 'puff' in their sleep.

It had been a fascinating study.

For the second time in fifteen minutes, I found myself confronted by Maximum Ride, undone by something by sheer warrant of its aesthetic attractiveness, or, as some might say, its cuteness.

"Oh jeez," she said, as the five remaining conscious kittens rolled towards her in puffball form. Two split off to investigate myself and Josie, and the other three proceeded onward, mewling all the while. "How the - that can't be natural," she said, as the puffballs nudged at the footrests and wheels of the chair, stymied as usual by vertical surfaces. "Don't tell me you found a way to manipulate cute."

I shrugged. The two kittens that had approached me were contentedly snuggling against Josie, who, I should venture to say, looked tolerant of the whole affair, though rather impatient. "We may have. Testing is ongoing with them, or else we'd have-"

"What, terminated them?" she snapped, leaning to the side to pick up an armful of kitten, all three of whom squeaked at her loud voice and angry tone.

The pair of kittens at my feet had begun to relax, but when Max snapped at me, immediately went back to puffball status. Josie nuzzled them, rubbing the side of her head against one of them, and I could swear that, when she looked up at me, I saw exasperation there.

"No. Other than their... unique abilities, they're normal kittens. Several staff members are on a waiting list to adopt one as soon as we finish our investigatory work with them."

"Sure," said Max, her tone as skeptical as her arms and lap were full of kittens, now deflated from their puffball state into normal, wriggling young cats.

My hearing is exceptional, if I may say so, but I did not hear the alarm begin to shriek in the corridor until Max winced and grabbed her temples in pain. "What is that?"

The kittens re-puffed, and I knew what it had to be: containment breach on something too dangerous to be kept in a calm ward like this, or Morry's. Something dangerous.

Max looked at me in horror and perhaps a little fear as I turned to the door. I pressed my palm to the nearly-invisible identification square and spoke my name, gave my override code and the date.

Both doors to the outside opened simultaneously: the one into the vestibule, and the one out of it into the hall.

I turned back to Max. Two of the kittens scampered out of her lap, turning into puffballs just before they hit the floor. The other, a grey tabby, clung to her shirt with its tiny claws, seemingly content and perfectly unaware of the situation.

"You have to leave," I told her.

"Who made you the boss of me?" The grey tabby, oddly, was undisturbed, and remained unpuffed.

"You leave under your own power, or I have you taken from here." I kept my voice cool, focusing on a series of calming internal images; a useful technique which I had learned in Holland. The only useful thing to come out of those miserable years, as far as I was concerned. "There is something loose in this facility. I did not plan for this to occur, but given that it has, our meeting must be at an end."

"It couldn't have come faster." She rolled forward slightly; I stepped between her and the door.

"I am not finished with you, Maximum," I said, focusing on an image of ice. "As I told you, you are desperately ill. Without my help, you will die. With it, I may be able to cure you. Today is the first of May. You have until the first of June to make your decision; no later than that day, you must contact me with your choice. Jeb knows how to contact me."

"Okay, fine, first of June, I got it," she said, eyes flitting between me and the door.

"You'll need my help to make your escape successful," I said, as the alarm continued to wail outside. "Go right out of the door into the hall; take the third left, then the second right. Leave the wheelchair by the door and I will take care of it. You should be perfectly able to fly; if that is not the case, remain by the door and I'll have someone sent to assist you." I stepped aside, my message complete, most of it made up on the spot.

"Great. Thanks." She began to wheel past me.

"You can keep the kitten. I believe he's fond of you." Josie rubbed herself against my calf.

Max turned back to look at me. "I think I will, doc. I've seen enough. Don't expect my call."

With that, she began wheeling determinedly out of the door. I checked my watch; I would give her two minutes to begin her escape, and then I would go to assist in the containment of whatever had escaped. I heard no boots in the hall, which confirmed to me that it must be in a different wing or on a different floor.

I leaned against the wall; there had been a day when I would have simply sunk to the floor and let the presence of the kittens and Josie calm me, but despite all my efforts to the contrary, I was growing older. I could have sat on the floor, but I'd have paid for it in stiffness when my self-appointed time came to answer the alarm.

I had given myself a month's time to work out what I could possibly do for Max - I had phrased it as giving her time to choose, but it doubled as planning time for myself. Suppose she were to take my offer - what could I even do to save her?

I had only had her here for a matter of days, not nearly long enough to begin combatting whatever problem was killing her slowly in the process of changing her 'in etwas reich und sonderbar'.

The overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid must have begun long before she collapsed in my office, but why had it suddenly stopped? The anesthesiologist had commented to me about her vocal cords feeling 'strange' as he passed the breathing-tube down her throat. I had neglected to ask him how he meant that - I would have to track him down later. And there were the curious pinfeathers beginning to sprout on her neck and arms - those, I was sure, had not been present the last time I saw her.

I knew for certain: no one could predict what would befall her next, not even I. My instincts told me it was chancing it even to let her out of this place, the only one capable of treating her, for a month: who knew what might happen in the next thirty-one days?

I glanced at my watch; my two minutes were up and the alarm had not ceased, continuing its high-pitched wail. For me not to at least make an attempt to assist would look odd.

But there was no rule saying I had to abandon Max's problems to solve this new one: her problems were thorny ones indeed, and I would need all the time I could find to make headway on solving them.

There was another issue compounding the problem of Max's illness; thanks to Jeb, I had at least some data on her. He had hinted, though, that the second-oldest member of her flock, one of the surviving males, was also showing symptoms similar to what I had seen in Max.

I had not the remaining pride to regard them as my children, but I did fear for them, that these lives I had helped to create should be torn so swiftly from the world. In time they might correct some few of the wrongs which I had committed in my own years, but if I did not make an attempt to treat them for their ills, I would be complicit in their untimely deaths as surely as any man who stands by while a child drowns for lack of a rescuer.

I determined that I must cure him as well, and discover in him the cause of this illness, and thus the means of ensuring it would never recur.

I have caused enough death in my lifetime; it is only right that I use the time remaining to me to preserve life.

This chapter comes with a few notes.

I have about four thousand more words of this in draft form. Those and what's up now were written last year in National Novel Writing Month in a desperate attempt to pad my wordcount. Thus, that first draft was pretty messy. I've cleaned it up, but there're probably a few dangly ends here and there anyway. Please pay them mind and openly mock me for them. I consider it a learning experience.

Yes, I make a practice of researching the fuck out of any medical background my fics have. Full-leg transplants are possible, but uncommon, and a severe overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid results in the condition hydrocephalus, not in your head exploding. I do research, but that doesn't mean I don't then use that research as a point to jump off and make things up pretty much wholesale.

And as a final note for this chapter: I've cribbed some of ter Borcht's Kinder in this and following chapters from the SCP Foundation, mainly because I was in a hurry and needed something for Max to interact with. Morry is SCP-999, and the 'pufferkittens' are SCP-2558-J.

As a general note for the fic as a whole: the idea goes to the wonderful EndOfTheEarth. I have completely ruined it, and must beg forgiveness.