Amanda (ME!): Hey, everyone, R&R! . . . Or else. And thanks so much for reviewing, guys :) You don't understand how happy it makes me!

Hannah: So you better review!

Haha, Hannah's not even here right now, but I can hear her saying, "REVIEW MY FREAKING STORY!" lol. Luv ya Hannah.

Disclaimer: I don't own Max Ride.

Me and Hannah: ENJOY!

Chapter Two

Max POV

I sat up, and took another good look around the beautiful hotel room, just thinking the almighty words"KILLHIM"play over and over in my head like a broken record.

Well, Thank you Dr. Obvious. What else am I gonna do to the guy? Rape him? God forbid, I mean, damn, who the hell does Dylan think I am? MAXIMUM RIDE. That's who the hell I am. And I've been sent on some terrifying missions, compared to this itty-bitty one. Well, terrifying to you. 'Cause I'm the assassin here, not giving a crap if I killed some crazy Eco-maniac-scientist, or shot some mentally demented dude with the urge to wipe out all man kind.

Or some innocent sophomore, making his way through that pathetic hell hole we weirdly call HighSchool. Nicholas Collins. And now I'm seeing a difference. . .

My list.

. . . Nicholas Collins – High school student; Sophomore; Miami, Florida.

While all my other murder-missions were more like:

. . . Jeb Batchelder – Eco maniac scientist; Known for working with Itex, company wanting to destroy the world; Ontario, Canada.

Are ya seeing the difference, here? I'm not crazy. Okay, okay. You'd probably call an assassin crazy, so maybe I am. But I'm not fucking blind.

Nicholas: H.S. STUDENT.

Jeb: WANTED TO FREAKING DESTROYTHEWORLD.

Well, as I was explaining before, I can see. And this is definitely confusing me in many different ways.

You don't get it, now, do you? Dylan – yes, he's a darn evil guy, being the eighteen-year-old freak he is – always sent me to kill all these random whack-jobs, giving me very little as to their background information, but still some solid stalkings he'd done, gave me at least some clue as to who they were and why he wanted them dead.

But not with this Nick guy. Why not? And why would he want some stranger – I'm guessing – killed? Just for the hell of it? The fun? To give me a reason to finallyfeel remorse, or guilt?

I'm guessing you don't have an answer for me. . .

You see, Killing people – shooting them, stabbing them, or just plain bar-handed murder – Isn't exactly as hard as you'd think it would be for me to do.

Not in the physical way, either, but I'm more on the topic of emotion.

Basically, I go by mottoes like, "What's done is done" or "Never regret your past" and stuff like that. Hey, our economy is, like, going nowhere right now; people need jobs and "desperate times call for desperate measures". And I need the money. Dylan pays me at least one-hundred-thousand bucks a kill.

That's four-hundred-thousand dollars, all together, guys. Four-hundred-thousand.

And, since I'm only seventeen, I plan on starting a reallife, after Dylan's big "mystery mission" is solved and done. And if your sitting there, reading this, and thinking, "What the hell is this girl thinking?" I can dream, people. I can at least try and make it happen, while managing to keep my identity totally unknown and hidden, buried as deep as can be, leaving me with only my future to attend to.

Yeah. I'd lovethat.

I got out of the steamy shower, and rapped a fluffy white hotel towel around my dripping body. And, yes, evil assassins dotake showers, my fellow readers. Occasionally.

I sighed as I made my way to my little black luggage bag. I unzipped the thing easily, and looked through my ohsofashionable wardrobe. Huh, not.

Somethinginconspicuous...Somethinginconspicuous,somethinginconspicuous...hmmm...Got it.

Well, you can never go wrong with some dark, jean shorts and a tight white V-neck. Hey, don't judge me. I haven't been shopping in almost a year, since I started working for my bud, Dyl, over here. The nicest guy on the planet. Must I note the sarcasm?

I through on my combat boots and laced 'em up, tight. Looking in the mirror I attempted to brush my horribly knotted hair, but managed a decent ponytail, when I didn't necessarily succeed.

I let out a heavy breath and grabbed the "KILL HIM" note off the bed for my point of interest. Time to KILLHIM.

Whoever he may be.

Fang POV

"I found it, Mom!" I yelled to her from up the stairs. Angel, my little sister, had lost her small stuffed bear, Celeste; and had been going crazy looking for it for days, now. Well, in short, without Celeste, a day with Ange is hell.

"Oh, great! Give it to her before she throws another hissy-fit!" Mom answered, hurriedly. I sighed and ran upstairs to find Angel; arms crossed, pouty faced, her big blue eyes glaring at the TV set.

"Guess who I've got?" I said, attempting to to be cheerful. She looked up at me, her eyes flickered with hope.

"Celeste? Celeste?" She squealed, jumping up and down. I held the bear out for her to see. "You found her! Oh, Fangy! Your the bestest!" Her smile was huge as she ran to hug me. I hugged her back.

"No problem, Ange." I smiled as she let go. Well, as much as I can smile. "I'm gonna go try and finish my home work, now, okay, sweaty?" Yeah, I'm a rockin' brother. Well, that's only 'cause this was Angel.I'd never act like this with anyone else. Angel was mostly "sugar, spice, and everything nice." She usually wore a huge smile, and a little pink tutu, everywhere she went. She's very persuasive, by the way, and well, angelic. But the second you set eyes on her, you fall under her. . . well, I guess you could call it a "cuteness" spell.

"Okay! But I'm hosting a tea party, for Celeste's return!" She yelled, happily, getting out her fake tea set and other stuffed animals, "Hello, Mr. Wiggles. . ." She started, and I was already decending to my room.

Homework sucks ass. Ever since that crazy teacher – Miss Walker, I think? – died, she was replaced by a Mr. Martin. Most dull, and full of crap, person I've met in my life. And my homework could pile to the roof.

Well, life's hard. Life could be great, good, bad, and unfortunate – but that's life. And no one gives a fucking crap about anyone else's, but their own.

See, I'm a. . . say, orphan. But I was adopted when I was thirteen, by two very amazing people. My parent's were killed in an accident of some kind. Yeah, sad, I know. But like I said before, that'slife.

And just like home work, life sucks ass, too.

Click,click!I heard a noise, coming from somewhere around my room. It sounded again. And it came from my closet.

What the hell?

Then the weirdest fucking thing in all heck happened. A girl barged out of my closet.

Let me reword that. A FREAKING GIRL BARDGED OUT OF MY DAMN CLOSET.

I stared at the girl in shock, also taking a second to check her out, I gotta say. She was in some sexy jean shorts and a super-tight-looking white V-neck. And Combat boots. She was by far the prettiest, yet hottest girl I've ever seen. Waytomakeafirstimpression,stranger, I thought, finally meeting a gorgeous pair of chocolate-brown eyes, surrounded by a beautiful make-up free face, and outlined by long, sun-streaked golden hair. She looked strangely familiar.

"Ah, hi?" I manged to greet.

"Hey." She answered calmly, looking me over. She looked down at a piece of crumpled paper in her hands.

"Nicholas Collins?" She asked, looking up again. I froze. I hadn't heard that name in years. It was my original name, my realname. But nobody had called me that since I was adopted. I'd went by "Fang" from then on.

I nodded slowly, feeling very confused, and probably not displaying any crap on my known to be "impassive" face.

"And you are?" I finally got out.

"Max." She said. Max. Huh. Even though it's sorta a guy's name, it seemed to fit her just right. Her edgy-bad-ass look. It was pretty hot. And so freaking familiar.

"So, Max. You just walked out of my closet. . ." I began, not exactly knowing what to say. I mean, seriously? What the hell do you say to a freaking stranger-but-familiar-girl that just happened to appeared out of, like, nowhere. . .?

"A, yeah, about that. . ." She said, stepping closer to me. She reached into a pouch that was wrapped around her slim, but curvy waist. I noticed a long, deep scar starting from between her thumb and index finger, all the way down, a tad below her wrist.

I knew that scar.

"Maximum Ride?" I asked. She froze. Her hand still in the pouch.

She looked really confused. "H-how do you. . . ?" Her eyes turned to understanding, then full-on shock. "Holly. Fucking. Shit."

My thoughts exactly.

How'd you like it? NOW R-E-V-I-E-W!

Thanks a million,

A.O.L. & Hannah.