A/N: HI! House to myself, mom is out getting food for kittens, and my sister accompanied her, dressed entirely in orange. I live in a family of weirdoes.
Hi. Little Fangnote here.
Max has the gall, as you know, to hire some old man (A/N: I am not him!) to type up our life story. Max even told him to put his name on the book, for safety measures. Now maybe someone might think it's fiction.
Anyway, Max told him to add in bits and pieces from the point of view of other characters. Like in the next chapter of her book. Angel told him a brief summary, and he just filled it in however he pleased, la-di-dah. Oh, I could kill Max for letting him do that. Now what Angel really saw and experienced in this chapter is lost to history. And I'm not going to make the same mistake of typing from inside another Flock member's mind. I mean, I know each of us better than everyone – it's what happens when you shut your mouth for a bit and just observe. But I will not – I repeat, will not – violate another Flock member's privacy to their own mind like that. (Just because we live together doesn't mean that we're all Angel clones.) It goes against the grain, if you catch my drift.
Okay, maybe I should get back to the story. You can probably tell that I could go on for an entire chapter about this. (Just wait until he tries to write from inside MY head.) But I have my responsibilities.
I am just about to ask Max if we can stop for some food when Nudge beats me to the buzzer.
"Max? I'm starving," she says. I totally agree with her. My own stomach is just about as empty as empty can be.
Max hesitates. I can tell that anything that stops us from getting Angel is in her bad books. But she is hungry too.
"Okay, okay, we need food," she admits after a moment. "Fang! We need to refuel. Ideas?"
No. I have no ideas whatsoever. I ponder for a moment, aware of the girls watching me. I glance down at the San Francisco Peaks below us, and an Idea flashes through my brain.
I shoot a glance to Max. She's still watching me. I can tell that our brainwaves are in sync. "Ski slopes," she says, confirming my thoughts. "Summertime. Empty houses." Bravo, Max. Sometimes I have to wonder about that girl.
"Would they have food?" Nudge asks, looking worried. A piece of frizzy hair falls in her eyes, and she brushes it away automatically.
"Let's go find out," Max says. Nudge nods bravely at Max, but as we begin circling the peaks to find a house, her face crumples again. She looks like this whole Angel thing is affecting her more deeply than Max could know. I'm so busy watching her and trying to figure out a way to comfort her without making her get suspicious that I don't even notice at first that Max has gone into a dive. By the time I've joined her, Nudge has removed all trace of pain from her face and had joined us, her brows set determinedly.
The house that Max has chosen is set a bit apart from the rest, and looks empty. We land about a hundred yards away, stumbling a bit from all that time in the clouds. "Land Legs," we like to call it. (Max leaves this out – too weird for her, I suspect.) Then we fold our wings and creep toward the house.
There is no sign of life whatsoever. The whole house looks sad and unattended – there isn't even a blinking alarm system. Max gives Nudge a thumbs-up, and the latter smiles sadly. The former doesn't notice her emotions, just looks relieved that she doesn't talk. I scan the scene. The peeling porch is covered with dirt and pine needles, the railings with rust, and the chairs with multiple types of animal droppings. The shrubbery is way overgrown. I have to say that I don't have too much hope for this place, food wise.
Max slits the window screen with her pocketknife, and unlocks the screen inside. She lifts the screen away from the window and sets it down carefully behind a bush. Flight time: 3.24 seconds. She's fast. You'd think she had experience.
I help her open the wooden frame and climb in to catch Nudge. A second later, said Nudge appears in the frame, her frizz making a halo around her head in the light. She jumps and lands in my arms, and I set her down carefully. Max scrambles in a second later, landing on the ground with a tiny billow of dust. I notice that she decides not to jump into my arms. She turns and carefully shuts the window behind her.
We walk toward the kitchen area, not bothering to creep anymore. Dust covers everything. There's no comforting hum of the refrigerator, so I cast aside any hope of cold food. Maybe of any food.
Max heads for the cupboards, rummages around a bit, and comes up with a dusty can of soup. "Bingo!" she says. Of course, Max, we can't cook it. I take the next cupboard and come up with ravioli – yum. I like it cold. Nudge finds beans and fruit, and Max yells in disgust at something and quietly puts it back in the cupboard. "We're golden!" she yells as I pull out two bottles of fizzy orange soda. We discover why most people serve soda cold as we gulp it down. I let out a belch that I swear rearranges the dust in the kitchen, and Nudge giggles and falls down laughing.
Half an hour later, we're sprawled on the old couches, our hands on our way-too-full bellies. Nudge keeps hiccupping – she drank an entire bottle of soda by herself – and then bursting into another fit of giggles. Max's head lolls backwards, her eyes half open, her entire body looking glazed over.
"Uhhnnhh," Nudge says between giggles. "I feel like, like concrete."
"Let's take ten, rest a bit," I say. My eyes flutter shut, and I summon all my strength to cross my legs. I lean back. Aahh. "Digest a minute, we'll feel better," I say. I would be surprised if anyone understood that last bit; it sounds more like a garbled sigh to me.
"I second that emotion," Max mumbles.
Then my head falls back, and I drift away.
Okay, you know the drill. Review. Now. Why are you still here? Click down there on that little blue button…come on…I'll even give you directions…there's arrows pointing to it…now get a move…on…
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