A/N: This chappie is in response to the recent "Fang" blog post. If you haven't read it, read it before seeing the chapter. Also, as the school year nears (ACK!), my writing will get more frequent. Sorry again. I'm also announcing that I will be continuing It All Started Here, the fanfiction about the summer camp that Fang and Max attend. Also, my figment is alive and booming! Check it out – Go to and search for B.R. Rose. That's me!
Fang
Maya tapped my arm softly.
"They're coming." She whispered. So unlike Max, I realized that she was scared. Max would take on any threat to the Flock at a million miles an hour. A smile was brought to my face unknowingly. Smoke stung my eyes. Continuing booms of the nearby bombs (nicknamed Smokies) shook the ground, unsteadying my footing. Yes, they were coming. The Apocalypse wasn't any natural disaster, as Dr. Haagen-Dazs had said, but the One Light's mutants. Adults, teenagers, and even children younger than Angel – all genetic experiments commanded by powerful freak doctors with the will to destroy. Guised under the 'improving human race initiative' program, the surgeons had banded together and hatched their plan to organize this force. Trapped inside their own mutilated bodies, their victims marched forward with resolve that had been planted inside of them with their inhuman abilities. I flipped my wings out with one fluid motion.
"Let's go."
Days later
Maya was dead. The rest of my Gang – I feared the worst. 'Recruitment' was the dreaded fate. Much, much more horrendous than death was the Surgery. This operation would add more destructive powers to the already amiable ones in the Gang. The Surgery had one cosmetic side effect – the silvery gray eyes that looked more machine than human. That's really all they were: machines told what to do. Anguished silence was their punishment for being convinced of the Surgery's values and benefits. Frantically, I staggered across the dust turned rusty with fog and blood. I was a slow-moving target, but there were so few survivors that it didn't matter. There. Movement. A person? No – the shadowy shape of wings drooped in the smog.
Maya?
I wince. She died yesterday.
The figure stumbles and drops to its knees. Cautiously, I approach it. Oh, God. It's Max. She's hurt. Blood oozes out over her lips. Her chest is bruised on her collarbone. Claw marks align on her arms, ragged flesh clotted together and scabbed.
"Fang?" she slurred, blinking slowly. Her wing is broken, almost severed, I can tell. Half of it is laying slack.
"Oh, Max." I say, emotions pulsing through me. I don't care about the past. I kneel in front of her. Carefully, I envelope her in an embrace. She grasps me fiercely despite the intense pain she must be feeling from her injuries. She holds me as if I'm all she has left. Maybe I am. Worry and relief well over and dictate my actions now. I feel the wetness of tears on her face as she presses into my shoulder. She's—she's crying. We stay like that for a while. Sobs begin to shake her body. I cling to her, my eyes squeezed shut. I once claimed in my blog that my mission was my only concern.
I was wrong.
She was.