Hey guys :P

So this fic idea has been swirling around my head for a LONG LONG LONG time now. (Just ask Blacks and Zombie. I've been bugging them for AGES about this thing. It's definitely the most large-scale fic I've ever done. And I hope I do it justice.

I want you to give this a chance. I know, everyone's all "I HATE DYLAN..." but really, guys, it's not his fault. Don't hate. I'm not. (as you will soon see)

So without further ado, the first chapter. :D I am proud.

Soaked to the bone
Sink like a stone
It's not the first time, it's not the worst crime
Your soul will be okay
-Adam Lambert, "Soaked."

How did I get here?

Well, how did any of us ever get anywhere? We flew. Obviously.

It's the feathered life, and yeah, while I flew into the pouring rain at about five thousand feet, that doesn't answer my question. How, as in, why? What were the circumstances of me getting up here and getting my ass kicked by water, of all things?

Well, first there was a fight, and then a silence, and then another. Usually the flock's definition of "fight" goes somewhere along the lines of "The situation where you have to use various parts of your body to defend against things that are way stronger than you and trying to kill you and the only people you've ever loved mercilessly."

...Surprisingly, my fight tonight hadn't been like that.

And you know what I've found out? Words can be almost as hurtful as physical pain. It still doesn't compare to getting, say, shot or something, but bumps and bruises? Yeah, more along those lines. It doesn't feel good, let me tell you.

You're probably wondering what I'm saying, and why I'm going all in-depth on words. Let's just get on with it, shall we?

Fang and Max. It's been kind of one name for a while now. Fangandmax. Lately, though, it doesn't seem one name as two, with a word separating them. That's kind of signifying how bad my relationship with Max is going.

Max has never liked to talk about the past. I mean, I get it to a point ("Hey! Fang! Remember that one time when you were six and the whitecoats gave you a pelvic exam? And you essentially got raped by doctors?" "Ha, ha, I totally remember that!") but there's some things that she just doesn't bring up, under any circumstances, ever. Nada, zip, zing, keep your lips shut or you're bound to end up with them bleeding.

And, in retrospect, I guess it was a bad idea to bring one up.

It shouldn't be something she doesn't want to talk about, but it is. Dylan. Remember him? The one that Max kicked out of the flock about a year ago? Yeah, that Dylan. I wasn't even really confronting her about it—I was just wondering out loud when I said "Hey, wonder what Dylan's up to these days." Because, you know, I was curious. Wouldn't you be if you knew a guy who constantly annoyed you for a year, went straight off the radar for another? I wasn't even really expecting a response, but Max gave me one. Hoo boy, did Max give me one.

Here are the highlights, sports fans:

"Why do you care about Dylan?"

"I can't believe you would just bring him up like that! He's gone, Fang. Whatever."

"Fang, seriously, I don't care what happened to him."

"I DID THE RIGHT THING, FANG. DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT."

"FUCK YOU, I AM NOT PMSING."

And there you go.

For the record, I wasn't looking at her like anything. Hello? Visually unemotional Fang.

Looking back, it was probably also a bad idea to ask her if she was, indeed, PMSing. It's a natural guy response, though.

Honestly, I really don't care about what happened to Dylan either, but I was curious. But, you know what they say, curiosity ignited the rage of a mutant bird kid and nearly killed her boyfriend.

Or something like that.

Anyway, there's the story of how I ended up with my hair plastered to my head from the rain and my feathers getting ripped out from the wind as I flew. Not running away. Just thinking.

Which is what I'm still doing now.

It's freezing, and not enjoyable in the slightest, but it's numbing. And I sort of need to be numb right now. I'm confused about Max, and kind of angry at her but at the same time kind of not because it's really hard for me to get angry at her. But I know one thing—that I don't want to go back to the flock tonight. I don't want Iggy's silent, unseeing stares that still seem to penetrate me, or Gazzy's awkward words of comfort, or Nudge, who usually sides with Max, or Angel, who can read my mind and tell me everything I'm feeling, which makes everything so much worse.

Luckily, for my last birthday Dr. Martinez got me a wallet, and it is now stuffed with all the cash I could find in my room . I pocketed it right before I opened the window and left for the night. There's a town somewhere near here, but for right now I just want to fly around and try to calm myself down. Because I can almost feel it rolling off me, the waves of anger and indignation. And I know that sounds lame, but God, I'm so ticked off at Max for just blowing up at me.

We're supposed to be the Golden Couple or something, and it's so fucking annoying that sometimes I consider the idea that I don't love her anymore.

Then I always tell myself I'm being stupid and just turn on an iPod or something.

When I fly above the clouds, the rain stops and the sky is peaceful, the moon shining lazily without clouds to block it from vision. It's kind of trancelike when you're up here, like you're the only person in the world, just flying up to heaven alone.

That's also kind of a depressing thought, and my wings are getting tired, so I dip back down and squint through my wet hair, looking for lights.

It takes a few more minutes of flying before I see pinpricks of white and yellow and red, and I shift my wings the tiniest bit to angle myself straight for the town.

It's one of those tiny little backwoods places, with a couple of bars, a school, two or three bad hotels, and then a residential area. Not the most charming of villages, but hey, I'm wet and it'll have to do.

I touch down outside the town and opt to walk into it, though it's so dark by this time, and raining so loudly, that if I wanted to, I could probably fly down onto the roof of someone's house without anyone batting an eye. However, better safe than sorry, as usual in our life, so by the time I reach one of the motels in the area, any area of my person that hasn't previously been completely soaked now is, I'm cold, and kind of miserable. The hotel boasts heat, AC, and wifi. Too bad I forgot to bring a computer.

I get a suspicious look from the woman at the front desk of the little motel—she obviously isn't used to seeing teenagers with damp clothes askew asking for a room. When I slide the cash across the table, though, she seems to accept me a whole lot better, and gives me a style of key card that I'm pretty sure hasn't been used since the seventies, with holes punched in it to represent my room number, which is on the second floor.

It's one of those places where all the rooms face the outside, with a long stretch of balcony shared by all the little sections. I go back outside, climb dirty stone steps, and open room 223 with my out-of-date card.

Then I cringe.

I can name a lot of places I've been that are worse than this hotel room (dog crate, dungeon, back of a van, with hands duct-taped and robots all around—need I go on?), but it's pretty bad. Ugly floral bedspreads, carpet specially designed to not show all but the grossest stains, of which I see several. The sink isn't even in the bathroom—it's tucked into a corner near the door to a room that can't be more than four by six, which contains a cracked toilet and a shower with lime growing all over the faucets.

The towels are clean, though, and I grab one to dry my hair, peeling off my wet shoes when I'm done. My hair is sticking up in every direction. My socks, thankfully, have somehow escaped the brutality of rain. I keep them on, not wanting to step on the carpet. It's not that I'm squeamish, I'd just prefer not to gather communicable diseases by carpeting, thanks.

And now I'm bored.

Sitting on the bed, I rifle through the drawers in the nightstand after turning on the little lamp. There's travel guides (Welcome to Colorado!), a little notepad with the hotel logo at the top, a cheap pen, a phone book, and a Bible.

I've never opened a Bible before, except for when we were trying to code-crack in Washington DC, and even then I didn't really read it. I was just looking for words, as fast as possible, since it was exceedingly boring.

I flip to a random page and trace a finger down the page, skimming words as I go. Of course, I open to an extremely lovely passage. If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.

Psh. Haters.

I look at the clock. It's 11:11. I feel like I should make a wish, but the words stick in my throat and I can't seem to say I wish that Max and I will make up. So I just strip down to my boxers, drape my wet clothes over a chair, and fall asleep without looking at the sheets before I turn off the lights. God knows what's been on them. I don't really want to know, thanks.

I fall asleep quickly—flying for as long as I have been really saps your energy, especially when the wind is moving against you, which it was, and the rain is moving down on you, which it also was.

I never dream much. When I do dream, it's just random flashes, combinations of horrors from childhood and random things that don't make any sense, like penguins or hobbits. I never wake up to remember any of them.

So here I am, not dreaming, and suddenly I shoot upright in bed, clutching the covers in fists and nearly hitting my head against the bedpost. Why? Because in the room to the left of mine, I hear someone being tortured. Another thing the hotel apparently boasts; paper-thin walls.

"Oh, God," a man's voice groans, sounding like he's in pain. "God, no, yes, fuck!"

Oh.

I try to go back to sleep after that lovely intervention, but no, it doesn't work, what with the sex noises floating across the room, which are getting rather annoying. If their room is anything like mine, then it's not the most romantic of atmospheres. And yet they really seem to be going at it, though it's only that one man's voice that can be heard.

Now, what happens after this is probably one of the dumbest things I've done, ever. In my half-asleep, post-pissed-off state, I go over and bang on the wall. "Keep it down!" I yell.

Like I said, dumb. Because in the next ten seconds, the noises stop, then come back as footsteps, coming in a direction I don't want them to go (i.e., toward the door of my hotel room). Then there's banging on my own door.

Shit.

I don't plan on opening it—just letting the person rap on it until they get bored and go back to the room.

But they don't stop, and it's getting even more annoying than the noises. So in another bad choice in a string of bad choices, I go over and fling open the door, ready to pop one to whatever idiot has been stupid enough to disturb Fang's sleep. I don't look through the peephole before I undo the chain and toss the door to the wall. I step out to meet whoever's responsible for pissing me off.

However, out of anyone I would have expected, this person is not even at the bottom of a list. I'm thinking I'm going to see some angry muscle dude bigger than I am that's ticked at me for interrupting his sexytimez. Maybe even his big-ass wife with a mole and fists the size of small hams.

Nope. It's not a man, exactly. And it's not a woman.

It's a boy.

And it gets weirder. It's a boy I know.

Behind him is the muscle-dude I was expecting to see, a mad scowl on his flat face and his pants held up with huge hands.

"Holy shit," Dylan says, sounding like the wind's been knocked out of him.

Yes. I know. Review and tell me what you think?