Fic: She Was, Maximum Ride
Title: She Was
Fandom: Maximum Ride
Word Count: 917
If you saw her, you would never guess she was the messiah. If you saw her, you would probably start moving your feet a little bit faster to get her out of your sight. That is, if you saw her at all. People had a tendency not to see what they don’t want to see, and she was something no self-respecting person would wish to see, and that wasn’t just her own self-hatred talking.
She was a woman. This wasn’t unusual in and of itself, but it had been wondered whether she could technically be called a woman, taking into consideration how extremely unusual she really was.
She wondered if everybody had so much time on their hands.
She was a messiah currently crouched in the rubble of a demolished, suburban house that would have been vaguely familiar only to her. A threadbare woolen sweater was hanging off her shoulders, and her jeans were more giant rips and smears of mud and blood than denim. But this didn’t really bother her; she had a lot more to worry about than her fashion.
But it did worry her. She had other reasons to try and keep herself clean. And it had nothing to do with the fact her most hated, traitorous enemy seemed to enjoy finding her just to set the press upon her. It had nothing to do with often finding her picture on the front page of the morning paper.
But Angel, a winged sixteen-year-old girl who looked as though she could have been a model, a model with cold, calculating eyes and a face that had been carved from ivory for all the warmth it showed, did not think she was morbid enough to come here.
Funny thing was, she didn’t think she was, either.
But here she was, safe as she possibly could be in the ruins of Ella’s old house, where her best and pretty much only friend in the entire world had lived her quiet, unassuming life and died a spectacular, public death for the simple crime of helping the “Rogue Angel”.
Ella, whose laugh still rang in her ears, warm and inviting and gentle, those expert hands maneuvering her grip, smiling a generous smile at her astonishment when the baby stopped crying, Ella, who died as untimely a death as her mother did. That part she could never quite forget.
But Ella had been her friend, a true friend, a normal friend.
A friend she could trust. Unlike Fang, who had her mouth and her hands and her body when she was ready to give it, and maybe, possibly, if he hadn’t been such a traitor, her heart and soul. Unlike Angel, who lead the School, who controlled all the Erasers who had once tried to rip her to shreds with a mere flick of her hand, who had become the very thing they had been fighting against for eleven years.
But there had been Iggy. There had been the Gasman. As loyal as Ella, if not more so. But both of them were dead now. Fang, too. Another thing she would not forget for as long as she lived. However long that was shaping out to be.
Nudge, like Angel, was not dead, but might as well have been. She was hiding, her wings surgically removed by Ella’s mother after Iggy’s final capture. Hiding in plain sight, running an orphanage for “special needs” children, and she did all the talking for those who wouldn’t… or couldn’t. She visited only rarely, and was greeted with an almost cool reception. She didn’t blame Nudge; it was all her fault, her fault Fang had to be killed, her fault Iggy was captured and the Gasman was killed. Her fault Angel had become the abomination she was.
Her fault she was where she was now, crouched in the ruins of Ella’s house, untouched by the neighbors, who sped up when they walked past and did not look at what they did not want to see.
Because she was more than a messiah, a friend, a mutant freak who had a Voice in her head and an ability to heal anything she touched and kill anything she touched, a winged celebrity. Some things were more important than all of that, and she had discovered it firsthand. She had found a way to keep a piece of the flock with her, and the flock was her most precious thing, ever since she was fourteen and learned the truth.
She was a mother.
A mother of a baby who was the flock, who smiled like the Gasman, reached out to her like Iggy, cried as loudly as Nudge used to, and looked so much like Fang that there were some days that she could barely stand it. Only Angel was not present in her child, not yet.
He was all of the flock she had left.
“Little Ari, shhhhh,” she crooned, as hiccupping little wails began to drift up to her from the sling she had drawn across her front.
She was not a test-tube baby, but she might as well have been for all the similarities that were between herself and her so-called family.
She was the first of a generation of angels, of mutants, play-thing of the press, the Rogue Angel.
She was daughter of Jeb, friend of Ella, lover of Fang, enemy of Angel, and best of all, mother of Ari.
She would save the world.
She would destroy it.
She was Maximum Ride.
Fandom: Maximum Ride
Word Count: 917
If you saw her, you would never guess she was the messiah. If you saw her, you would probably start moving your feet a little bit faster to get her out of your sight. That is, if you saw her at all. People had a tendency not to see what they don’t want to see, and she was something no self-respecting person would wish to see, and that wasn’t just her own self-hatred talking.
She was a woman. This wasn’t unusual in and of itself, but it had been wondered whether she could technically be called a woman, taking into consideration how extremely unusual she really was.
She wondered if everybody had so much time on their hands.
She was a messiah currently crouched in the rubble of a demolished, suburban house that would have been vaguely familiar only to her. A threadbare woolen sweater was hanging off her shoulders, and her jeans were more giant rips and smears of mud and blood than denim. But this didn’t really bother her; she had a lot more to worry about than her fashion.
But it did worry her. She had other reasons to try and keep herself clean. And it had nothing to do with the fact her most hated, traitorous enemy seemed to enjoy finding her just to set the press upon her. It had nothing to do with often finding her picture on the front page of the morning paper.
But Angel, a winged sixteen-year-old girl who looked as though she could have been a model, a model with cold, calculating eyes and a face that had been carved from ivory for all the warmth it showed, did not think she was morbid enough to come here.
Funny thing was, she didn’t think she was, either.
But here she was, safe as she possibly could be in the ruins of Ella’s old house, where her best and pretty much only friend in the entire world had lived her quiet, unassuming life and died a spectacular, public death for the simple crime of helping the “Rogue Angel”.
Ella, whose laugh still rang in her ears, warm and inviting and gentle, those expert hands maneuvering her grip, smiling a generous smile at her astonishment when the baby stopped crying, Ella, who died as untimely a death as her mother did. That part she could never quite forget.
But Ella had been her friend, a true friend, a normal friend.
A friend she could trust. Unlike Fang, who had her mouth and her hands and her body when she was ready to give it, and maybe, possibly, if he hadn’t been such a traitor, her heart and soul. Unlike Angel, who lead the School, who controlled all the Erasers who had once tried to rip her to shreds with a mere flick of her hand, who had become the very thing they had been fighting against for eleven years.
But there had been Iggy. There had been the Gasman. As loyal as Ella, if not more so. But both of them were dead now. Fang, too. Another thing she would not forget for as long as she lived. However long that was shaping out to be.
Nudge, like Angel, was not dead, but might as well have been. She was hiding, her wings surgically removed by Ella’s mother after Iggy’s final capture. Hiding in plain sight, running an orphanage for “special needs” children, and she did all the talking for those who wouldn’t… or couldn’t. She visited only rarely, and was greeted with an almost cool reception. She didn’t blame Nudge; it was all her fault, her fault Fang had to be killed, her fault Iggy was captured and the Gasman was killed. Her fault Angel had become the abomination she was.
Her fault she was where she was now, crouched in the ruins of Ella’s house, untouched by the neighbors, who sped up when they walked past and did not look at what they did not want to see.
Because she was more than a messiah, a friend, a mutant freak who had a Voice in her head and an ability to heal anything she touched and kill anything she touched, a winged celebrity. Some things were more important than all of that, and she had discovered it firsthand. She had found a way to keep a piece of the flock with her, and the flock was her most precious thing, ever since she was fourteen and learned the truth.
She was a mother.
A mother of a baby who was the flock, who smiled like the Gasman, reached out to her like Iggy, cried as loudly as Nudge used to, and looked so much like Fang that there were some days that she could barely stand it. Only Angel was not present in her child, not yet.
He was all of the flock she had left.
“Little Ari, shhhhh,” she crooned, as hiccupping little wails began to drift up to her from the sling she had drawn across her front.
She was not a test-tube baby, but she might as well have been for all the similarities that were between herself and her so-called family.
She was the first of a generation of angels, of mutants, play-thing of the press, the Rogue Angel.
She was daughter of Jeb, friend of Ella, lover of Fang, enemy of Angel, and best of all, mother of Ari.
She would save the world.
She would destroy it.
She was Maximum Ride.