A/N- Hey guys, you are all awesome.
I think Iggy sees the most out of all the characters, while being totally fabulous.
This story takes place after book 3 and ignores everything afterwards. It is a total coincidence if an original character named Dylan is violently killed off.
A massive thank you to Caz and BrokenSky49. Also, reviews are loved and printed out and put on my fridge.
Disclaimer: I am not James Patterson, unless James Patterson has boobs and enjoys Say Yes to the Dress marathons on Friday nights.
August 20th, 2012
You! Yes, you, the one reading this. Do me a favor and tear yourself away from pictures of funny cats and your Tumblr blogs full of a shirtless Ryan Gosling.
Just give me a second.
I'm going to take a moment and guess that there's a total of zero people reading this, but that's fine, since my spelling abilities are equivalent to that of a cactus. I'll probably have Gazzy edit this later since I once spelt "me" as "xkyz3m".
I'm basically just sitting at my laptop bashing out words where I think each key is. Just opening Word took me a freaking hour until Angel took pity on me.
I started this "blog" (is that what you kids call it nowadays?) just to be able to write things down. I just need to record this project somewhere, because if it's not written down, can you prove it ever happened?
I guess I should explain what I'm doing so I don't just sound like another crazy person on the Internet. (Trust me, there are a lot of them. I once stumbled onto a forum where a bunch of people were really into Photoshopping Mitt Romney's face onto various fruit objects.)
Well, Gazzy's the one who stumbled onto the site and I was just with him. Obviously the whole hey-I-can't-see-'cause-I'm-blind-but-don't-worry-I-make-an-awesome-lasagne takes away from the whole life experience thing, but Gazzy's really good at describing things for me. Props to him.
So anyways, the point of all this is to make sure that I can record The Project. It's a fairly badass name, I know. I feel like Project X or Project Crimson Alpha Shadow might be cooler, but a guy can only use so many adjectives in a day.
And here's the mission statement of The Project: To get Max and Fang together.
Internet, I can hear all of your collective "awwws". Cute. I know, right?
But I'm not doing it to make them happy. No, of course not. It's to help me. Do you understand how frustrating it is to have two sweaty hormonal teenagers who are clearly attracted to each other in the same room?
It's like holding back a girl from chocolate: if you get in the way, you're gonnna get steamrolled into a pulp and mistaken for a piece of gum that was squished into a dark spot on the ground.
Of course, I have my evidence for wanting to get them together. I am a true scientist at heart. A mad scientist, but whatever.
In the past three days, the following has happened:
1: Max asked, "What's brown and sticky?" We just stared until she added, "A stick." Fang actually laughed. Not one of his I-am-a-child-of the-night creepy laughs, but a full on "ha ha". For Fang that's like dying his hair pink and threading feathers through it. Which gives me ideas…
2: Did you know that, when you don't have one of your senses, your other ones become stronger? Basically it means that all of my other senses are constantly hyped up, which sucks when you have to go into the bathroom after Gazzy's been in it. Anyways, I had the unfortunate occurrence of sitting between Max and Fang on the couch. You could have filled a pool with the amount of pheromones that were dripping off them.
3: Fang casually mentioned that Max's hair looked good, and she blushed. It was Nudge who pointed it out. And I mean, this is Max who we're talking about, who can kill you with a Kleenex and a few rubber bands. She doesn't blush. She's not really a girl. She's just Max.
You see, we've been staying with Ella and her Mom for the past while – they've been really good about taking six half-starved and fashion-challenged kids into the house, plus a talking dog who won't shut up ever.
But just the other day, Ella walked up to me while I was sitting on the couch. I could tell it was her because she's the only one in the house who smells like something other than dirt.
See, at any moment, I like to categorize each sense. If my life was an episode of Sherlock then the camera would zoom all around me and point out all these nifty things…but sadly, Steven Moffat has yet to discover my awesomeness. He's missing out. But really, categorizing each sense keeps me sane. So at that moment I was aware of:
Sound: Ella's heavy breathing. My own breathing. (Confirmed: we are both alive.) Blinds in kitchen banging against window. Katy Perry from Nudge's room. Ella's snap of her gum. Dog barking outside. Distant lawnmower. Car honk from nearby. Could probably hear Bill Gates' plans to take over the world.
Taste: Leftover chocolate bar stuck in teeth from a few hours ago. Was delicious. Still is delicious.
Smell: Febreeze. Lots of Febreeze. Fake vanilla-cinnamon smell. Wet dog. Last night's dinner. Very stale. Old and rotten and bad to the core. Reminds me of Fred Phelps.
Touch: Jeans rough against legs. Soft leather against hands. Hair against back of neck. Injury on arm since Gazzy was a dumbass and bit me the other day. Don't ask.
Sight: Three guesses.
When Ella walked up to me, I could tell she had just come from outside – the heavy breathing and the fact that her shoes were squeaking with water from the recent rain told me that. But she hadn't been outside for long, since she still had her gum. (People wonder why I know things that I shouldn't be able to know. You just have to pay attention.)
I like Ella because a) she has never tried to kill me, unlike a majority of the American population and b) she isn't a girl who only cares about her appearance. Nudge once described Ella as "Hermione with worse hair and a better smile". Not like I even know what Hermione looks like, but at least she tried.
Ella didn't say anything. "'Sup?" I asked, trying to open the conversation. See? Guys can communicate.
"Do you ever get the feeling," she said slowly, pacing out each word, "That Max and Fang are…eh?" The last word was high-pitched and accompanied by swooshing hand movements.
"That they're Canadian? I knew they had a terrible secret."
I could feel her roll her eyes. "You know what I mean."
"That Fang doth want to court his fair lover? Yeah, I'm getting that vibe. " There was a sudden weight at the end of the couch and the squeaking of leather; Ella had sat down. "Did you see something? Don't tell me they're doing anything on my bed. I would have to bleach it and then burn it and mail the ashes to someone in Arkansas."
Ella tapped her feet against the floor in a tap-tap-tippitty-tap pattern. Clearly she was nervous, anxious, or had to pee. "Kinda. The three of us were outside by The Hole. Fang totally zoned out and was staring at Max and it was super awkward."
Ah. Of course. The classic zone out, where a guy is so infatuated with a girl that he just stares at her without realizing that society frowns on that type of creepy behavior. "What were you doing at The Hole?"
I should explain, Internet, before you think that The Hole is some euphemism for something nasty. You see, you would be surprised by how easy it is to get napalm online. Mix it with some gasoline, white phosphorous, and Jello, and you've got a hell of an explosive device. Gazzy and I tried experimenting with it one day in the back yard.
This was a bad idea.
The explosion resulted in a five-foot-deep hole with a ten-foot diameter, plus three fire trucks and one FBI agent. Gazzy and I spent four months mowing lawns around Mesa in order to pay for all the tickets we got. Whoops. However, a plus was that we now had a giant freaking hole in the backyard, which can be used for all sorts of shenanigans.
Ella leaned back into the couch. "Max wanted to see how far I could bury her in The Hole before she couldn't break through the weight of the dirt. She said it was 'in the name of science'. But Fang came storming out of the house, yelling something about how I was going to kill her."
Fang? Yelling? It's like seeing the Queen rap.
And that's my weird mental image for the day right there.
"So yeah," she continued, "I left right as they started to really get into each other's faces. I thought they were going to start making out, which would have been really hot."
Okay, that was sort of a weird comment. Watching Max and Fang get hot and heavy is a little too voyeuristic for my taste. I was about to comment as such when I heard the back screen door slam open with a rattle. "-and that doesn't mean you can control my life!" Max finished. She stamped into the kitchen and threw open various cupboards, clearly in the mood for some pity food. Since the couch that I was sitting in bordered right on the kitchen, I had a front seat for this drama.
Fang followed in shortly after her. "I'm trying to save your life! We have enough people trying to kill us without you trying to kill yourself in the name of experimenting."
Huh. Fang said more than three words. I'll be damned. I bet Fang will write this down as a momentous occasion in his diary. (Haha, Fang having a diary…just the thought makes me snort.)
"It's called training, Fang. You never know when something crazy will happen." From the crinkle of plastic I could tell Max had opted for Doritos from the cupboard. The Lays chips have a slightly lower ripping sound when opened. Yeah, can I list that as a special ability? I can tell what brand of chips anyone is eating. I should put that on a resumé.
"Whatever." Fang stamped back through the door into our room. Mr. Grouchy-Pants needed a time out.
Max's crunching slowed, and then stopped, apparently realizing Ella and I were sitting right there. "Oh," she said. Her voice screamed well-I-want-to-die-now. "Hey guys."
"Lovers' spat?" I offered. Making Max uncomfortable is in my job description.
Judging from the whoosh of air, she flipped me the bird. "You're hilarious. Go jump off a cliff."
I shot her my award-winning I'm-not-worry grin. "Wow. I'll go get ice for that burn."
Max huffed out a breath of air. The buttons in the back of her jeans clicked as she leaned against the counter. "I just don't get it. Normally he's never this…angsty. And that's saying something, considering this is Fang, and if you squeezed him, I bet he would drip angst."
I shrugged. "Don't worry about it. He's just a guy. I bet he's writing poetry about you this very second."
"Definitely!" Ella agreed. She put a hand on my shoulder. I twitched; unexpected physical contact with me is way uncool. I'd have to remember to chat with her about that.
"Fang is not writing poetry about me." But Max's voice was easily a few decibels higher when she said this.
"Nuh-uh, girlfriend. That boy luurves you. He's already picking out curtains." I could feel the heat from Max's patented glare. I got up and stretched obnoxiously loudly. "You know what? I'll go check up on him. Help him rhyme his poetry."
I walked down the hallway to our room. It was a squishy fit, with eight people living in a one-floor house. Gazzy, Fang and I ended up bro'ing it up in a tiny bedroom that even eleven-year-old Harry Potter would have thought small. "Honey, I'm home," I said, opening the door to the room without knocking. Because really, what's the worst I could see? Privacy schmivacy.
I had to help Fang, though. See, I know the guy is kind of rough on the outside (as in, if you run into him in an alley you would think he was an angel of Satan) but on the inside…he's sort of a great guy. He'd rather broadcast his love to Max on the speakers at the Superbowl than admit he's kind of a softie.
I mean, every morning he lays out clothes for me so that I don't have to worry about my clothes matching or anything. I mean, none of us in the Flock would pass a What Not to Wear intervention, but Fang keeps me at an acceptable standard.
So I try and help Fang when I can.
"Go away." The voice was relatively far away; Fang was sitting on the top of the bunk bed. I knew from experience that the rest of the room was an Ikea designer's worst nightmare; there was just one other cot, a desk, and a chair that decorated the room. I can't tell you how many freaking times I've stubbed my toe on that chair, since Gazzy keeps moving it. Vengeance will be mine…
I closed the door behind me. I don't like beating around the bush; we don't have time for that crap. I went for the direct line. "Do you like Max?"
"Max is really pretty, you know."
"I think she wants to bang you."
It's like talking to a rock.
I sat down on the edge of Gazzy's cot. The springs protested my weight with an ugly screeching sound. "Okay, Fang. Can we have a Bro Talk?"
For a second I thought I must've been in the room alone. Only Fang's shallow breathing tipped me off to the fact that he was still alive and hadn't dropped dead in the past ten seconds. I continued talking. "Fine. I'll just talk, since you're being a dick. " Fang huffed out a breath of air through his nose as a response. I looked vaguely towards where he was sitting. I was probably way off and talking to the wall, but whatever.
"Fang. Look. Everyone knows that you and Max like each other." My hands started to gesture wildly. They were just doing their own thing. "A lot. And this isn't grade six – just tell the girl! What's the worst that can happen? You get rejected and she tears out your heart and you spend the rest of your days in a northern Siberian village sobbing as each snowflake is a reflection of memories past?"
I'm really good at speeches.
Fang just sat there, clearly not as impressed as I was. I had a mental picture of him in my head, with that angsty hair falling over his angsty face with his angsty posture and his angsty way of living. Although really, I can't blame the poor guy. We've all dealt with what we've seen in life in different ways.
Back at the School, Fang saw the most.
I got up to leave. The relieved springs in the cot groaned again. I just made it to the door (without stubbing my toe!) when I heard Fang whisper, "Thanks". And coming from Fang, that's basically him throwing himself at my feet and proclaiming happiness and joy.
It was then that I decided to start The Project.
I definitely considered locking the two lovebirds in a room with candles and flowers and the Twilight soundtrack, but I figure tact might be required in this situation. As for the actual main goals of The Project, I have a few:
1. To get Max and Fang together
2. Ensure that the Flock doesn't, you know, die any time soon
3. To spread the glory of bacon around the world
Max and Fang deserve each other. I'm sure I could pick their suitors Hunger Games-style and have people kill each other until one final boyfriend or girlfriend is left, but honestly, it's just easiest on my schedule if they get together themselves.
Just remember, I'm not doing this to be nice. And of course, props to Gazzy who can actually spellcheck this for me and put it online.
Have a good night, Internet.
(Gazzy's note: I don't know why Ig is doing this. It's weird. Whatever. But he said he would tell Max that he caught me doing weird things to Ella's dog if I didn't do this. I swear I didn't do it, Max!)