Horologe ⚚ [Maximum Ride/Black Butler]

Chapter IV

I'm on a roll, folks! ;-)
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Max's POV

I sat on this tuffet-like chair, bearing a defiant, pissed-off expression that probably made me look constipated, while God's Gift - Sebastian, his name apparently was - bundled my wing in firm, tightly-wound bandages.

"You know, young miss, if only you had complied, this whole unfortunate ordeal would not have happened," he said, voice borderline amusement and a little something else.

"Screw you." With a busted wing, I was stuck here to rot. It took a while for these things to heal, even with my genetically-enhanced recovery, and I couldn't say I was happy about it.

What I could say was that I was absolutely, positively devastated about this and felt like screaming my lungs out, but, I've never been one for dramatics. Even though my life seems to be one drawling, badly-directed drama film, one constantly filled with tragic moments and violence and mushyness mixed in between. A real classic tear-jerker. I hate tear-jerkers.
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-REWIND-
It was obvious I was falling, spiralling down towards my feathery death at a neck-break speed of 120 mph. I braced myself with everything I had, feeling sorry for myself that I actually let myself die in such an embarrassing way. Shot out of the sky like a stupefied duck in hunting season, by a freakin' maid no less. Maybe I'll get put in some festive Thanksgiving stew to add to the irony, bird kid flavour for a little extra tang. Real nice way to go, Max.

I expected that, hurdling towards the ground and all, I would feel something a little more than just, 'thwmp.' Unless, I hadn't hit the ground at all. And, what luck, that was just my case.

Strong hands were laced around my shoulders and just above the hamstrings, and, to my absolute horror, I found myself being held in a friggen princess carry. If there were any two words to describe the most cliche, sappy, hopeless-romantic, useless-damsel-girl hold there was, that would be it. My bones may not have been crushed, but fuck, my dignity sure was.

The dark-haired male seemed to be in some sort of weird trance, eyes glued to the large, currently-limp wings dangling behind me. He stared at them, at the damage, and even so, I could tell he was shamelessly analyzing it all. Marvelling the limb, as if the injury wasn't even there.

"...Ok, alright, you can put me down now," I said loudly, trying to snap the man out of it. I managed to force my lean, still-healing torso up with a wince. My shot wing, bleedin' buckets, mind you, twitched bit as I did so, which hurt like the dickens.

Slowly, he glanced to me and raised a dark, perfectly-waxed (did this guy wax his brows? Because it sure looked like he did, not a freaking stray hair in sight) eyebrow, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, "Young miss, you were shot. Expertly so. I do not think you're in any position to injure yourself even more."

"Sexist piglet," I began, icy tone daring him to interrupt. "Don't even go there with me. I can handle myself perfectly fine. And I don't need some suit-n-tie, snot-nosed, British fart trying to tell me what's what. I can make my own decisions around here, thank you very much. Not you. Me. This is my wing we're talking about here, not yours. And if I think I'm perfectly capable to walk on my own, then shit-to-the-yes, I most certainly am. Now put me down before I drive my fist through those perfectly-carved nostrils of yours, because trust me, I will."

There was a very long, very shocked paused, but when I felt myself being slowly, begrudgingly lowered to the ground, I knew then and there that I had successfully dished out one of my infamous, tell 'em off to the moon speeches, the kind that makes the Flock dive under their beds. Because they know when Max ain't happy, nobody is.

"Wise choice," I said.

He let out a deep sigh, obviously stressed and trying to recover from the fact of being told off and told off good, by a fourteen year old, no less, and gave one last, somewhat weary, but all the more irritated look. "Follow me, please."

I hampered right on after the man, wing half-dragging me down like a hundred pound weight. I felt kind of bad for whichever pool soul had to clean up the mess I left behind, gigundous stains of blood courtesy of my ever-leaking wound. Oh wait.

Bitch deserves it.
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-STILL REWIND-
Guess who I saw on the way to wherever-the-hell-this-butler-was-leading-me? That's right. Little miss magenta hair - did I mention my hatred for red-heads? No? Well magenta's pretty darn close to red - in her frou-frou slutbag maid costume, quaking her legs like no tomorrow as we walked past.

She actually looked somewhat sorry for what she did, like she just realized what a total douche move it was to shoot a flying child right out of the sky. And sorry she will be, by the time my wing's fixed up and I'm done with her. How did that woman even manage to hide a freaking sniper in the first place? ...Actually, you know what, I don't even wanna know.

Flashing a dark, venomous glare in her direction, one that could quite possibly pierce diamonds, I dragged my hand across my neck and mouthed the word 'kill.' She trembled even harder and fainted on the spot. I felt real good about myself.

I felt so good in fact, I didn't even realize that we were starting to go up the stairs, and tripped hard as my foot connected with the front of the first step. The carpet was kind of bunched up there since I'd been dragging my feet this whole time, having to carry wing-weight and all. I fell flat on my face. My wing pinned me to the ground painfully, and I couldn't get up on my own, no matter how many times I tried to heave-ho.

Karma always gets you back, I guess.

Ken doll, goth edition gave me this knowing smile, and I knew the jerk was basking in my defeat as he batted his eyes with fake innocence and said, "If I may?"

I grunted. My good mood had gone and dissipated as quickly as it came, and I found myself back to where I'd originally started, lying grouchily in the man's arms.

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