Chapter 1

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"There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt," - Erma Bombeck

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The world fuzzily came back into focus as Fang tried to pry his eyelids open. Urgh! That had been a bad fight. Way too many; too many to count. They had been outnumbered, like one verses a hundred each. They hadn't stood a chance. Even through the crusted up bloodied blob that was his nose he could still smell the choking disinfectant, and death. He knew exactly where he was; The School.

So where had his shirt and shoes gone?

He was lying on his stomach, bare chested, strapped to a clinical bed; he could taste the metal tang of blood in his mouth. His arms were held down by his sides, the Velcro cutting into his wrists, and by the feel of it his bare feet too. There was also a strap running across his back, just below the wing line, holding him down. He was so trussed up he couldn't even struggle, he could barely move at all; they obviously thought a lot of him.

Fang could just about raise his head a couple inches, craning his neck back to see in front of him, but the view wasn't great; below the fuzzy line of fringe hanging over his vision – damn his hair needed a cut – he could see a white wall, with a disconcerting yellow stain dripping down the middle.

Looking up made him light headed, probably due to the rake lines that ran down the side of his face, drying blood. Here's a tip, don't try fight erasers in a garden centre; it gets ugly when the wheelbarrows get involved. He also managed to turn his head slightly to the side without the world spinning, but that only gave him half his usual peripheral vision. He could only make out the blurred shape of a bleeping monitor on one side, and an IV drip on the other.

Momentarily defeated, he rested his chin on the metal bed, but didn't give in to the waves of pain assailing him. There was someone else in the room, and he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. He wasn't going to speak to them either. Instead, he slowed his breathing, forcing himself to relax as much as possible, and concentrated on his surroundings. Ignoring the pain, he judged the empty air spaces around him, the echoing sounds that he couldn't yet identify, and the draft of cool air.

Finally planning out the room in his mind; placing north directly in front of him, there was a window, or door, or maybe even ventilator at an exact 45 degree angle North West, where the breeze was coming from. There was empty space around him for about a metre in a complete circle, all directions, but somewhere above was a balcony running along the length of the wall, with machines and people, he thought. The room was large, and had a high ceiling, judging by the echoing sounds, and he could feel warmth on his bruised back, so either strong overhead lighting, or a glass roof? He wasn't sure on the last one.

He felt the air currents stir, as the person he had known was there moved closer towards him. He could hear them breathing, and after a pause, they spoke: "Impressive. Quite clearly in pain, and yet avoids succumbing to it," A soprano, female voice said, "A sort of developed survival instinct. Almost primitive,"

Fang strained at his straps, trying to twist round to see the owner of the voice, but his efforts were useless. The watchers waited patiently for him to tire, as if he was a mildly interesting insect flying repeatedly at the window. With a half cough, half grunt, he settled again, but grudgingly, with a new burning feeling of humiliation at their indifference, that he was storing for the attack, when that time came, and it always did.

The woman walked quickly around his bed, her heels clicking on the cold floor. She moved up to the front, into Fang's line of vision, and though Fang made no attempt to look up, she leaned down to make sure he was looking at her.

"Hello Fang," she said silkily. If she was hoping the use of his name would shake him she was wrong, Fang thought, he was unshakable. He made no move or sound in response to that, but she seemed to expect this. "The silent treatment doesn't work here Fang. We don't need you to talk, and we don't care for anything you have to say. All we want is your body," she whispered, quite seductively he thought.

Fang couldn't help himself. Was she coming onto him? Even in this situation, a mocking smile revealed itself slowly. Even smiling, or the closest he could get to a smile now, hurt, as he worked the muscles of his beaten face into something resembling a grimace.

Misinterpreting his smile, the woman said sharply, "There is no one coming to save you. You can't get out of this one. The flock is dead,"

The smile vanished. Fang knew they probably weren't telling the truth, but there was still some chance that they were. He didn't believe them, but if the flock were still alive why weren't they here, kicking ass to get to him? He knew the flock was still alive. On some level he believed he was so close to them he would feel their death himself, if they did bite the dust, but it was scarily quiet on the ass kicking front. Where were they? Where was Max?

The woman stalked around the other side of him, and he just saw her caress a button before she disappeared behind him. At the push of the button a whirring noise started up, that due to the cavernous walls sounded like it was coming from everywhere. Then above the whir Fang heard a clanking noise that was definitely hanging directly above him, and descending.

"Lie still," the woman ordered. "For your own safety,"

'For your own safety', Fang thought. He couldn't ignore the irony. He had been beaten and strapped to a bed! Were they going to give him protective goggles? But the warning was ominous, and he obeyed.

Fang's body tensed, and his fists clenched against the straps that held him.

Suddenly something hook-like dug into his back. He clamped his mouth shut, clenching his teeth together, in a desperate attempt not to scream. The claw actually scraped along his spine, digging in and slicing down. He felt searing pain and a faint wetness that told him blood was leaking out of the clean line.

"Oops, I missed," Came a voice from the balcony, but that was the only acknowledgment of the mistake. God damn stupid jerk!

Before Fang could even partially recover, or fully comprehend what was happening, the mechanical contraption came down again, this time hitting its mark. It clamped onto the just protruding edges of his wings, and pulled. The metal pincers yanked them out, unfolding them against his will, stretching them out as far as they would go. He felt like they were about to snap, as feathers actually sailed past his head.

They were ripping out his wings! He thought desperately as pain erupted in his shoulder blades and everywhere surrounding them. They are not freaking elastic, he wanted to say, but knew if he opened his mouth the moan of pain would escape instead, and he couldn't let that happen. Mercifully, at full capacity, the pincers stopped. His wings were spread out and held firmly in place by the machine so he felt that the slightest move would tear them clean off.

The numerous scientists assembled on the balcony above and directly beside the Avian Hybrid couldn't help gasping in admiration at the glorious, midnight black set of wings. Fang let the breath hiss out through his teeth, pressing his forehead against the cold metal surface, trying to keep from groaning out loud. They could have at least asked!

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?" the woman's voice soothed patronisingly.

Fang was actually shaking, and he hated himself for it. His hands were now clenched so hard he could swore his fingers were going numb. With surprise he felt a warm, soft hand stroke his closed fist. He was unable to pull his hand away, but he kept his fist closed against her. He did not yield to it, but she must have felt his surprise.

Fondling his fingers, trying to prise them away to get a grip on his hand, she said, "An incredible wingspan. You are a very special person Fang. A very special Hybrid,"

That was the most frightening thing. They were calling him 'Fang'. They were calling him a 'person'. They were treating him like he was an actual human being with thoughts and feelings, but they were still doing this to him. That was why, although he wouldn't admit it to them, he was terrified. How evil did you have to be to torture something you considered to be another 'person', an equal?

A/N: I don't know who Erma Bombeck is, I just like the quote, and it's relevance. I'm going to open every chapter with a random quote I find on the internet, or a favourite of mine. ;-)