Written for peekbelowthesurface's drabble meme on Tumblr, specifically prompt #85, "spiral," given to me by shadowwolf75. Title is from the song "Survivor's Guilt" by Lemuria, which is so perfect that it's almost suspicious.
Summary: No more Mighty Max, but at what cost? AU of the "Pandora's Box" two-parter.
I Am No Longer the Expeditor of Your Dream
("In case you've forgotten, Old Friend, it is also written that your destiny and mine are inextricably bound: When I die, you are doomed as well." Skullmaster had always loved to remind him of their dual mortality.)
Magus' most front-facing visor is fogged from the heat of the lava on which it treads, but there's still enough clarity for Max to be able to make out the expressions on both Virgil and Skullmaster's faces: The latter, smug, gambling on the odds that this sniveling child before him will never willingly sacrifice anyone meaningful to him; and Virgil, placid, stone-faced. If there's any trace of worry to be found on his wisened visage, it's only for the notion that The Prophecy won't be fulfilled, that all of this panic and heartache has been for nought.
("But then you promise! No more of this hero stuff, no more 'Mighty Max,' okay?"
"... no more Mighty Max.")
On the other hand, Norman's face, though belonging to a seasoned warrior who has seen everything there is to see of chaos and destruction, is aghast, etched with pain. "Mighty One, what are you going to do?"
"I ... don't know." He could do it, though, he realizes. Were his mentors' fates swapped, he doesn't think he'd feel the same way, both because it would be difficult to escape the Underworld without the Guardian, and also since, for all of Norman's gruff rabble-rousing, at heart, he is an innocent. He'd forgive Max for his transgression, of course, but it would remain thusly.
The lava river begins to spiral downwards; as the fall nears, so, too, does the desperation of this unique situation at hand. Almost in unison, Skullmaster and Virgil begin plying him with alternative options, concessions. Skullmaster's final hand to play is truly tempting - they could all escape this Hellhole, together. Virgil, however, retains the perfect poker face, even as he speaks of his own doom ("As Capbearer, you must kill us both to save the world"), and even over the increasing roar of lava foaming beneath them all, the message is crystal clear: This will make you a hero.
And so he closes his eyes, Mighty Max one last time, and releases the torpedoes towards their own fate.
His eyes sting with tears long past the point of blaming it on volcanic ash. He wonders whether he'll ever get the scent of death out of his nostrils. There's no piece of Virgil to collect and memorialize, no helmet symbolizing that he once trod along this very sand towards the next portal, and then the next, but the memory of what has just happened remains.
The Australian outback is mostly quiet, now, aside from the shuffling of two pairs of feet. Dutifully, Norman got them both through the previous portal in one piece, but there's a slump to his shoulders, to his entire demeanor, really, now, that Max has never seen before - even in the most dubious times, Norman has stood tall and proud, shoulders squared, face jutted upwards. Now, however, as the sun beats down on them both, the gravity of all that has happened to them seems to finally set in. Here, then, is where it will stay, no longer able to be chased away like a pesky desert animal by destiny, and only now, too late, does Max start to understand: His debt to Virgil may have been laid to rest, but he was Chosen, and nobody is capable of taking that away from him, not anymore, not ever.
("'Twas destiny, Mighty One.")
Norman has no soliloquies for him, no calm words to sum up all that Max means to the cosmos, or even angry, embittered ones confirming for Max (because Virgil always used to) that he made a transgression, after all - it'll be a wonder if Norman ever deigns to speak again after this, really - and so they continue on through the seemingly eternal expanse of sand and sun in silence, shadows and footfalls heavy as their hearts, towards whatever the future holds now.