The first body they find is buried by rubble by what once was a warehouse for fish. In better times the building had stored the daily catch packed in ice, ready for distribution. Of course, better times were long gone. Just like the building, and all the others in the area. In all of Arcadia Bay. Long gone like this man whose legs stick out from the debris, unmoving.
Max presses a clammy hand against her forehead and closes her eyes. It doesn't drive away the images of destruction around her, but maybe, if she squeezes her eyes really hard it will go away. Maybe she will re-open her eyes, and find herself in a timeline when her power is not a force of destruction, but a means to save everybody.
When she feels a hand on her shoulder, Max opens her eyes to gaze at her silent driver. It's difficult to decipher what is going on in Chloe right now. It's easier when she is incandescent with rage, or bursting with a boundless energy to do stuff (or people), to do something. Anything. Like her palpable excitement when they found the Dark Room's location (No, don't go there Max, not the Dark Room, never the Dark Room, never again, make it stop.) She bites the cuticles of her thumb to end her train of thought, to rather think about Chloe's expression again. Is this sympathy in her dark blue eyes? Indifference for having denied her wish to be the sacrifice for Max's abuse of her power? It looks like pity, with a certain hint of disdain. Max is unable to tell. It might all be in her head right now. So many voices, whispering in her head, mocking, teasing, crying. Her fucked-up head full of all the different routes she had to take, all her foolish attempts to be Maxine Caulfield, time master, fixing everything. Instead she broke everything. Inside her head is nothing but noisy hell. It's like living her nightmare again, just being aware of it this time.
She wants to scream, but she doesn't. She wants to cling to Chloe, her anchor, but cannot stand the thought of rejection. She wants to cry for all those who were lost because of her, but doesn't dare show that much weakness. She would never be able to stop crying again. Max doesn't reach for the other girl even though everything in her is yelling that she should. She just looks at Chloe then turns her head. There's the body of a woman buried underneath an ATM machine. Is this for real? For cereal? Max buries her face in both hands and murmurs "Please take me away from here…" to Chloe, barely able to press out the words from between numb lips.
Chloe is the more sensible of the two and stops the truck at the broken remains of a strip mall. She shakes her head when Max whimpers as she turns off the engine. Whoever thought she would ever be considered the practical one? "Do you want to stay here? I am just going to pick up some supplies for us. For the road." She tries to smile encouragingly at Max who is radiating vulnerability and guilt. She hopes that's what her smile expresses, encouragement. She wants that more than anything. She doesn't want any of those flashes of resentment and bitterness that flicker through her mind to be present in her expression at all. How much of an asshole would she be if she did that to the girl who saved her over and over again, over everyone else in Arcadia Bay? (But it was against your will, Chloe. Ah fuck, as if I was unselfish enough to really want that. I am grateful I live. Fuck everything.)
A flicker of panic is in Max' blue eyes which makes Chloe walk to the passenger side of her battered truck. She opens the door and helps the younger girl out. She takes her hand and never lets go as they roam through the ruins of destroyed stores. The only sound are birdsong and the crunch of broken glass and rubble under their feet. It's creepy, like a horror movie, as if a bubble lay around Arcadia Bay, keeping the world out. No helicopters, no ambulances. Utter silence. Chloe hates horror movies. Fuck this shit.
Chloe scores it big at the remains of a liquor store, salvaging several unbroken bottles of Jack Daniels from a box, plus plenty of cigarettes. She wants to light up immediately to calm her nerves, as much as she can do that without weed, but that would mean letting go of Max's hand. Impossible.
Once the truck is loaded with the bare necessities, Chloe aimlessly takes the truck out of Arcadia Bay. There are spots where the road is so blocked that she has to take a detour. She lets out her residual anger with colorful cursing whenever that happens. The further away they move from the coastline, the more the impact of the tornado lessens but still, they see no one. At one point they pass a covered body, and this means someone else must be alive. They do not see anyone though, and that's alright by Chloe. Wouldn't do to get her hopes up that Joyce made it. There's a tight pain in her chest at the thought of her mother, but she cannot linger on the thought. Max mumbled something that it's possible there was an explosion at the Diner. Chloe is too much of a coward to face that thought or even try to go there. She must take care of Max. It's her lifeline right now. Max has taken care of her (by denying me the first non-selfish decision I've made in years), and now she must take care of Max in turn.
By the time night falls, they haven't really left Arcadia Bay far behind. Dinner consists of junk food washed down with cheap store-brand soda first, then the not so cheap Jack Daniels as they sit beneath a star-spangled clear sky in the bed of the truck. They drink plenty of the whiskey. It numbs the pain and wraps Chloe in a soft cocoon of oblivion, until Max is violently sick over the side of the truck. Chloe keeps hold of Max's head in support, much like she did for Rachel back in the day, when they imbibed so much at American Rust that they were sick. Ah, the heady days of junkyard delinquency. There's no danger of Max's brown hair falling in her face as she pukes her guts out, but Chloe finds that caressing Max's head calms herself down, and maybe even helps Max. She pulls the girl into her arms when the retching has stopped, and doesn't let go. There are no tears. Just silence.
It feels like something has crawled in Max's mouth and died in there, her tongue heavy, the taste foul. Her head is pounding and she immediately reaches two fingers to her nose, expecting the steady drip of blood flowing from her nose. Cause of death: brain aneurysm. There is no blood though, her fingers remain dry. Max blinks rapidly, as much as that hurts and spies Chloe just outside, brushing her teeth with toothpaste and toothbrush looted from the remains of a pharmacy. Slowly, memory returns and the brunette remembers the silence underneath a sky full of stars. A silence numbed by alcohol. The release provided was temporary, because the voices are back, howling in her head. Max Caulfield, murderer, selfish manipulator extraordinaire, abuser of powers that should never have been hers. All to score the girl who would very likely never love her back now. Max killed Chloe's mother. She chews on her bottom lip, vaguely remembering being held, having her hair stroked, but she isn't sure about it. It might not have happened.
She wishes it had, though.
Chloe saunters back eventually, wordlessly handing over the toothpaste and the toothbrush. After the end of the world as they know it, maybe it's the new normal to share. Max's heart is heavy in her throat because Chloe has this lanky elegance in all her movements. This confident swagger, paired with her striking looks. She smirks at Max but before the brunette can say anything Chloe's quick to say "Hey, Maxi-Pad, your breath smells gross from over here. Here's a bottle of water, hop hop. We didn't think to bring any fresh clothing, so we either hit the road to Seattle hard, or we find a way to buy shit. I'm hella broke, so…" She sounds so casual, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if the reason they have no clothing is not because they lost everything they had in Arcadia Bay. Max has her things in Seattle, at her parent's. Chloe has nothing. Guilt is like a giant wad of cotton in her mouth, choking her.
"I have some money," Max murmurs, then goes to brush her teeth, wash her mouth, escape the cool blue eyes that try to display nonchalance but show flickers of rage and grief instead. When she climbs back into the truck, she carefully states "I have about a hundred bucks, still left over from my birthday. That's got to be enough for a night at a motel somewhere, right? I...I really don't think I am ready for Seattle yet." How can she face her parents, be re-united, celebrate her survival, when she took everything and everyone away from Chloe?
"Alright, Max-a-million, or should I say, Max-a-hundred, we'll take it slow and find some place to stay." The blue-haired girl turns to Max with a pointing finger, and this time it's definitely not just an assumption of Max that she is angry. "As soon as we get there, you fucking charge your phone and call your parents because they got to know you live. You hear that? Don't let them freak out." Chloe's left hand bangs down on the dash of her truck, and she turns back to stare at the dirt road they're parked at.
The next hour is spent in silence, Max sitting slumped in her seat. If she could curl up into a fetal position she would. Chloe's words bruised her all over. A couple of times she opens her mouth to say something, anything, to the girl she's pretty sure she loves more than anything, but Max doesn't know what to say.
By early afternoon, Chloe stops and Max wordlessly hands her a couple bills so that Chloe can pick up some fast food for them. They haven't really discussed it, but the last decision that Max made was to rip the photo and let it go, carried away on the winds of a storm. Since then Chloe has taken over, driving, looting, picking the routes and stops, making sure they eat. Of course, because it's Chloe, the food she brings back contains vast amounts of greasy bacon. "Perfect for sopping up hangovers," she informs Max before digging in with abandon. How Chloe feels, Max really wouldn't be able to say. How can she act this normal, as if this were any other road trip?
Chloe lets out a huge burp at the end of the meal and merely grins at Max, but the grin fades when she notices that Max is staring at her with a face so pale that every freckle is standing out in dark relief. Max's throat is tight as she squeezes out the words that have been on her mind all morning. "What would you have done? If our roles were reversed? Imagine you could have stopped the storm by sacrificing me, or moved on, with me. What would you have done?"
The blue-haired girl's eyes widen but her lips press together into a thin line. Chloe doesn't even try to say anything, just stares. Time's ticking, and Max's head feels like it's about to cave in, pounding so hard, with every painful beat of her heart. Eventually Max chokes out "Would it be easier to make that decision if you imagined it wasn't me to save, but Rachel Amber? Does that help?"
Now there's raw emotion in Chloe's eyes, fireworks. She sees the stars in Chloe's eyes, but they're not for her. Never were. Max turns away, discarding burger wrappers and empty soda on the dirty floor of the truck, pressing her cheek against the cold glass of the window. She doesn't allow herself to cry, she still can't. She hears disapproving voices in her head. Is that Victoria she hears? 'You gave us all up, made sure we died in this shitty town, just so you could save your precious, worthless punk who doesn't even care about you like that. How does it feel to be such a fuck-up?'
She hears Chloe trying to speak to her, just saying "Max" in a way that the younger girl cannot decipher. Max doesn't turn back to her, and eventually Chloe starts the truck again, and they drive off. The voices in Max's head are too loud, the grief too raw, so sleep is impossible, for what good could lurk in her dreams? She shivers from raw panic at the thought of having to face the citizens of Arcadia Bay again, now that she really let them die.
Chloe's fingers are drumming painfully against the steering wheel of her truck while the other hand holds on, all white-knuckled. 'I can't believe she said that. Why the fuck would she bring up Rachel? What's she got to do with anything?' Her heart breaks all over again, at the memory of finding her body at the junkyard. She lost Rachel. Chloe mutters "Fuck," under her breath then quickly darts a glance at Max who hasn't looked at her since that post-lunch outburst. Way to spoil a good burger. In her head, Chloe is cursing non-stop because she doesn't know how to fix this. She's not good at handling emotions, and very aware of that. She's great at bearing grudges, guilt-tripping and egotistical power trips. She's not so good at soothing the obviously grieving heart of a girl who went through hell for her. She positively sucks at bearing grief and shouldering losses.
Chloe can't admit that she doesn't know what she would have done in Max's shoes, and cannot reveal that she admires the girl for her conviction to go through. She can't tell her how much it hurts to have lost Joyce, may the rest of the shithole town burn. She obviously cannot tell her about how she is mourning Rachel, the girl she loved but who never reciprocated. The girl who fucked her literally and figuratively. Chloe can also not grab her and kiss her and show her physically how much she appreciates to be considered...worthy. No one has ever looked at Chloe and made her feel like she was the most special person in the universe. It's only ever been Max, back when they were kids, and now.
Eventually, she stops at a motel. It has a lit vacancies sign and doesn't look like an utter dirthole, so Chloe makes the executive decision to stop here. Impulsively, she reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind the silent Max's ear, which makes the younger girl whip around almost violently. Chloe keeps her hand on Max's cheek, and almost sighs in relief when the girl leans into the touch. She's not completely lost her with her inability to actually respond to her questions. "Shit, Max, you are so cold." Chloe's protective instincts are kicking in. Max feels like an icicle, and is still so deathly pale that Chloe starts to worry. The storm, the rain, and a night in her truck. She might be sick. "I'll quickly get us a room, and then you hella get your ass into the shower."
Chloe rushes off to arrange a room. The receptionist isn't really paying any attention to her, because he's busy staring at the small TV behind him. It's like a trainwreck (or a tornado), but Chloe also can't take her eyes away after she spies what's on, a news report from Arcadia Bay. The reporter is standing in front of the ruined Two Whales, and there are indeed signs of an explosion. The windows all blew out, and it's all a crumbled mess. It's not the diner that draws Chloe's attention though. In the background there's a stretcher with a body bag, and whoever put the body in there did a fucking lousy job. It's not completely zipped shut, and so a foot is hanging out. Chloe would recognize the scuffed pump anywhere. Why Joyce always insisted on working in shoes with a heel like that instead of more comfortable flats, her daughter doesn't know. She remembers many nights that Joyce came home to slip out of the scuffed shoes, rubbing her feet and complaining. Not anymore though. There could be no doubt now.
The guy at the desk finally pays attention to Chloe and talks to her, but what he says, she can't hear past the ringing in her ears. She numbly does a money exchange with him to get a key, barely mentioning that she's from the Bay. That shuts him up fast as he gives her a look of pity, and a bit of a discount. Her mouth tastes like ashes, and her limbs are heavy as lead as Chloe walks to the car to get the few things they have.
Max glances at Chloe once and visibly recoils. But Chloe functions. She sets their things down, then steers Max to the bathroom. "Have a hot shower, you're hella cold. I'll have a smoke outside, 'kay?"
Outside, she makes quick work of a couple cigarettes which do absolutely nothing to calm her nerves. Chloe starts pacing and at one point punches the wall, the result being that her left hand now hurts as much as her heart. Nah, the hand actually hurts a lot less.
When she finally heads back inside, Max is already under the sheets, looking small and fragile, briefly glancing at Chloe, then almost fearfully turning her eyes up to the ceiling. Chloe quickly changes, into a T-shirt that she had looted, washes her face, joins Max in bed. Turns the light off, tries to sleep, because sleep means not thinking of all they have lost. Max stirs a bit, one of her bare legs brushing against Chloe briefly in the queen size bed they're sharing. Something flares up in Chloe then, the need to feel something but the anger and the grief that rule her right now.
Max kissed her. Surely...there's gotta be something, dare or not. Surely, she would understand.
"Max," she breathes in the dark and moves to loom over the younger girl. There's not a lot of light coming in from outside, just enough that she can see Max looking up at her. Chloe moves her body to press against the full length of Max and presses her lips on the other girl's. There's nothing gentle about this kiss and her tongue aggressively parts Max's lips.
Chloe is shifting one of her hands to Max's hips, the other cups her face. A flash of triumph hits her brain when she feels Max reciprocating the kisses, hears the other girl whimpering and moaning needily. She bites down on Max's bottom lip, rewarded with a sharp hiss and Max's fingers tangling in blue hair. It's sloppy, and rough and hot, and overrides the grief and anger she felt moments ago.
Chloe gives herself up to this, follows all her impulses and touches Max everywhere. Her brain is not consciously aware that this maybe isn't quite how Max imagines losing her virginity.
Max shifts under her and Chloe bites down on her shoulder possessively, the other girl yelping in surprise. Still, Max moves, pulls back, and Chloe takes Max's wrists, pinning them down hard with one hand, then dipping the other hand below between soft thighs to be greeted by silky wetness.
Her hands are tied, duct tape holding her wrists together painfully. Or are they? Max blinks rapidly, sees Chloe above her. It's Chloe, it's all good, she'd never hurt her. Or would she? Panic rises in her, drives away all her excitement about Chloe's unexpected moves on her. Cold sweat forms on her forehead and suddenly she cannot see Chloe above her. She sees Jefferson, holding her wrists together, pinning her down, posing her, for the perfect composition, the perfect shot. Max can't do this, she can't. Her chest is so tight, she feels like she's drowning in terror. She calls Chloe's name, needing this to stop.
There's a red haze over everything, Chloe is singularly focused on controlling this aspect of her life, of taking pleasure in Max, and doesn't respond to Max urgently calling her name. Chloe hotly breathes into Max's ear. "Shush. Stay still. Don't move," she demands passionately. She is about to elaborate on all the pleasant things she wants to do to Max, when a single ray of light from a parking car outside falls on their bed, illuminating Max's face which is a mask of terror.
With more strength she would ever have thought possible from the smaller girl, Max shoves Chloe off her, with a scream, then leaves the bed, racing to the bathroom. Chloe can hear the sound of retching, and sobbing, and feels like the most terrible person in the world, unworthy scum of the earth.
The porcelain of the toilet bowl feels cool against her heated cheeks. Max has puked her guts out until she thought she would choke to death on her vomit. Her eyes are bloodshot and tears are still leaking, burning salt in the corners of her eyes. She looks at her wrists, studying them to see the tell-tale signs of sticky duct tape that she was sure had restrained her. All she sees are bruises, finger-print size, marks that Chloe had held her like that. She shudders from revulsion, memories from the Dark Room all she can feel now. Those words, like Jefferson's, angrily yelling at her to stay still. Was there the sound of a shutter? She gasps, scrambling up to defend herself.
It's not a shutter. The click is the bathroom door opening, Chloe pale and antsy, peeking inside. "F-Fuck, Max, you don't need to be scared of me," the taller girl murmurs, though her own eyes widen at the sight of Max. The bruised wrists, and there's a bite mark on Max's right shoulder. "Sh-shit, Max, I'm a monster. I seriously did not mean to hurt you, fuck. I...I got carried away, and really, I would never want to do anything you weren't cool with."
Max sighs and relaxes a bit, but her nerves are still thrumming with tension. She knows Chloe is not Jefferson, nor is she his tool. Just bad memories. She vaguely knows about triggers, heard of them before. Apparently Chloe is excellent at exposing all of hers.
Chloe is still talking and pacing. "Damn, no one ever had to throw up because of me touching them. I'm such a shit. I...I seriously read the signs wrong, I thought we were okay. I mean, not okay okay, but both...like into each other, you know? Thought it would unwind us, to fuck, you know?" She's really not making things any better, but it's a very Chloe dialogue. Max rises to her feet, flushes the toilet, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
She takes a deep breath. "Chill, Chloe. You didn't read any signs wrong. I'm into you, and I didn't puke because of you. Sort of." Max inhales deeply through her nose, then lets out her breath again. "Just surprised me, okay? I don't think...I really don't think I am good for anything of that sort right now. Or anything that involves... force." Cold sweat again, and she hyperventilates just a bit. "Dark Room," she squeezes out, and sees a flash of understanding, deep regret and sympathy in Chloe's blue eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks more gently than she is wont to do. She sounds more like wheelchair-bound alternative-Chloe, milder, wiser, more subdued than her usual self. (The Chloe I killed, instead of always having her live.)
Max can't shake her head hard enough. She can't talk about the Dark Room. Not now. Maybe not ever.
When Max returns to bed, Chloe stands there, almost helplessly, fidgeting with her long-fingered hands, flicking off some of the chipped blue nail-polish on her left index finger. "What do we do now, Max?" she asks in a small voice.
Max closes her eyes and then murmurs "Now we will be each other's friend and hold each other. I am so cold."
And that's what they do, limbs entangled, Chloe's chin resting on top of Max's head, as they listen to each other's heartbeat and breaths, deep into the night, taking a small measure of comfort from this.
A/N: It's been four years since I wrote anything, and I thought I was done with writing fanfic. Along comes Life is Strange, and those two crazy kids Max and Chloe that I am crazy about. English is not my first language, but I'll do my best. Reviews are more than welcome. I am currently estimating 3-4 chapters until I am done telling this story. Thanks for reading!
The title of the story is based on Sia's 'Dressed in Black'. First chapter is based on Sia's 'Breathe Me'. Yeah, so I like Sia.
A big thanks to my lovely wife for helping me with edits, and Heath Wingwhit as greatest inspiration.