Chapter II: Kicking Up Leaves (Max) - Monday
AN:
Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
Sorry for the delay. My dumbass self decided it would be great to plan out my fics a little more and, attempting to score even more moron-marks, ended up planning a whole bunch of stuff that was difficult for me to write, ignoring the need to help me 'settle back' into the flow of regular updates. The difficult bit in this one was the second scene, in the coffeeshop. Having never been on either side of this situation, having never understood why people think like that, and planning in a bunch of emotional shit that I wanted to do right by, it was pretty difficult to get something that I was happy with. Frankly, I'm not overly happy with what I have now, but I at least think it's good enough to update. Let me know.
Also, have y'all seen the announcement for this new game 'set in the life is strange universe'? It's not LiS 2 or anything, but it's a pretty decent sounding thing. Apparently from DONTNOD, and coming on June 26th, and for free. It's called 'The Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit'. From what I've heard, the company're going for a thematic sequel rather than a direct one: 'Relatable people facing relatable issues... with a twist of the strange'. Although they also say there are some clues to LiS 2's plotline if you're 'clever enough to piece the clues together'. Anyways, if any of you have seen it (go check it out, for those who haven't), what do you think of the announcements and whatnot so far?
Also II: Electric Boogaloo, apparently Seattle IRL doesn't have a subway, but Buses wouldn't work for what I want to do with this and the monorail has only two stops so it's kind of useless, so I'm using the light rail thing and referring to it as a tram because I'm British and we call those things trams and I can't find anything to say what Seattle-ites call 'em. If you happen to be from Seattle and can work out what the hell I'm talking about, do feel free to correct me.
Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.
"Come on, Lazybones. Get up already."
I groan and roll over so I can squish the pillow down on my head. "Ugh. No."
There's a laugh, high and delighted, before the voice speaks again. "Come on, dude. You're going to be late."
"N- Im n-t." My words get muffled by the pillow, and the voice laughs again.
"Dude! I know you're miserable right now, but-" A hand suddenly grabs my shoulder, nails digging into the flesh there, and rolls me over. My eyes flash open and I stare up into the grinning, manic face of my best friend. "but how the fuck do you think I feel?"
My mouth opens and closes mutely, and I watch in horror as blood starts to pool from her chest, and the meat of the right side of her face begins to slough off of her skull. "I'm dead, Max. Because of you. Now..."
She leans in again, long skeletal fingers pressing even firmer into my skin as she pulls my head up flush to hers. "Wake. Up!"
I jolt awake, sitting bolt upright in the bed just seconds before my alarm starts to blare. I let it bleep away, running a hand through my hair and trying my best to get air to my lungs. My eyes flicker around the tiny craphole room, flitting from item to item with the ease of long practice. Engage the senses, observe the surroundings, ground the mind.
Five things.
The Microwave in the little kitchenette on the far wall. Ugly thing. It looked the monolith from 2001, if it had been designed by a kitsch fetishist.
The steamer trunk pushed against the wall to my right. It was big enough to hold everything I owned, just in case. Heh. In 'case'.
A desk in the middle of the room. It was covered in mugs and plates from meals discarded when I was too busy working.
The crappy floral wallpaper, bare of any extra decoration or pictures. It was there when I moved in, and it'd probably be there long after I moved out.
Chl... my camera. On the same shelf as always.
When my breathing finally slows to a manageable rate, I feel my muscles start to relax, and I ruthlessly blot out the memory as best I can. Now, I'm going to be late if I don't get moving.
Come on, Lazybones. Get up already.
I pull myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to make breakfast.
I stumble into the coffeeshop, blinking my eyes as I stare blearily up at the orders menu. I have no idea why I'm bothering, I never order anything different. I guess I just like to know the option is there. The mellow acoustic vibes playlist in my ears keeps my heartbeat down so the constant nudging and shuffling of people around me doesn't send me spiralling into another panic attack.
I can't wait to get back to my office.
When I finally, after what felt like an eternity, made it to the front of line, I rattle off my order without making eye contact and hand over the money. It might sound rude, but I'd been coming here since I first moved so the baristas were used to my particular brand of shy misanthropy. "Mocha Frappucino, please."
The barista nods and the line shuffles on again. It's fine, until some douchecanoe behind me shuffles too damn close and it takes everything in me not to flail about in panic.
Dog.
Then, the fucker does it again. I turn round to find him giving me an appreciative glance over. He reaches up suddenly, and knocks my headphones off. Lucky for him that they just land around my neck. If they'd've broken, I'd have made an homage to that scene of Rorschach in the prison cafeteria with that pot of boiling coffee and his smug fucking face.
I'm not locked in here with him. He's locked in here with me!
Okay, so neither of us are locked in anywhere, but...
Shush.
He leans in, doing that thing guys do when they try make their muscles their most prominent feature, and flashes a smile full to brimming with pearly white confidence. "Hey there. I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you already paid. Guess I'll just ask you to share a table with me instead."
I shake my head. "No thanks, dude."
His grin turns a little, but he keeps trying. "Go on. Just one drink. You'll like me, I promise."
Dog, the arrogance dripped right off his damn words. Honestly, if he'd've stuck to them, I'd probably have been able to handle him. But he had to go and fucking touch me. His hand drops to my shoulder, and a hard grip turns me back towards him. "Come on, baby." Baby? Ew. "You don't wanna share a drink with me?"
He gestures to himself with his other hand, like I'm supposed to drop down and worship at the temple of his abs, and flashes another pearly-white grin. Never before had I found teeth menacing, but in that moment his perfect, pearly little rows of them looked more like tombstones.
"No. I don't want to share a drink with you." I could feel my heart racing. His hand was still on me, and his words were still in my ear, and there were people all around me - and weren't they all standing too damn close? - and he was saying something in that fucking tone that wonders why I'm not just bowing down and doing what he wants and a car goes past and the lights reflect in the glass of the menu and it all just reminds me of him and there's a flash of dark hair and cold eyes and it's way too fucking much.
Before I knew it, I was rushing out of the line, shoving past people in a blind panic as I dashed for the safety of the bathroom. I scramble inside, locking the door behind me. It takes everything in me not to just sink to the floor in terror. I manage to pull myself to the sink on the right wall, splashing some water on my face in a desperate attempt to ditch this fucking panic attack.
"Come on, Max. Breathe, damnit."
Eventually, some-fucking-how, I manage to calm my shit. The bathroom in this place was kinda gross, so my usual 'pick five things' method was... uh... not helpful. I feel exhausted, now it's done. Dog, that fucking asshole has just ruined my day.
I slink out of the bathroom, ignoring the puzzled stares of the people around me as I head up to the waiting point. After five minutes pass, and I don't see anyone making a Frappucino, I lean over the bar to ask "Did I order a Latte Frappucino?"
The barista, who I think is a new kid, just shrugs. "Last Latte Frap we made just got taken. Sorry, but I'll have to ask you to go to the back of the queue."
Someone took my drink? What the fuck?
I just stare blankly at the rapidly-becoming-irritated kid before checking my watch. Crap. I don't have time to wait. But, I also paid already and I really, really, really can't afford to waste that much.
But I really can't afford to lose this job.
Crap. Again.
As I rush out the door, I find myself grumbling under my breath.
Another shitty day...
Another coworker leaves, stomping loudly past my desk. I flash them an irritated glare that they don't notice, and bear down on the work again. A long, drawn out yawn lets me know it's probably time for another coffee break. I say 'break'. I was just gonna run to the breakroom, grab a pot, then come right back. Dog, I hate being Luke Priestly's fucking Junior. Pretty sure I'm going to collapse if I keep this up, but I need the overtime to afford my crappy apartment in this crappy city and...
I groan, running my hand over my face. Ugh. I blink blearily down at the heap of paperwork I still had to do before I could go home, cursing my boss' obsessive perfectionism ("The work is done when I say it's done, Ms Caulfield, not before").
Dog.
Being the low man on the totem pole sucks. Yeah, I could complain, but it'd just piss him off until he could find an excuse to get rid of me. Perks of low paid, low authority jobs. The underdog may win on TV, but that crap doesn't happen in real life.
I bash my head lightly against the side of my desk, trying to keep myself awake.
Yep, I think, pulling myself up and heading straight for the breakroom.
I need some dogdamn coffee.
It's almost midnight by the time I leave. I hit the lift, blinking mutely at the obnoxious mirrors that decorate the outer walls as I try to resist the cheery tune that cycled endlessly through this tiny metal box.
My hand goes back up to my face, and I shiver a little when the tufts of my fringe tickle against the tips of my fingers. I pull my hand away and clasp it with my other when I realise it's shaking. Come on, Max. Deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. In.
Out.
The lift doors slide open and I stumble out into the lobby. It's just as devoid of life down here as it is upstairs. Even the night security shift are off in a backroom somewhere, staring at tiny screens. They didn't used to be, but the Anarchists took care of that, I guess. Far safer to have security in the middle of the building these days.
My mind starts to clear as the cold night air hits me. Wowzers. Nothing more sobering than a good breeze. It sends my hair fluttering as I hurry away from the looming tower I spent my days toiling inside and straight towards the nearest station. Just two blocks and eight stops and I'll be home.
I barely registered the rain.
I arrived in the station a few minutes early, so I squirreled my way close-ish to the edge and started to wait. No sense being impatient. It'd get here when it gets here, as Mom always used to say. The routine reassured me, I think. Not that the trams ran on any kind of timetable, but... leave work, get on the tram, get off, go home, cook, sleep. It was... comforting. Normal.
I started looking around as I mulled it over. Mostly familiar sights, this station didn't change much. There was the usual hobo panhandling in the corner, very illegally. I nod to him when our eyes meet, and he shakes his cup with a grin. I roll my eyes, patting myself down, and shrug self-consciously. He chuckles, and flips me off.
Good 'ole Gary.
My eyes flick past him, over the signs on the station walls, over the people, the faces - well, what few of them there were, anyway (people, not faces. it'd be weird to have lots of people with only few faces) - and right over to...
Wowzers.
There were a couple of spaces, near the entrance to the station, where advertisers could put their pictures of various smiling people holding up their products. Or, well. That was what was usually there, so visible that it was basically invisible in its normality. Today, though, there was a simple picture; a woman, sat smiling on one of the benches in the station, and a caption that said simply 'shine'.
Or that was what it originally was. Someone had drawn a raincloud over the woman, giving the image a perfect irony I very much appreciated. The lines were thick, dark, and jagged. Definitely drawn in anger. Clearly not a fan of Bob Ross, no sir. No happy little people here. (AN2)
Except me.
Not that I'm little.
I'm one inch taller than the average height of women in America, dogdamnit. (AN1)
Not short.
While I was rambling to myself, I find I'm walking over to the sign. Something about it rankles me. I think it's the angry lines, but I don't know. Whoever did this had to have been having a really bad day to be angry enough to bother to draw on a sign and I just... ah. I don't know. I rummage around in my bag, trying to find my... aha!
I pull out the red board marker with a cheery... cheer, blushing slightly when a couple of my fellow travellers look over. I mouth an apology and pull the cap off. Now, what to draw...
I grin, and put pen to plastic.
When I finish, I take a step back, and admire my work. That'll do nicely.
Oh shoot, that's my tram!
AN1 - Apparently Max is 5 feet and 5 inches. According to the CDC (why those peeps are looking into average heights, I have no idea), average height for women in the states has stabilised during the last 50 years to around 5 feet and 4 inches.
AN2 - watch?v=gHeqzxnCjgk (Bob Ross VR: The Joy of Tiltbrush - Door Monster)
