Note: There's nothing overly graphic here, but I should probably warn you that this chapter thoroughly earns the Mature rating.
The end is near. Two more chapters to go. Maybe an epilogue after that.
The world slowly comes into focus from the haze. I remember waking up briefly in the cell, and then...nothing. It takes me some time to understand I'm bound to the chair. Table, laptop, phone, mirror. It's all as real as the dull thrumming in my temples.
"Miss Caulfield. I believe this conversation is long overdue."
The words barely register still. My head is stuffed with wool, weighted with lead, seized by visceral fear and intense loathing.
"I'll let you gather your thoughts for a moment. I would rather you were in full use of your mental faculties, or as close to it as you can be at this time. You may even travel through this conversation, if you are up to the task once your head clears. It will be an interesting experience."
"Chloe..."
"All in due time. Be still, now. Let the medication wear off."
My voice is a dry rasp. I would murder for a gulp of water. "Where's Chloe..."
"She's alive and well. Gather your wits, Miss Caulfield. You will need them."
The pain in my head becomes more acute as the drug-induced fog clears. My clothes are gone, replaced by a flimsy gown. It makes me sick to my stomach to know someone here undressed me and handled my body while I was unconscious. I can only hope that's all they did.
I try to pull myself free, but my muscles are barely there right now. I wouldn't be able to break through chewed-up shoelaces, let alone the sturdy manacles holding me down with zero room to wiggle. How long has it been since the Art Room? It feels like I haven't moved in weeks.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Try to work whatever moisture I can gather into my throat. "Tell me where Chloe is."
"She's safe in our custody, now. She was injured during capture, but we treat her well enough, despite her best efforts to be disruptive."
"Injured? You injured her?"
"An unfortunate lapse in discipline. You can see for yourself."
With some effort I focus on the screen. The pointer in the remotely-accessed laptop clicks through menus in some kind of surveillance program. The ensuing video cuts through the perspective of a few cameras, showing a dark shadow charging through the lawn, barging into the mansion, gunning down everyone in her path. It cuts to Chloe taking a crowbar to the Art Room door, and setting up a bunch of the pipe-bombs we brought just in case, and trying to ram through after the detonations, and kicking and screaming at it when everything fails. Then it cuts to her in the middle of a shootout, trying to use the cover afforded by the arcade. She gets shot in the leg, but continues to fight until a dart comes from her unprotected side, burying itself in her collarbone. She brings a hand to it. I see the white of her gritted teeth.
I can feel my chest breaking as she slumps back against the wall, out of sight. The video stops.
"One of my employees was far too distraught from the loss of a comrade and went against my strict mandate for non-lethal weapons. He will be disciplined."
I only half-hear him. Tears burn on my eyelids as I stare at the black-and-white freeze-frame. She should've fled, I should've made her promise to run away if I got trapped. She could have sought help, make a plan, blow a hole in the walls with proper explosives, something.
God, who am I kidding? She wouldn't have listened, just like there's no way I could've ever left her behind if the roles were reversed.
"That being said, your partner trespassed on our property and murdered several of my staff. One could argue that her wounds are well-earned."
The current time-stamp is right there in the bottom right corner of the screen. 11:12AM, 3/11/2014.
March 11. Fuck you, Universe. Fuck you and your twisted sense of humor.
It's been two days, then. Two days under heavy sedation, maybe even a medically-induced coma, since I don't remember any of it. That probably means an actual doctor treating me. A nurse moving me, cleaning me up. I might throw up in my mouth thinking about it. How much do you have to pay someone to do these things outside a hospital?
"You people are sick." I want to put fire in my voice, but it comes out smothered-wet. "How can you do this to anyone?"
"If you are referring to your current state, it was necessary. We kept you alive, Miss Caulfield. The swelling in your brain would have caused severe damage without medication."
"Swelling?"
"From your vision. Your gift is not without drawbacks. You must have understood by now that we have led you down this particular path, which led to a series of visions you were not yet prepared to withstand. Without the treatment we administered, you'd have never regained consciousness."
"Am I supposed to be thankful? You made me trigger that vision!"
"No. Not in the sense that you mean. We simply knew when and where it would happen. Dianne does love to indulge in theatrics, however. I'm of more...pragmatic inclinations."
Try as I might to focus, his voice keeps fading in and out of my awareness. Some of the words become garbled, others I understand but can't quite process like I would in a normal conversation.
Two days...
"Look, I don't care. Do you have any idea what I saw? We're all going to die if we stay in Arcadia Bay."
"We are safe here. The upcoming storm won't be as severe as you think. The high-speed hail will claim some casualties and a lot of property damage, but the twister will die out soon after it swallows the lighthouse rift. This is why we built storm shelters, we are prepared. Most of the townies are flocking to them or evacuating."
The fuck is he talking about?
I'm forcing my thoughts to bump into each other, parsing his words with care. This means...they don't know what I saw. They can't see into my visions.
How can I work that into leverage?
I've no idea. I don't think I can. I'd rather try to save people's lives.
"It's not just a tornado this time. Arcadia Bay is about to drown in a tidal wave. You need to get everyone out, there might not be any time left."
For a moment there is only silence.
"You are not lying," he finally says. It's a statement, there is no question at all in his tone.
"No shit. I guess you sick fucks don't know everything after all."
"Tell me exactly what you saw."
I press my lips together. Yeah, saving people is important, sure. But...
"I want to talk to Chloe, first. I need to know that she's safe."
I hear a subdued sigh at the other end of the line. "You don't understand your situation, Miss Caulfield. Your life is no longer your own, you won't ever talk to her again. Her well-being, however, is entirely in your hands."
He says it like it's an immutable fact, a universal truth. You won't ever talk to her again. The words plunge deep into my lungs. He might as well have stabbed me in the chest.
I know that this is where I'm supposed to be bold. It's where I find something clever and brave to say, and give him the finger, and throw him off-balance.
You won't ever talk to her again.
The idea is like sinking in a pit. I can't think of a different combination of words that would more thoroughly shake me. This is yet another advantage they have over me, isn't it? This man knows exactly what I want and how to exploit it, while I still have no idea what motivates them.
I swallow, shake my head. "You're wrong. You can't keep us apart. Nothing can."
I want it to be a defiant stance. It comes off as an attempt to convince myself. It's not over, Max. Grit your teeth and fight.
"Your vision, Miss Caulfield. Tell me what you saw."
"Let me see her or go fuck yourself."
"I was already planning to show you her living space, but it will happen after you tell me what I want to know. It's in your best interest to cooperate with me, Miss Caulfield. We will resort to more invasive methods, otherwise."
"Look, I told you. We watched a huge tsunami destroy Arcadia Bay in the middle of the night. There was nothing left, even your precious mansion was made splinters and washed away. I don't know if five days is always the rule, but that would give you just three to evacuate."
"We? Who was with you?"
"I was with Chloe. I will be with Chloe. I don't give a shit what you say, you can't keep us apart."
There is a brief pause.
"I will look into this."
"You do that, but you might want to hurry."
"Miss Derrick, is the connection ready?"
If there is a response, I don't get to hear it.
The cursor moves on the screen again, selecting Live feed from one of the menus. It scrolls through quite a few serial numbers until settling on one. The video pops up shortly after.
Chloe is lying on a bed, asleep on top of the covers in black T-shirt and shorts. Her thigh is cleanly bandaged, ankle resting on a sling that keeps the leg elevated. There are scratch marks on her face, and her hair is a complete mess.
"Chloe..."
"She's sedated at the moment," he volunteers, "for her own safety, as well as the sanity of my employees."
The room looks far better furnished than mine, more a bedroom than a cell. Probably because she can't use time-travel tricks to make a book or a chair leg into a deadly weapon.
There's a deep ache in my throat. The tears never really stopped flowing. I wanted to see her pacing, or fuming, or fighting restraints, or screaming curses at whoever might hear. To see her beaten like this, defeated, fully at their mercy...
"You won't keep us apart. You can't."
"Like I said, your freedom has been an illusion thus far, Miss Caulfield. This is the fate we designed for you, and now we'll eventually use your powers whether you want it or not. You had already lost before your adventure even started."
"That's bullshit, no-one could have that kind of power over everything."
"Your defiance is no surprise. It'll be tiresome to get past it, and that's why I want to make a deal with you. Give us your full cooperation from the start, and your partner will not be harmed at any point. I promise you she'll walk free in the end."
I need a moment to process what he's saying. "You expect me to believe that?"
"I'm always true to my word. Miss Caulfield, look at your current state. We can take anything we want from you, do you think I need to make you this offer? It's a courtesy. A kindness, and a matter of good taste and convenience. We will derive no pleasure from causing pain to either of you." A brief pause. "I won't, in any case."
I would laugh if it didn't feel so incongruous right now. "And you'd let her go? Just like that. Do you really think she could ever move on? She'll be going after you for the rest of her days."
"She'll be inconsequential by then. You were no match for us while working as a team, what harm can she possibly do on her own? She will only be a nuisance to be swatted down from time to time. I'm willing to bear the aggravation, if it means skipping a large portion of the unsavory business. Your life is forfeit one way or another, you might as well freely give it up for her sake."
It's so chilling, the matter-of-fact way he talks about it. The chance that he might be wrong simply does not exist. I don't believe it's true—can't believe it's true—but I do believe in the sincerity of his conviction.
"What are you even asking of me? What do you want from me? Why are you doing all this?"
"Ultimately? Complete domination of the pantheon, of course. This war has spanned hundreds of years, and we plan to put an end to it. As far as your role is concerned, you'll facilitate our supremacy over the other Guardian covenants. Bypassing all the safeguards in place is a matter of timing, if you'll pardon the indulgence."
"What...why, uh—" Blink. Blink some more. "All I had to do was ask?"
"What you know and don't know no longer matters, Miss Caulfield. Your path is now set with no chance of deviation."
"And when you win...then what? New world order? Destroy civilization? Retire to the Bahamas?"
"It will be quite literally anything we please. We have...plans."
Yeah, the way he says it?
It's not world peace and free universal healthcare.
"And if I work with you...what will happen to me?"
As I say the words, Chloe's voice is so clear in my mind that she might as well be standing next to me. That is not an option. Never. I would rather be dead.
"The same thing that will happen if you don't cooperate," he answers. "You will serve us until we can no longer use you, and then you will die. I don't believe you understand yet the choice I'm giving you, Miss Caulfield. You are already ours. You will suffer, regardless of what you choose. The question is exactly how much pain we will have to inflict before it's over. The question is whether you want your partner to suffer with you, if you resist, or remain relatively unscathed, if you submit. Unlike so many other choices that have come before it, this one is entirely up to you."
The sensation is all too familiar. My lungs shriveling inside my chest. Despair clogging my throat. The room shrinking all around me like I'm trying to hide somewhere inside my mind. It's that sinking feeling again, held tight to a chair, that there is no way out at all. That no matter what I do or say, I'm still utterly powerless to stop what's going to happen.
This is the point where I turned to pleading, once. Where hopelessness took me, right before David showed up. And I know, I know because I saw exactly what it takes to get here, that no-one is going to bust through the door this time.
"It's not a choice," I mutter. "You already know what I'm going to say. Don't you?"
"No. Details may change, and we often operate with probabilities. Your suffering truly doesn't need to be as dire."
No, it really isn't a choice, because I am not falling to despair.
I had a vision. In that vision I'm free. Details may change, but all my visions have come true, one way or another.
I had dreams, flashes of a different reality. Blood runs through those images, on Chloe's flesh, on an empty hallway where I try to hold on to my sanity.
I have memories scrawled on a journal. I escaped, once. It might have been by design, or it might be a hint of a weakness in the system. Thirteen days. I have to find out.
I have a guardian spirit of my own. It chose me, chose us—for what, for this? I can't accept that. There is a plan, there has to be. I believe now. I have faith.
I have a girlfriend, a future wife, the closest there could be in this world to a fated soulmate. She'd rather die than give these people even one inch. At one point I might have made this deal, because keeping her safe would trump anything else—but I know better, now. The life she'd have if I surrender isn't a life at all. She would not have it, and I will not settle for it.
I just need to resist. I need to hold on. It's not over until I'm dead.
I swallow hard and stare into the mirror.
"Do your worst, motherfucker."
The silence that comes after is frost upon my skin. It clings in fumes to the air and condensates on the mirrored wall. This is what Nathan must have felt every day of his life, this cold clump of dread borne of his father's intense disappointment.
There is a rustle of clothes on the other side of the line, the sound of a chair scraping on the floor.
"I will, Maxine. We'll have to do something about your language, as well." He sighs audibly. "Take her away and get started. You know what to do."
"What—"
The question hitches in my throat as a presence looms behind me, out of nowhere. An arm cradles my head and keeps it in place, and there's a sharp sting to my neck. It will always baffle me, how quickly the drug works to muddle my senses.
Before I lose consciousness, a voice straight from my nightmares mutters in my ear.
"I can't explain how long I've been looking forward to this, Max."
Mark Jefferson's hands hold me down to the chair. He makes sure I don't struggle.
Black and white scenery. Harsh lights, storage boxes. Mark Jefferson, sitting back on the couch in front of me.
"I guess I did give you too much, it's taking you so long to come back. I'm still getting used to the new cocktail. But better safe than sorry, don't you think? We don't want you waking up during transit."
He's cheerful. Nearly laughing.
"Nhh..."
"There you are. Take your time, I think you know by now that I'm a patient man. It's not like I'm in a hurry, anyway. We're going to be here a while. A very long time."
The chill in the room has every inch of my skin roused with goose bumps. I try to speak, but my mouth is so clammy I can barely move my tongue. I'm so out of it right now that I probably couldn't string two words together if I tried.
"Can I offer you some water? You must be thirsty."
Without waiting for an answer he pours the contents of the nearby pitcher into a plastic cup and comes over. Delicately he holds my head up at the chin. "Careful now, don't choke."
Despite the thirst, I don't want anything from this man...but I can't even pull back at his touch. I try to swallow as best I can until a coughing fit makes me spurt half of it back out, spraying it all over him and his expensive suit.
He recoils on reflex. The cup drops and spills all over the tile.
I expect him to blow up, the way he did in the Dark Room. The thin veneer of kindness will dissolve to reveal the fucked up monster beneath. Within the mist of my mind I brace for impact.
Instead, he clicks his tongue and looks at his wet sleeves with disappointment.
"Tch. That was my bad. I gave you too much, too fast." He wipes his hands on his pants. "That's why we have to pace ourselves. Let me dry you up."
I'm still coughing. I'm still trying to recoil from this apparition, this zombie of a man that was supposed to be dead and buried beneath ten tons of rubble.
He's smiling as he tenderly dabs my jaw and chin with his napkin. "Oh, I've missed you, Max. I'm being honest here, you were my favorite student. I wasn't fond of how you'd space out in class, but you had such talent." He chuckles to himself. "You have talent, obviously—you're a time traveler! You don't see that every day. No wonder I couldn't get to you before the police showed up. But that's okay, right, Max? I did get to you in a different timeline. I've seen the sketches of my work. I'm glad I was able to capture you the way I always envisioned."
Get your fingers closer to my mouth, asshole. You'll fucking lose them.
"You've kept me with you all this time, haven't you? I'm part of you, now. I couldn't ask for higher praise."
Push the words out. Spit them at his smug face.
"Get off me...you insufferable...dipshit..."
He laughs at it. There's something askew about the laugh, too high-pitched, too damn amused.
"You're something else, Max. I'm curious how long you'll be able to keep that attitude. I mean, we're not taking pictures, here—or, well, that's not the purpose of our little playdate. I think I'll still take some photos of you, after I...pose you."
He reaches for the rolling cart behind me. Slowly his tools come into view, each one neatly laid out in a perfectly spaced pattern. Syringes. Knives, of several shapes and sizes. Pincers, clamps. Bottles and containers holding who-knows-what. A cattle prod.
Dread surges in jittering tides through my gut, and it's all I can do to keep it there, under control. Feed the anger instead. Find strength in the loathing.
"The need to keep my subjects oblivious meant always holding back. There is so much more to capture, heights of expression that no-one out there dares to reach for. Today we'll explore them together. It will be...an experience."
"Is this...what you've become? A washed up loser...torturing—"
His backhand flashes across my face, no windup, no warning. It's not a hard blow, more like a chastising smack to turn my head and shut me up.
"Torture, how dare you. So crude and lowbrow. This is art. This is portraiture." He lovingly holds up my chin like he didn't just slap me. "Well, I suppose it will be torture for you. Forgive me, Max. You do have a point. Let's get this out of the way, alright?"
His gloved hand travels to my back and undoes the ties to my gown. Without hesitation he pulls on it until my chest and shoulders are exposed, and the thing is so damn flimsy that it rips off at the sleeves. He discards it to one side. There is nothing, nothing between him and me.
My nails dig into the armrests to a painful degree. Stop. Shaking. Survive. All I need to do is survive. None of this will be real.
"I'm a bit disappointed you haven't even asked how I've been. Where are your manners, Max?" He casually picks up one of the knives. It's a small, razor-sharp scalpel. "I guess we never got close on that level. We will, now. This will be beautiful. Intimate. We're going to achieve purity together, art in its most distilled form. I hope you're ready."
He pushes me at the collarbone, tilting me back. In his other hand, the blade draws near my chest. There's feverish intent in his eyes, features overcome with zeal, as if enraptured at the prospect of watching me bleed.
Fuck. Fuck, this is happening. Who the hell am I kidding? I'm not a trained spy, I'm not a superhero. I can't handle actual torture. Rewind, rewind, go back as far as I can, clear my head, find a way to break free.
Before I even try, the blade starts to shake, and Jefferson breaks into giggles.
"Wow, I can't believe you're falling for this. How pretentious did the man get?"
"Wh...what?"
He lets go and leans back. "I thought I was cranking up the ham to the max, but I guess I was kind of on target?"
I'm looking at him, blinking laboriously. "What?"
"You poor thing. I'm messing with you. Let the spell be undone."
Before my eyes the Dark Room scene dissolves away into a different space. The couch pops out of existence and becomes a simple chair, the rest of the props and dressing simply disappear into drab gray walls. In the blink of an eye Mark Jefferson becomes a tall, flaxen girl, scrawny, bright-eyed.
"Surprise!"
Her smile is wide and toothy. I'd even call it friendly, if I weren't tied up and nude. I can't help but notice that the tray full of terrifying tools is still there, as is the scalpel in her hand.
"You know," she keeps going, "after watching all the surveillance footage of that man, I still can't believe the steaming pile of self-important wank he kept spewing. You and I know the truth, right? He simply was a plain ol' sick pervert. The whole 'capture the loss of innocence' thing was just an excuse to get his power fantasy boner."
I can feel my thoughts finally coming out of torpor. As she speaks, what just happened clicks in my head at last. "You're Samantha. Mirage." I heave a deep breath. "I get it."
"Yay, you get it!"
It wasn't just the visuals that changed. The room is warmer now. The smell is...subtly different.
"Is this just fun for you? That entire thing...it was a major dick move, you know?"
"Fun? Well, yeah, I guess. But messing with your head is what we're here for, dummy! It's all part of the experience."
"So he's dead? He's definitely dead?"
"Of course he's dead. Didn't happen at the police station, though. We took him before that, paid off a few people to look the other way. I got to spend a lot of time with him, and so did Auntie Dee." She considers the scalpel still in her hand in the most nonchalant manner. "It was fun. Totally unrelated word of advice: she's super nice most of the time, but don't get on Auntie's bad side. She doesn't do forgiveness."
I'm staring at her knife-wielding hand. She's idly playing with the thing like it's a pencil and she's bored in class.
"So...asking you to free me and join me would be a waste of time, right?"
She gives me a pained half-smile. It actually seems sincere. "Yeah. Pretty much. I'd give you the whole 'it's not personal' thing, but I don't even get why they always say that. I mean, what, you're gonna sit there screaming, but at least you're relieved I don't actually hate you? Like, just imagine, we could've been friends in a different reality! Big whoop-dee-doo, am I right?"
"We could've been friends, though. All I ever wanted was to—"
"Okay, okay, let me stop you right there. I will cut you, Maxine. We kinda have to do it? Or, I don't know, if I don't do it, then a different path happens. She's coming over to explain soon, I've been living with this for a few years now and I still don't fully understand it."
"You don't have to, no-one has to do this—"
"Come on, hey, I already told you it's pointless to try and talk me out of it. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret right now: I'm kind of fucked up in the head. I'm aware of it, you know? I own it. Kinda like Dexter? Have you ever watched Dexter?"
"I...no, but...I know what it's about."
"It was eye-opening. It's not that I absolutely have to kill, it's not that kind of crazy, but—the whole 'empathy' thing? I have a real hard time with that. Anyway, how about Fight Club? Did you ever watch Fight Club? I always wondered if chemical burns were really that painful. It turns out that they are! Our mutual friend Mark found out pretty thoroughly. You'll see, we're going to go full reenactment, here. Hope you got a happy place ready."
"Is this...are you being serious right now, or just fucking with me? You're so cheerful, I honestly can't tell."
"Huh. Well, I'm no expert, like I said, but I think you can tell. Otherwise your voice wouldn't shake so much. How about a superhero scar? You fancy yourself a superhero, right? I can give you one that goes across your brow and the nose bridge, like this." She traces her finger to demonstrate, the scalpel's blade barely an inch from my eyeball. "Or vertically down your eyebrow and across the eye, like a badass pirate. Don't worry, I'll only give you cool ones where people can see. Disfiguring such a pretty face would be gross. How'd you feel about—"
There's a brief clatter at the door, and then it swings open. After a second of hesitation, a soft-spoken female voice comes through. "Samantha, please, cover her up."
"Oh!" She hastily gathers the ripped gown and drapes it over my body, tucks it under my arms. It feels more than a little ridiculous. "There. Done."
The woman I know to be Dianne Prescott walks in with measured steps and softly closes the door behind her. She's older than in the painting, much more...homely. Her dark hair is done up in a frumpy bun, paint daubs stain her simple blouse and skirt and several parts of her anatomy. She has the look of someone that's made it a habit to spend days on-end immersed in her art and last night was no different.
Eyeing me with open curiosity, she approaches Samantha and lays a hand on her shoulder. "What is she seeing right now?"
"Nothing, auntie. Raw input."
Her lips press together. "We're not in private, dear. Address me properly."
Samantha's cheeks turn red. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—I mean...I apologize, mistress."
"It's okay, don't worry about it." She pats her shoulder, then takes a step closer to me. "Hello, Maxine. Um, Max. You prefer Max."
She says it like she once knew, but forgot. I feel the impulse to spit in her general direction. I'm getting sick of people starting conversations with me as if I'm not tied to a fucking chair.
"Don't do it," she tells me. "I'll know you did it, even if you rewind it away."
I blink at her. "Do what?"
"What you have a point-three-five probability of doing. Which is spitting at me. I'm going to sit down, I hope you don't mind." Without waiting for an answer she plonks down on the chair as if she walked here all the way from Olympia. "I'm finely tuned to this node in the weave," she continues. "It takes a lot out of me, the deeper I go into detail. This isn't momentous, you see? It isn't an inflection point, it's insignificant, so focusing on it is like catching a specific pebble tumbling on a riverbed. I might take a break down the line, just letting you know." She sniffs softly, amused at her own words. "Down the line. Get it?"
Behind her, Samantha rolls her eyes and smiles, like Mrs. Prescott just made a lame yet endearing joke.
A dozen different responses come to mind. Aggressive rebuke. Stoic stare. Conversational questions. Groveling, pleading, weeping, thrashing, spitting anyway, yelling until my lungs give out. It's a disheartening thought to realize I'll probably try them all and none of it will work.
My chest seems to deflate under her calm scrutiny. I let my head hang, and I'm suddenly...done. Done with everything. Done with their bullshit.
"You're all going to drown. I saw it. Do whatever you want to me, I don't even care why you're doing it. I'll eventually be free, and you'll all die in the end."
"Jeez," Samantha quips.
"That's right, the vision you had, I'm glad you brought it up. Are you sure that's what you saw? I just don't see it happening, dear."
"That's your problem, isn't it?"
"Well, no, you don't understand. I meant it in an official capacity, as the Fateweaver. You're an intelligent young lady, you've put it together by now, right? I can see everything that might happen, if I focus hard enough. Major paths are plain to see, detailed predictions take a lot of work and are often rife with probability. But something so major as that? It would stand out. I'm telling you right now: there is no reality in which that happens. It simply doesn't exist. Sean tells me you're not lying, so either you don't know what you truly saw, or your gift sometimes works with symbolism instead of the literal future."
"Or maybe your gift is wrong, did you ever consider that? Are you willing to take the chance?"
"My gift? What does that have to do with..." Dianne Prescott trails off and goes quiet. Her inquisitive gaze drops to a vacant stare.
Samantha steps a bit closer and subtly nudges her mistress' shoulder. The forty-something-year-old woman startles and looks around. "Where was I?"
"She doesn't know the difference between an innate gift and the spirit bond, mistress."
"Oh. Right." She frowns. Her eyes focus once more as she looks at me. "Well, you see, your visions, your talent with photography...those are your gifts. Your gifts. They don't come from Bluewing's bond. I don't blame you for not working this out on your own, everything manifested so close together for you."
Her patient, kindly tone, her non-threatening outfit, her weird absent-mindedness...none of it is like I expected. It does more to keep me on edge than a stereotypical villain would. Maybe that's the whole point.
"Why are you even explaining things to me? Are you just...gloating? Is that what you're doing here?"
She purses her lips and regards me with...what, contrition? Pity? She actually looks away and sighs, as if self-conscious. "No, I'm here for a good reason, we'll get to it. But this part, right now? It's guilt, I guess. I'm aware you and your friend don't deserve what's happening to you. I can at least answer some of your long-standing questions before it's all over. I've been painting you for so long, I feel like we're close friends, in a way. Though maybe it's more like old rivals."
I can't help but stare in dismay. "If you really felt guilty, you wouldn't be doing this to us. It's not too late, you can still let us go. I swear we'll never see each other again."
"That's not a very good argument, dear. Just think, you caused the death of over two hundred people and brought misery to as many more. You feel guilty about it, don't you? And yet you know in your heart that it was worth it. Well, that's what's happening here, it's the same for us. You simply happen to be on the 'cost' side of the scales this time. It's not personal."
Samantha gives a sudden snort, then puts her hands over her mouth to hold back the rest.
"Did I make a joke, Sam? Or do you have something to add?"
"N-no, no. I'm sorry, mistress."
"Hm. As I was saying—"
"I did what I did for love. Can you say the same?"
Dianne raises her brow at me and laughs in breaths. "Somehow you make it sound so noble. How is your love anything but a selfish and destructive parasite? Now more than ever, you would trade thousands of lives to have her back, wouldn't you? There is nothing you wouldn't do, no matter how ruthless it may be. Do you deny that?"
I have to stop glaring and look away. There are things I wouldn't do, but they're so deep into "complete monster" territory that I'd only be helping her argument by bringing them up.
"You can't throw that in my face," I tell her instead. "I wouldn't have to make these terrible choices if you'd left us alone to begin with."
"Oh, I'm not blaming you, far from it. I'm only pointing out that your moral high ground is shaky at best, that's all. You actually have us beat on body count...though I guess you could argue that we teamed up for this whole Arcadia Bay disaster." She shakes her head as if dismayed at a sudden thought. "Let me tell you, working with you has been such a challenge, with all the new layers you keep chucking onto the weave. It isn't just what happens and what might happen; I had to figure out what indeed happens but gets undone, as well as the explosion of plausible impossibilities that your abilities allow. Plotting a course that would make you this powerful this fast was...migraine-inducing, to say the least. I blame you for my gradual loss of sanity, young lady." She wags a finger at me with mock severity.
"Take this conversation, for example. You could break free by toppling the chair and then rewinding it back upright, and then you'd kill us all—so we had to bolt the chair to the ground. You could jiggle the restraints until you could rewind out of them, so we had to tighten them so painfully like that." She's leaning forward, enthusiastically gesturing with her hands as she gets more and more into the matter. "See the cup of water? There's a reason it's not made of glass. After enough retreads you'd have become desperate enough to shatter it with your teeth, and then you'd have used the blood to lubricate your hand enough for it to pass through, broken bones and all. And then we all die, of course." She throws her hands up in a helpless gesture. "You see what I'm saying? You're so exhausting to control. That's why we have to do things this way. There is no reality in which you don't turn against us at some point if we give you the smallest bit of leeway, even when you work for us willingly. So...the only way we can use you is by destroying your will until not a hint of rebellion remains."
I keep quiet for a moment, thoughts churning through everything she's saying. I'm still at the blood and broken bones part. Would I even consider something so extreme, if I were desperate enough?
Yes. Yes, I would.
And...she knows it. She already knows what I'll do and say before it even happens.
How could I ever outplay a prescient being?
"You're still human," I tell her. "You still make mistakes."
"No, I don't. Or rather, I can plan around them, because they are foreseeable. Do you understand that? This is what I'm here to explain, actually. We are in complete control of what happens. I'm being literal, here: there is no possibility of escape for you. Everything is covered, from system malfunctions, to treachery, to Raymond Geller and David Madsen. None of it will save you, there is no photo to escape through, and the sooner we can get that in your head, the easier this will be for everyone."
I can feel my jaws clench. "Really? Were you in complete control too when Nathan turned out to be a fucking nutjob?"
Immediately she stands and takes two long steps toward me, then stops within striking distance. Her hand, clamped into a fist, slowly relaxes. For a few seconds she's staring through me, every hint of cordiality gone from her eyes.
"There is a timeline," she starts, voice creaking and grave, "in which I slap you so hard right now that your teeth shred the inside of your cheek. Thinking yourself so clever, you freeze yourself in the time-lapse and try to break free the way I described a moment ago. And after a lot of pain, you realize that you can't get out. You realize that you only tried it because I said it would work. You realize you don't need a shard of glass or a slap, you can simply work enough spit, or bite yourself, if you are determined enough. But it doesn't work, you can't get your hand through."
She grabs my chin, painfully squeezing my mouth between ironclad fingers. Trying to pull away only makes her grip harder, forcing me to look up at her. "Do you believe for even a second that I didn't want you to find that journal? That I didn't have you in mind when I wrote it? Do you think even one word escapes my mouth that isn't designed to manipulate you in some way? You don't get it yet. You walk up and down these threads, and choose this, choose that, trying to pick the best outcome—oblivious to the fact that I'm the one who built the web. Whichever path you tread, I'm the one that crafted it for you."
She doesn't let go as much as she throws my face to one side in a gesture of disdain. She sags slightly, and the next moment Samantha is next to her, steadying hand holding sure to her arm. The girl tries to pull her mistress back to the seat, but Dianne shrugs her off, leaning closer instead.
"I sacrificed my son to this cause. Don't presume there's a line I won't cross. We will break you, and then I'll make you into my puppet until the day you die. You'll be nothing but a husk."
"Whatever you say." I'm not even looking at her anymore. "Soon none of this will exist. You'll be a fresh corpse floating in the flood."
She rests her hands on my wrists, and I try not to squirm under the pressure. "I know how I'll die," she rasps. "I've known since I was thirteen years old. It won't be in a flood, and it won't be by your hand."
"I don't care. I'll never do what you want, you can't make me. Whatever it is, when the time comes I'll find a way to screw it up and fuck you over, even if it kills me. I swear it."
Her nails painfully dig into my skin. Our eyes lock in a glare. "That," she says, "is the actual reason I'm here. To show you my gift."
We keep looking at each other, and soon I feel this...pressure, inside my head. A pinpoint of discomfort that grows larger, like a manual drill slowly boring a hole, a bug biting its way in.
"What...what are you doing?"
The pinpoint is now a crack, a jagged line of something, prying at the seams, pushing it agape. Tendrils like spider legs are shoving their way through. It's...a presence, making its way into my thoughts.
It's this woman. She's spreading into my thoughts.
In a panic I try to shut her out, like pushing aside a bad memory. Her hand clamps on my throat, she leans in close enough for me to feel her ragged breath on my lips. The presence sprouts a hundred tendrils that skitter through my mind, enveloping my every thought in a poisonous web. My body tightens, coils up, seizes beyond my reach.
She then raises her right hand. Though mine is restrained in place, I feel the muscles pulling in a way that would mimic her motion, obeying commands that are not my own.
The rewind that follows is brief, faltering, close to imperceptible. I'm still the source, but I don't control it. My breath is like shallow fumes as I helplessly stare into Dianne Prescott's eyes, because there's no doubt in my mind that she just traveled back in time with me.
With a groan she nearly collapses against me, and my thoughts break free all at once. She's shaking, barely keeping herself upright even if most of her weight rests on my limbs. A trail of blood drips down her nose, past her chin. Droplets land on the tile with an audible spatter before Samantha is pulling her back, pressing a kerchief to Dianne's nostrils.
"Mistress..."
"I'm fine," she rasps, taking the napkin from her, folding it over, pressing it again. "Thank you, dear. I'm fine."
"That was...amazing."
"Don't get attached to the memory. You won't keep it." She walks over to the chair, sits once more. All she does is wipe and look at me. Constantly, just looking at me.
I can't speak. No words will come, no thought is big enough to give shape to this monstrous thing clutching my insides right now. Like dread, like a panic attack, like repugnance, powerlessness, sickness. She was...inside me. She shoved aside who I am and took over everything.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"Do you see now?" She's watching my every twitch and quiver. "Do you understand, now?"
I...do. I understand, now.
"You're monsters," I mutter. "I'm alone and surrounded by monsters."
"Yes, yes, fine." She dismisses it with a wave of her hand. "That's not what I meant. I need you to see the reason for all the pain." She pauses, catches her breath. "I want you to realize there's no light at the end of your tunnel."
She's doing a pretty fucking great job of it.
She also seems ready to pass out.
What Dianne Prescott just did took a lot of effort.
"As long as I resist...you can't stay in control. Not for long."
"Yes, that's right. And that is why we're going to crush your will until there's nothing left."
She keeps saying these things that freeze the blood in my veins, and it's no wonder that she does. That's the whole purpose, here.
I need to snap out of it. This is exactly what she wants, for me to wallow in despair, in hopelessness. I can't let that happen, I have to hold on until there's some way to—
But if me resisting more is the end result of her actions, doesn't that mean that's what she wants me to do? Doesn't she already know—
No, she's trying so hard to convince me there's no way out. Maybe that's because she doesn't want me to try. If I rewind through all this, if I explore every possibility—
But she told Samantha not to get attached to the memory. Which means she already knows I'll rewind, which means she already planned—
So if I don't rewind, I'll be proving her wrong, it'll be unpredictable—
Unless that's what she wants me to think so I won't even try, because there's something—
But if she knows how I'll react, then that means what they really want—
Either way she already knows—
Stop, stop, STOP.
While I'm running circles in my head Dianne gets up, or tries to. Her knees buckle, and she'd have collapsed if Samantha hadn't been there to catch her and lend a shoulder. The woman looks spent, ashen.
"Thank you, Sam." Arm around her waist, she pulls the girl close. There seems to be honest affection in the gesture, but who the fuck can tell at this point. She then meets my eyes and gives me a crooked smile. "You have a thick skull, Max Caulfield. I wish we could have been allies."
She lets Samantha help her to the door and uses a keycard to get it open. Her steps are somewhat steady by the time her hand rests on the door latch.
Samantha clings to her arm, obviously reticent to let go. "Will you be okay?"
"Of course, dear." Dianne looks at me. The warmth in her eyes vanishes like snuffed candlelight. "Make sure she screams, Sam. Have her say she's sorry before you're done."
"Alright."
Mrs. Prescott steps out, the door closes. The fucked up instructions are bad enough, but what sends the actual chill down my spine is the utter lack of hesitation in Samantha's earnest response.
She spins on her heel and comes over. There's disapproval in her features.
"You know, for being completely helpless, you sure have a big mouth. Though I guess I'd be like that too, if I knew I could take it back whenever it goes wrong." She's standing over her knives, considering her options like she's browsing produce at the market.
"Is that what she did to you? Crush your will and take over?"
"Pff, it doesn't work like that. And she didn't have to, anyway. The Prescotts rescued me. I'd rather stab myself than betray them, so just save your breath."
"She's wrong, Samantha. We're all going to die, we have to get out of Arcadia Bay..."
"You don't listen, do you? I think that's your main problem. I mean, I told you not to get on her bad side. Not that you had a choice or anything, but still. She even warned you she was deeply focused on this moment, but you kept rising to the bait over and over. It was kinda sad to watch. You could've tried harder."
"What are you talking about?"
"Um, what just happened? The back and forth, the defiance, the anger...it's all the outcomes she wanted, it's what worked best. And now I guess you'll turn back time and go down the next path she laid out for you." She settles on the scalpel she was playing with earlier. Samantha stands over me, lips pursed like she's about to discipline an unruly pet. "Let's start small and work our way up, okay? The apology's gotta be heartfelt."
"Samantha, please..."
"Stop asking me to disobey her, it's getting annoying. Now, how about that badass scar? I think I'll go for both. An inverted V, like this"—she traces it—"Make sure not to move much, you'll ruin it."
"No, please, wait. Wait!"
Her free hand painfully clamps on my hair, holding my head still. "There's no time like the present."
I watch the blade approach like in slow motion, its point blurring as it gets too close to follow. My arms are painfully tense against the restraints, desperate to grab at her hand, make it stop. I can't do anything, I can't break free. This is actually happening.
I rewound. Of course I did. As far back as I could, tried and tried and tried to get past the blackout, to no avail. Go through the scene dozens of times, different words, silence, more anger, no anger, attempts at logic, negotiation, pleading, praying, pushing, pulling, violent thrashing. I stopped short of breaking bones, I exhausted every option I could think of.
Every time, it's like she knew.
She always knew.
Now the blade is frozen an inch from my skin. Every path leads here. Thoughts keep spinning their wheels my mind, each more desperate than the last. Stay frozen until I can't do it anymore, until maybe I pass out. Delaying the inevitable, at best.
Trigger another vision, glean more information about the future I saw. How? No amount of squeezing my eyes shut and wishing really hard does the trick.
Bite at her fingers, pry them open, hold the knife between my teeth, stab her hand. I can't—in the standstill, moving someone's fingers is like pushing at mountains. But even if I succeeded, then what? I'd just piss her off. Even if I managed to seriously maim her somehow, I'm still trapped.
Hours of trying, and I have nothing. Nothing. Just dread in my chest and a blurry knife above my eyes. In shuddering breaths I surrender to the obvious truth before me.
The only way out...
Hold on. None of this will exist.
The only way out is through.
"I'm sorry..."
"Oh. What was that?"
"Please, no more...I'm sorry..."
I didn't last a day. I didn't last an hour.
I'm not a trained spy. I'm not a superhero.
"Please, forgive me..."
"Oh, wow. I'll be honest, that took longer than I thought it would. You're pretty tough." She finds a clean spot on her rag and wipes at my tears again. The clean spot comes back stained red. "What are you sorry for, though?"
"For...talking back. Nathan...everything..."
"Alright, good, that's pretty good." She reaches for something else on the tray. "Now we can move on to the advanced stuff. You're now Jack's deep sense of regret."
"...What?"
Samantha thoroughly licks her lips, then kisses my shoulder—the one as yet unmarred by "badass scars."
She holds up the lye container and looks at me with pure mischief in her eyes.
"This," she proudly declares, "is a chemical burn."
"But I thought—!"
The container tips and pours. The pain rolls in like a blizzard, burying my world in blinding white—
—blinding white—
light
burns the eye I can still open. It never goes off. Never blinks out.
Ennui is its own form of torture. The hours roll by without anything to focus on, nothing but the scalding agony beneath the bandages, between the stitches. Sleep is a dream I can't reach. The night terrors run rampant through waking hours, bleeding into the blinding light.
In the aftermath I could find myself again. I could find the fight again. If it were just me, if it were just my own flesh I could some day forget—
What they did to Chloe.
Oh, god, what they did to Chloe...
I should have surrendered. I should have never—
—brought back the storm—
the storm
rages outside. Even in this place, it reaches me in subtle quakes and peals of thunder. The mansion creaks above me, gusts of wind rumbling down to the foundations, blowing into the ventilation system that connects to my cell.
And yet there's no water.
I wished for it. Let the tide come in, erase the town and all the pain it's brought. Wash this torment away and let this fucked up mess drown into oblivion. It's down here, huddled in my blinding white corner, that I first wish for death before freedom.
Freedom. The ventilation system, surging in unison with the storm. Far too narrow for anyone to fit through, but I can see the fan's blades spinning, deep under layers of mesh and grill. If I could get to the blades, break one off, sharpen it somehow—
No, no, no, don't even think about it. Leave the option there, untouched, forgotten. If I think about it, she'll know. If it's a future that I consider, she'll know. She always knows. She's in my head, always in my head, I can't deal with this anymore, I can't—
—I can't—
"I can't do it..."
"No," he tells me, "You are simply not trying hard enough."
"I'm trying, I just can't! I'm about to pass out..."
"Exactly. Those are your two options: reach the mark, or lose consciousness. There is no middle ground, Miss Caulfield. We already know you're capable of this, it's only a matter of training you properly."
I keep my eyes down, fixed on my hands. If I look up, I'll see the stranger in the mirror. I don't ever want to see her again.
"I can't take it. Please, I can't take it anymore..."
"You're about to prove yourself wrong. Give back the phone. Let's do this again."
"Fuck you, I'm so fucking tired..."
"This is the last time I warn you. Do not use that language in my presence."
I thump the goddamn fucking mirror, nearly collapse against it. "Fuck you! You fucking—"
The jolt that comes through the bracelet turns my cries into sobs.
It's not even
that bad
sure, not even close to the cattle prod, but still—
"Give back the phone."
I can't keep a whimper from escaping my throat as I drop the damn thing in the slot, close the lid, push the button. It automatically makes it to the other side. It's all tamper-proof, despite my best, thoroughly punished efforts.
Keep your eyes on your hands. Don't look up, you'll see that poor wretch in the mirror again.
The damn thing comes back shortly after. I look at the timer.
Counting down to thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of walking through a perfect standstill. So far beyond my reach at this point that there isn't even a reason to try.
"Start exactly at thirty. There will be dire consequences if you stop before the clock runs out."
There are a number of ways to falsify the results. I don't dare anymore, it never flies. One, if there is even a hint of an unplanned anomaly, everything restarts from the top of the session. Two, he always knows when I'm lying. Always.
Pressure builds in my head before I even start. It throbs and thrums in concert with my heartbeat, my spine feels like every vertebrae has shrunk to half the size. There's no way I can push it for so long, there's no way.
The world seems to shrink in place as I watch the fractions count down. It's so surreal, to be trapped here, to go through this, for my life to have become this. It's what kidnap victims must feel, this pervading sense of disbelief in the back of their head, this permanent state of wrongness, of not belonging in the present moment.
As I force myself into a standstill yet again, it occurs to me that maybe I already fainted. Maybe this isn't happening. None of this is real. I'm not—
—real—
You're not real. You're dead.
"You keep me alive, Max. You keep me with you, together in our Dark Room. Does it seem normal to you, that it's become your refuge from the blinding light? We have so much in common now, we might as well be the same person."
Shut up. "Leave me alone," why won't you shut up?
"Tormented until the day we die. It was faster for me, though. I didn't last...oh, do you even know how long it's been?"
"Like it matters?"
"Not to you, maybe. But it does to them. And the longer your resist, the worse everything will become."
Resist.
I don't know what that means anymore. "I stopped resisting a long time ago."
"You might think so, but resilience goes much deeper than what you might say or feel in the moment. You still hope. You still hate. You still put yourself back together. Is spending time with me part of that? Does it help you, to remember me? To hold close the demons of your former life?"
"I'm not...it's not me." It's an illusion. "Get out of my head..."
"Come on, Max. We were getting along for a moment, there. Why push me away? I'm all you have left."
"Stop, stop fucking with my head, stop doing this to me!"
I throw myself at the apparition, at this zombie of a man. I knock him down, pin him to the ground, wail on him the way a desperate captive might do. And he's just laughing beneath me. The more I hit him, the more he laughs.
Some part of my brain knows that it's just me, thumping the floor with bloodstained fingers—
—bloodstained fingers—
a finger, a bloodstained finger,
lying by the door. I recognize the nail polish, now chipped and blemished. I know the ring still on it, a ring I gave her an eternity ago. I'm staring, motionless, too afraid to move, to pick it up. It will be real, then. It will stop being just a nightmare.
There's a note under it in Dianne's handwriting. I won't read it, I refuse to read—
You could have saved her.
What does it mean? Is she dead, now? That's what it means?
They killed her. God, they killed her. After all this, they just kill her, monsters, fucking monsters, my—
—Chloe
Oh, Chloe.
This isn't her. It can't be her.
"Max...please..."
You're not my Chloe.
"Do what they want."
I can't avert my eyes from the screen. How can this be the same Chloe I remember?
"Give them everything they want."
But I know. I've heard her voice collapse like this before.
"Please..."
I loved her so much.
"I just want to die."
What kind of world does this?
"Please let me die."
Who does this?
There.
There it is. Here I am, I found it. You can stop asking me now, Sam. This is it.
Rock bottom.
There could be a way out.
It occurred to me some time ago, then it vanished. I don't know why I didn't resolve to try until now. I must have felt like I still had something to lose. I must have felt like my mind was still my own.
Soon I won't even have the drive to think about it. When she took over again, a part of me was thankful. Escape, however brief. Not having to live in my own body, everything bound to end. Yeah, I can't lie to myself, I welcomed it.
It will be over soon. That's why I have to try. It's a crazy long shot, but I have to try.
I'm lying down, staring at the ceiling, gathering what's left of my wits—but don't plan it, don't you dare plan it. The moment I freeze time, I can't let go for an instant, not even at the very end. That's the key. They can't tell what I'm doing for as long as I hold it. If I let go, the new reality will take shape. She'll know in the past, and she'll prevent it from happening. That's how it works, right?
Hell if I know. Do it, do it now. Freeze.
Step one: get to the fan.
Within the standstill I fish the ring from under the mattress and push my legs to obey, get me to climb on top of the toilet. Now wedge the ring—
The ring they provided
—wedge it between the gaps in the grill, use it as the tiniest crowbar until they bend enough to give my fingers purchase. Ah, crap, don't drop it, no!
Oh, right. It doesn't matter. It simply enters regular timeflow, floating in mid-air.
Get in there, now. The whole hand. Pull, pull it apart, you can do it. I know it hurts, you can do it.
Suddenly it snaps in two, and I'm falling backwards in super slow-motion. Plenty of time to turn, get better footing. Jeez, already getting tired. No amount of compulsory training will ever make a perfect standstill easy.
I can take it. Come on, I can take it. I've held it for far longer than I could ever need for this. In a way I've been practicing for this, all along.
Next up, the mesh. Punching it out of the way is a non-starter in this state, but it's flimsy enough to push the corner into a slow-folding crumple. From there I can get enough purchase to pull the whole thing out of its socket. I get it out of the way, leave it floating next to my head.
Step two: get the fan itself. My hand almost reaches for one of the blades before I realize they're nowhere near stationary. Such a good way to lose my fingers—there's enough blood on them already, thanks. Instead I rip the mesh off its thin metal grid, loosely fold it up and wedge it between fan blades and frame. I take a shuddering hit on momentum transfer, the vibration pulling it off my grip—but of course it stays in place the moment I let go. Grabbing it again is the weirdest sensation, a phantom push that conveys more intention than actual force. Physics get real weird when trapped in the null time-lapse.
Using the mesh I shield my hand as I push against the fan blade, opposing its torque. Push, push, push until it moves. There, no more inertia. That should take care of it.
Goddamn, I need a break. Standing on my tip-toes as I stick my hand into the vent is awkward as f—uh, awkward as heck.
Alright. Let's see how sturdy this fan is. It looks doable. Tentatively I hold onto a blade, and it yields a little under my prodding. Bracing my knees against the wall, I start pulling as hard as I can. I'm panting by the time it's bent in any significant way. This is so pathetic, I bet Chloe could easily pull, twist and snap it right off.
Chloe...
Don't think about her, don't you dare lose focus. We can fix it. This is the way out, my last chance. Stay in this moment.
Pushing to bend it backwards is way harder. I don't really have anything to hold on to, so I'm constantly losing my footing. It takes precious minutes of plosive breaths and whimpering. And so the process continues, bending the thing back and forth, each time a bit easier as it starts to fray at the seam, yet becoming far harder from exertion as Max-time drags on.
I'm falling in slo-mo again once it finally snaps in my hand. It's a bizarrely joyous moment as I float to ground level. This is where I ended up. Of all the things I could've ever imagined bringing me joy...
Stop. Focus on the damn moment.
I inspect my precious new tool. The broken edge is about three inches of jagged metal, far from a clean split. It holds promise, though. It'll work, with the right treatment.
Step three: sharpen the blade. I look around the room. The toilet won't be any good. The grill I broke is too damn flimsy. The bed's legs are round and bolted to the floor, but their textured grain might do the trick with enough grinding. The door is mostly flat, but the one-way slot...it does jut out at an angle, and it's definitely sturdy. It might be my best option.
I drag my sorry carcass to it and test it out, pressing the broken metal to the protrusion and grinding away. Egh. It will straighten out the bumps, but the soft, round edge on the slot will dull the blade if I keep at it after that. Try the bed leg.
Yes. Yes, this'll work. I'll be here a while, but it'll work. The constant back-and-forth grind is a jarring sensation, the kind that makes your hand go numb. It's helped by the near-complete absence of sound as I do it—it's only a vibration, this faint shockwave that propagates through my body. Back and forth, get both sides, even it out. I can only give half-thoughts to the task by this point: staying frozen in time is quickly becoming an ordeal all of its own.
I hold it up to eye level for the hundredth time, turn it, thumb the lip. This is as good as it gets. It's not the razor's edge I was hoping for, but there's no doubt that it can ruin someone's day in a hurry without putting a lot of work into it.
Now, before anything else, cut this revolting IV cord. Don't let them pump you full of gunk if the standstill falters. God, who knows how much permanent damage all the drugs have done by now? They're part of the whole process, aren't they. Disorientation, fragmented thoughts, intermittent sleep. Not like it matters, whether this works or not. Either way I won't have much longer in this reality.
I go to my usual corner, lean against the wall. Step four.
Step four...
My hand shakes as I hold the thoroughly sharpened edge to my wrist.
Come on, Max. You got this far. There is no other option, there's nothing to lose. Go long and deep, you can do it, you've had far worse. The longer you wait, the harder it'll be to stay in control.
Down the lane. Come on. Don't chicken out.
One
decisive
slice—
Fffuck! Fuck—hold on, hold on to the standstill, don't you dare let go. Keep going, come on, this? This is barely a five. Try the cattle prod. That's a seven, or eight, depending where it hits. The sodium hydroxide sizzling on your flesh, that's a whole-hearted motherfucking ten. This is nothing.
Go longer, cut deeper, paint it red—like Chloe's lips, like Chloe's fingertips.
Hold on. Hold the fuck on. Blood, holy fuck, so much blood, it's getting on everything. Breathe, breathe, it's okay to cry, just breathe.
Concentrate.
Only one chance. One chance. Concentrate. Don't let go and don't stop watching for it. The rescue. Immortality.
The hard rewind.
One chance to seize it and throw it as far back as it will go, before this horrible nightmare started. Does this sound desperate? Hell fucking yes I'm desperate, but it might work, it might—and I know it's coming this time, I know what to look for. I just need to grab it and use it for myself. It'll work, it's either...this...
Or...
Stay awake! Don't you fucking dare pass out, it's not over yet. Didn't expect it to happen so fast, though. Not...really a surprise, I'm...so weak, lately...
Stay. Stay awake, stay here. It'll come. It has to come, and I have to be ready...I have to—
I have to...
One instant. Less than one instant.
Then, I was bleeding to death in my usual corner.
Now, I'm lying down, staring at the ceiling, gathering what's left of my wits.
I look around. The grill is back in place. The pooling red is nowhere to be seen.
"No..."
There was nothing to jump onto. Nothing to seize and control. It came from the outside and I couldn't even feel it, exactly the way my own powers appear to everyone else.
"No, no, no..."
There's no way out. There's no hope. I can't even put an end to my own life, because it really isn't my own anymore. All I can do is lie here until...
Hm.
Something's...different.
The vent's fan, eerily silent. Not a single light blinking on the embedded IV machine-thing. Motes of dust, perfectly suspended under the blinding white. And the shifting colors, bleeding into one another.
Time is still frozen? But I'm not...
I see it through the corner of my eye. The blue butterfly, fluttering down from the vent. That's right, it's supposed to show up every time this happens. I wish I could take credit for summoning it, but I didn't even consider this part.
I track its flight as it draws a wobbling circle down to eye level. Now it perches on the toilet seat, facing me straight-on. It lazily flaps its wings.
The anger boils deep down, then immediately fizzles. I don't have it in me anymore. My questions are barely a broken whisper.
"What do you want from me? Why did you give me these powers? What was I meant to do?"
It's watching me. It seems utterly unconcerned.
A new thought enters my mind, the last one in this interminable litany of misery. All this time, I've thought of this spirit as some sort of guardian, watching over me, giving me second chances.
Now it occurs to me...it might be one of them. It's not a guardian at all, but another guard to my prison.
A part of me knows it's stupid to feel so betrayed. It never promised me a damn thing. I made it all up in my head.
The tears come all the same.
"Are you, really? Are you with them?"
There's a...shimmer, in the air around me. At first I think it's the blur in my eyes, but as I stare at this creature the gleam takes more definite form, coalescing around a flickering shape. The shape of a person. The frame of a woman.
The butterfly takes flight, and with it the frame comes near. Within its twinkling confines the butterfly glows black and blue and gold, vibrant and lovely in the harsh white of the room. I can only stare, stunned and shallow-breathed, as it slowly, gently flutters to my forehead. The woman's hand, on my forehead.
Upon her touch my thoughts become undone in faltering gasps—it fills me, her touch, it pours into the yawning gaps and blackened chasms carved by tears and blood. It lifts my heart from stink and murk and shadow.
Her touch, it's love, pure, pristine. Love like a nose buried in my hair in the black of night. Like fingertips tracing the lines of my features beneath a knowing smile. Love like a hand that twines with my own and won't let go, like warm sighs and heaving sobs and tear-smothered laughter. Her love is the lost memory of everything I used to live for.
I stare at the woman's frame, this radiant spirit whose features take their shape from the sun itself.
"Chloe?"
In shimmering eddies her contours resolve into the Chloe I knew. Chloe, blue-haired and jacket-clad, with her worn beanie in eighty-degree weather and entirely pointless suspenders dangling at her sides. Chloe angry in a bathroom, Chloe weeping on a shallow grave.
"Your time to choose has come."
So much distance in her voice. So much sorrow in her eyes.
"I hope you're ready."
