Sean wakes up fully dressed. Jeans. Hoodie. Even his sneakers. A sense of dread settles in his chest, filling his lungs like river water.

Shit . . . it was a dream, he thinks. All of that stuff with art school and Dad being alive . . . it was all a horrible, cruel dream. He keeps his eyes closed, squeezing them more tightly shut. He's still on the run. He's still homeless. Everything is still awful and bearing down on him; he just escaped into a fantasy for a few hours.

Of course that good life, where he is successful and safe isn't real. Good things don't happen to Sean Diaz.

Finally, he opens his eyes, expecting to see the canvas of a tent or the underside of a bridge or something worse. But above him is a motel ceiling covered in brown water stains. He waves a hand in front of his face—a hand he can see with both of his eyes. He's lying on top of a bed that's still made. And beside him is his brother Daniel, who isn't a nine-year-old kid, dirty and skinny—he's a gangly and awkward sixteen-year-old.

Recollections from last night creep into Sean's sleepy brain. Sean finally came clean about the other life. About their powers. About changing the past. And after they came back from the desert, they lay beside each other on Sean's bed and talked like best friends until they fell asleep.

This isn't a cruel dream. It's real. It's actually real.

Daniel's mouth hangs open with a familiar line of drool hanging from the corner. Wearing a short sleeve t-shirt, he has wrapped his arms around himself. He kicked off his shoes and socks in the night, and they sit in a pile near his feet. He shivers. So Sean takes off his hoodie—the wolf SQUAD hoodie he found in his childhood bedroom, the one that traveled with him to the border—and drapes it over his little brother.

Outside, the sun climbs towards the middle of the sky. It was almost 4:00 AM when they got back from practicing Daniel's powers. This is the latest Sean has slept in since forever. It's not long until checkout. But Sean sits on the trunk of his father's car, the cool morning air raising goosebumps on his arms, and just feels . . .

. . . like a cell door has been open.

. . . like a wall has come down.

. . . like he is free.

But the parking lot is littered with scraps of cardboard, trash, branches, and tumbleweeds—signs that a terrible storm raged as Sean struggled to tell his brother the truth.

Not everything yesterday was good.

Max warned him that a storm threatened to destroy Arcadia Bay, take everything away unless she sacrificed the person who mattered the most to her. And last night, a storm was bearing down on Away, and Sean still chose Daniel over everything.

He takes out his phone and lingers on each digit he puts in of his mom's number. He hits Call. Her phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

That dread that filled his lungs comes back, an oh-shit feeling he thought he had become numb to. And with it is guilt. If something happened to Mom, it's his fault, like it is with Chris, Cassidy, and Finn. He was so fucking stupid for ever thinking something good could happen to him without a cost.

He's about to end the call when Mom picks up. "Hello?" she says.

"Hey!" Sean says. His skate shoes hit the asphalt of the parking lot. "It's Sean. I wanted to check on you after the storm."

"Oh, Sean, hey," she says. "Everything is fine. One of the windows of my trailer got busted out, and some of my late neighbor's art pieces got wrecked, but I'm fine. Everyone around me is fine."

"I'm sorry about the window," Sean says, his lungs dumping all of the dread. "But I'm glad you're okay. Look, I wanted to say I'm sorry for any trouble we caused you yesterday. Us showing up like that . . . I know it was jarring."

"Well, I have caused sixteen years of trouble for you, your brother, and your father. I'm sure me leaving was jarring, too."

"A little," Sean says, hoping his smile comes through the phone. A few yards away, a woman buckles her small daughter into a car seat. She kisses the little girl on the forehead. It's tender and motherly. "I meant what I said yesterday, about it being cool if you wanted to be part of our lives. And I know things with Daniel went kind of bad, but deep down, I know he wants the same thing."

He hears her sigh. Then she says, "I'll try."

"That's the best any of us can do. Thanks for picking up the phone, Mom."

"Sure, Sean," she says. "One day you'll have to tell me how you found me. And how you got this number. I know I didn't give this to you yesterday."

# # #

Sean stares at the sky. Except for a couple of white clouds, it is a peaceful, clear blue.

"Dude, what are you doing out here? It's kind of cold."

Sean glances at their motel-room door, and Daniel stands there wearing the wolf SQUAD hoodie. He's barefoot.

"And yet you're not wearing shoes," Sean says and pats the spot beside him on the trunk of the car. "It's not bad if you sit in the sun."

The car shifts under Daniel's weight as he sits down. "How are you doing, enano?" Sean asks.

"My head is kind of buzzing, but it doesn't hurt. It kind of feels the way your muscles do after you've been working out," Daniel says. "I don't know. I just learned I have superpowers. That my brother has this whole alternate life. It's all kind of . . . a lot. I don't even know how to begin to say what I'm feeling."

"I get that," Sean says. "I have this feeling that I only remember getting three other times. The first was when we were sleeping under a bridge, just hours after Dad died. I got it again in a holding cell after I gave myself up at the border. And the last time I felt it was a few months ago, after I changed the past and heard Dad's voice for the first time in years. I don't know what the feeling is called, but it's like . . . everything is different now."

"I'm a little scared." Daniel's fists disappear into the sleeves of the hoodie. He sets his chin on them. "I mean, in your other life, a lot of bad things happened because I got powers. And now I have to figure them out. And what if I use them and someone gets hurt? What am I supposed to do with them? Do I hide them? Am I a superhero?"

"That's all legit and good reasons to be confused or scared," Sean says, and he sets a hand on Daniel's back. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this. But you have me, and I will be with you every step of the way. And you are totally strong enough to handle this because, dude, you are the strongest person I know."

"Thanks," Daniel says quietly. "How about you? How are you doing?"

Sean starts to say he's fine but stops himself; he's not lying to Daniel anymore. "You know what I said about Max Caulfield? I keep thinking about how Chris is dead, and maybe other people, and how maybe it's my fault. And I made a big choice last night coming clean with you, and now I'm worried that the storm is going to come."

"So here's a thing," Daniel says, "what if nothing bad happens? Like, I know you lived through this thing where every choice you made led to something bigger and even worse happening. But that doesn't mean life is always going to be like that, right?"

"It would be a big change from how it's been for the past five years," Sean says with a sigh.

"But you changed time itself," Daniel says. "And like you just said: everything is different now. And let's say the storm does hit . . . then I have your back, bro." Sean feels Daniel's hand on his shoulder. "I'll knock the storm back with my powers. Or, at least, throw rocks at it since that's all I can do right now. But we'll face it. Together."

"Well, okay. I guess if there's one thing I learned through it all, there is nothing the Diaz brothers can't handle as long as they are together."

And so they sit on the back of their father's car, staring at the clear sky at the start of a new day.

# # #

Sean's drive back to Seattle with his little brother is filled with stories that develop into inside jokes, with singing loudly (and off key) to songs they loved growing up, and and with occasional pit stops to practice Daniel's powers. As he talks Daniel through lifting pop cans with his mind, Sean realizes he hasn't seen his brother this legitimately happy since before their dad got shot.

And Sean hasn't felt this unburdened since he was sixteen.

He feels like a kid—like the kid he never got to be.

They take a detour to the coast of California, stopping at the beach. Sean is caught off guard that Daniel is strong enough to lift him on his shoulders then drop him into the water. Sean, with a lot of effort, can still suplex Daniel over his head, though. Later, as they sit on the sand, the sun drying their shorts, Sean catches Daniel staring at him.

"Uh, are you checking me out or something, bro?" Sean says.

"Gross, no," Daniel says. "I'm just looking at your tattoo. It really is way cooler than I thought it'd be. You think Dad would really let me get one before I'm eighteen?"

"He seemed open to it at Christmas. And you don't have to wait." Sean stands up, brushes sand off his legs. He motions for Daniel to follow him back to the car where Sean pulls a sharpie from his bag.

"You're kidding," Daniel says.

"Come on. It'll be like when we were kids."

"God, Dad would get so pissed when you tatted me up," Daniel says. "You remember that time you gave me the dragon that went all up my back and chest? Dad handed us the water hose and dish soap and wouldn't let us back inside until it was gone."

"I think Dad was mostly upset that I gave the dragon a massive dong that went down your arm. I think it looked wicked cool, though. The tattoos you drew on me were never as cool."

"Dude, I was, like, five!"

"The only things you could draw were Power Bear and the poop emoji," Sean says, uncapping the marker. "I could at least draw Sonic the Hedgehog when I was five."

Daniel rolls his eyes and leans against the side of the car. "If I let you draw on me, you gotta promise not to draw any dicks. If you draw a dick, I get to punch you as hard as I can."

"I'll do my best, but I'm just the conduit. If my artistic vision includes dicks, then I can't compromise that," Sean says, setting the tip of the marker against his brother's chest. Other beach-goers stare at them, but it doesn't seem to matter. And when Sean is done, his brother has a pretty sick temporary tattoo of a family of wolves, the smallest one in the center.

Later, at a public rest stop, they take the douchiest mirror selfies of their tattoos. An older white guy walks in on them while they are shirtless, flexing, and taking pictures of their reflections; the man immediately backs out of the room like two bare-chested Mexican kids is the most awkward thing he has ever seen.

But when Sean and Daniel are done, they post their photos to Instagram. Daniel is the first person to "like" Sean's, and Sean is the first person to "like" Daniel's. They actually follow each other's accounts now.

# # #

Sean drives the car through the southern part of Washington, only a few hours from Seattle, along a narrow road where the trees stretch so high they almost block the sun. A bittersweet ache scratches at his heart. On one hand, he's ready to get back to Savannah to see Toby to find out what comes after "te amo." On the other, he isn't ready for this time with Daniel to be over.

"When I get back to Georgia, you're going to actually text me back sometimes, right?" Sean asks.

"Of course," Daniel says. "You're not going to suddenly forget about me again, are you?"

"I promise, bro," Sean says. "That will not hap—"

Sean never finishes his sentence.

In the oncoming lane, a station wagon rounds the corner in front of them when, suddenly, a stag and a doe leap into the road.

The station wagon hits the stag, flipping the animal onto the hood, then over the top of the vehicle. Dented, windshield cracked, the station wagon wobbles then careens off the side of the road.

The doe stops in Sean and Daniel's lane, stares at them dumb and scared, a giant wall of fur and bone daring them to crash.

They are going too fast. There's no way to stop the car in time. "Shit!" Sean shouts, slamming the brake against the floorboard. The seatbelt squeezes his chest. The tires squeal against the asphalt. A hot, rubber smell burns Sean's nose as he closes his eyes, strains his muscles, braces for impact.

But the impact never comes.

The car stops without a crash. When Sean opens his eyes, the doe floats in the air, inches away from the windshield. It blinks, frightened and confused, and one of its hooves thumps against the hood of the car.

Beside him, Daniel's arms are extended. Sweat pours from the kid's forehead; his t-shirt is stuck to his chest, which moves in and out like a hyperventilating hummingbird's. A vein throbs in his forehead.

Over the past couple of days, Daniel has struggled to pick up items the weight of a brick. Now, he's lifting almost 200 pounds of animal.

"Good job, enano," Sean says, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You saved us."

"I . . . can't . . ." Daniel squeaks.

And then the deer explodes.

It's like the animal is a water balloon, filled to the point of bursting. A mass of skin and fur splats against the car, followed by blood, which splashes over the windshield and hood, painting everything red. Wet, slapping sounds hit the roof as pieces of meat rain down. Sean thinks he can make out an eyeball on the wiper blade.

"Holy shit," he says.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," Daniel mutters. "I—I didn't mean to do that." He places his fingers against his mouth, rocks back and forth in the passenger's seat, would bang his head against the dashboard if the seatbelt didn't hold him back.

Sean unbuckles his seat belt and wraps Daniel in a hug, desperately trying to hold him still. God, the kid's shirt is soaked in sweat; it feels like he just climbed out of a swimming pool. "It's okay," Sean says. "You saved us. Everything is alright, enano."

"I killed it I didn't mean to but I killed it," Daniel babbles. "Oh my god I killed it."

"It was an accident," Sean says, and he presses his cheek against his brother's wet forehead. Then he rests a finger under Daniel's chin, turns Daniel's face gently to look at him. Daniel's eyes are pink; his pupils are wide, swallowing his irises. "Hey, I need you to breathe, okay? That other car, I need to go check on the person driving it. You saved us, you hear? You did something right. You didn't do anything wrong."

"The deer, though. I didn't mean to kill it," Daniel whimpers. He's sixteen, much closer to adult than child, but he looks like a frightened little boy.

"I know," Sean says, pulling out his cellphone. He unlocks it and places it in Daniel's hand. He has to give Daniel a reason to be strong. "I need you to call 911, okay? Tell them to get out here. That there's been an accident. You can do that, right, enano?"

Daniel nods. But Sean is not sure the kid heard a single word.

When Sean opens the door, he steps into a pool of blood and viscera. Jesus Christ, it's like a nightmare has vomited on their car. He can make out a severed hoof. An intestine is wrapped around the side mirror. As awful as it is inside the vehicle, it's much worse out here, and suddenly it seems important to keep Daniel from seeing this. "Do not get out of the car—and call 911!" Sean orders, slamming the door shut before Daniel can respond.

The other deer, the stag, is still alive. Its stomach has opened, and organs spill onto the smear of blood on the blacktop. It twitches. But can't stand. A bone sticks out of one of its legs, which is bent at a ninety-degree angle. It would be a kindness to kill it and put it out of its misery.

But all Sean can do is mutter, "Shit . . ."

Off the side of the road, the brown and white station wagon has a tree sticking out of its hood; the front of the vehicle just split, like it was a stick of butter being thrown against a knife. Broken slivers of glass crunch beneath Sean's feet as he approaches the back of the station wagon, and an eerie déjà vu creeps up his spine.

The windshield and the driver's-side window are completely shattered, and the driver slumps over the steering wheel.

He's a larger guy, kind of husky. Has a beard and glasses. His neck is smeared with blood "Hey!" Sean says, but the driver doesn't respond, so Sean reaches through the broken window, shakes the man by the shoulder. "Dude, you've been in an accident. Can you—can you hear me?"

The man makes a noise that's half groan, half gurgle, and he turns his head enough for Sean to see a familiar face.

"Brody?" Sean gasps.

This guy who helped them in the other life blinks behind broken glasses. A piece of shrapnel sticks out of his throat, like life is giving Sean a middle finger. "Do I . . . know you?"

"Hang on, man," Sean says. "It's going to be—it's all going to be okay." Even as he says it, Sean knows it's a lie. Far off in the distance, he hears sirens—Daniel must have pulled himself together enough to call 911—but Brody's breathing is slowing.

Then it stops altogether.

"Shit," Sean mutters. "Brody, dude, hang in there. Please? Please don't die, man."

But Brody doesn't answer.

He's already gone.

And up the road, standing over the broken body of the stag, Sean sees what scared the deer in the first place: it's a pair of wolves, one noticeably smaller than the other. The larger one looks up, glares at Sean with its one eye, before it and its brother drag the deer back into the woods.

Soundtrack - Outro: "The Wolves"

by J. J. and the Pillars


This has been "The Bravest Wolf in the World"

A Life is Strange 2 Fan Fiction

Episode Three: The Wilderness


so run run run the wolves are coming for you

be quiet as the wind because he's tracking you

so run run run remember what he said

. . .

you better take your chances now or you'll end up dead