All Faith is false, all Faith is true: Truth is the shattered mirror strown
In myriad bits; while each believes his little bit the whole to own.
- Richard Francis Burton
This is the last fic for Mighty Max I'll put up for a while, but it gave me a huge amount of joy to write. It's also the most 'in media res' thing I've ever done. So, if you're confused, I've done my job.
Each chapter has a theme song. Chapter one is "So Far Down" by Creed.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Road to Nowhere
Virgil let out a small smile, leaning back in his chair with a sigh of contentment. Though fall was in the air, the breeze was still mild this close to the ocean, and for once there was no sign of so much as a single cloud to bring cold rain and sleet upon them. He wasn't sure why this part of the world was so relaxing, but perhaps it was less the place and more the company.
"So, what's next, Virgil?"
"Hmm." The Lemurian did not need to consult his scrolls given how out of date they had become, but a smartphone with internet connection was certainly handy. "Looks like we may have a mutant incursion in Siberia in the next month or so."
"We could go early, though," the Mighty One said, blue eyes bright. "After all, the quicker we handle it, the less likely anyone ever finds out about it. Besides, we should take advantage of the season before the far north is plunged into true winter if possible."
"You are correct, of course." Virgil's smile widened. "Then I will make flight arrangements for next week."
"Perfect." The Mighty One smiled back. "We could also stop at your place in Mongolia if you need something."
"Thank you, but I have all I require these days already with me. The digital age has allowed me to consolidate a civilization's worth of scrolls into a few files online, and you know as well as I do that the Wall of Prophecy ceased being useful long ago."
"I'm not sure it could ever be called useful. After all, it only gave us a few hints here and there. Nothing specific that I could actually interpret."
"Well, for all your talents, Mighty One," Virgil said, "understanding the ways of Destiny has never been your strength. However, it does not matter."
"Because I have you for that."
"And ever shall, Mighty One."
"Now, Virgil." He leaned forward, shaking his head. The Cap shaded his face in the sunlight, but not enough to darken his easy, teasing expression. "I thought we'd finished talking about that."
"We have not," Virgil said, refusing to rise to the bait. "The fact that you have fulfilled your Destiny so well is no reason to discard your title of respect now."
"I haven't needed to be the Mighty One for hundreds of years, Virgil. Not since the last interdimensional rift manifested. These days, I'm not doing anything different from what any other hero across the world does on a daily basis. Or do you intend to start calling Beowulf a Mighty One as well?"
"Of course not! Beowulf is many good and noble things, Mighty One, but he is not you and never could be. You are unequalled by any hero ever known in the history of this world. And I will not apologize for feeling that such should be honored, even after so much time."
"And I," the Mighty One replied, "will not apologize for wanting you to put that aside so that we can stand as partners in these golden years ahead. I have another ten-thousand years of life ahead of me before the next trial. Will we truly argue about this until then?"
"And long after, if I have my way," Virgil said.
"Then I will make a bargain with you." His eyes twinkled. "If I can ask you a question to which you do not know the correct answer, you must call me by my given name for the rest of the month."
Virgil scoffed. "I highly doubt you can provide such a question, but very well. Since it amuses you so. Ask your question, Mighty One, and allow me to defeat you soundly."
The Mighty One grinned a smile that had graced a thousand battlefields and sent hundreds of enemies running in terror. "What is your current password to your email account?"
Virgil froze.
The Mighty One's expression sank into one of smug victory. "Oh, Virgil. Still you refuse to remember your own passwords?"
"It's just...I mean...there are so many...and they change so frequently…"
"Answer me correctly, Virgil, or pay the price."
Virgil drew in a deep breath. He could guess, but he was almost guaranteed to be wrong; even if he happened to guess the password as he had known it, it was very likely the Mighty One had already changed all his accounts again. He was prone to do so when bored, or feeling impish, or simply because he had the time to think on such frivolous pursuits.
"I yield. That was indeed a challenge I could not answer. I am proud of you for thwarting me so fully, Mighty One."
The Mighty One held up a finger and shook his head. "For the rest of the month starting now, Virgil."
"Oh, very well." He sighed. "Congratulations on your victory, Maximus."
-==OOO==-
Norman dropped the mats in the center of the gymnasium. He could have carried more at one time than the stack almost half his own height, but he only needed so many for today's activities. Thursdays were the best days of the week because he got the oldest kids in the middle school, which meant he could let loose a little more with them than with the younger ones. It was a delicate balance he had worked out when he switched to being a physical education teacher after the last round of wars — the younger the kids, the more gentle and supportive he needed to be. When they got older, the time came to push them as hard as they could stand.
And Norman knew better than anyone exactly what these kids could stand. After watching so many young warriors die in battles, sometimes younger than his students even, he could read a person and their hidden potential the way the English teachers read papers they assigned for homework. Norman was dense about a lot of things in this new modern world, from social media to memes, but he knew people. And people had not much changed in the last ten-thousand years.
It was his job to make sure these kids were around to keep humanity going for the next ten-thousand years, after all, and the best way to do that was to help them find their strength now when they still had time to make mistakes without endangering their futures.
He had just finished setting the mats out and pulling the rest of the gymnastics equipment out of the lockers when he heard the telltale sounds of teenage feet and voices in the hallway.
But one sound caught his attention more than the usual hallway ruckus.
"Look, we're here! You can let go now!"
"Apparently not, you little troublemaker. Just be quiet and show some respect for once in your rotten life!"
The second voice was one Norman knew all too well — one of the math teachers, Mister Simmons, was, in Norman's opinion, thoroughly unsuited to work with children of any age. He had no patience or tolerance, a cruelty-streak a mile wide, and handed out the most draconian detentions for little better than imagined slights. He also tended to fixate on a few kids every year whom he would blame for everything and anything, regardless of who was actually at fault.
Norman had brought up his concerns with the principal as well as the school board more than once, but Simmons had been part of the district long enough that it was too hard to fire him without more than just "he's too harsh" as a reason. It made Norman's blood boil.
Doubly so when he heard the small grunt of discomfort from another familiar voice.
Norman strode from the gym in time to see most of his incoming class disappear down the hallways that led to the locker-rooms to change. Simmons strode along with one hand wrapped in a vicious grip around the strap of a backpack which was currently attached to a student. Norman grimaced — technically, Simmons wasn't breaking protocol because he was not touching the student directly. However, there was no doubt his pull on the strap was uncomfortable at best and bruising at worst.
And the kid at his mercy — Norman sighed.
"Max, are you all right?" Norman asked.
Simmons glared at Norman before releasing the backpack with a shove, nearly sending the kid to his knees on the hard floor. Norman had the speed to catch him if needed, but the scrawny blond boy regained his balance quickly. He looked away from both teachers with a stoic expression.
"I caught him trying to sneak out of school again," Simmons said. "He's already skating close to another suspension. For his own good, I thought it better to escort him myself. See that you do the same at the end of your class." Simmons turned away as if the boy in question were not worth even a passing glance and returned the way he had come.
After Simmons was gone, Norman turned to Max fully. The boy's shoulders were high and his arms were folded in protectively.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No."
Norman had been around teenagers too long not to recognize that sullen tone.
"Did he say anything that was out of line?"
Max snorted and looked up. Norman was always taken aback by the boy's blue eyes. They were so bright, so lively, but all that energy was turned inwards, as if devouring the soul from within. He'd never seen such eyes in all his years of life, not once.
"Does it even matter?" Max returned the question, sneering. "The worst that happens is you put in another complaint for me, mom gets called into the office whenever she's back in town, and all the teachers are mad at me all over again. Who cares anymore?"
"I care, Max," Norman said. "Everyone deserves to be treated with respect. You included."
"Well, you're the only one who thinks so."
Norman knew he was going to do it before it happened. Body language gave kids away every time, and Max's shouted louder than most.
Max turned on his heel and headed for the door. "I don't feel up to gym class today, coach. Thanks for sticking up for me. I won't get you in trouble for it. See ya."
And he was gone.
Norman was sorely tempted to follow him, to make him come back, to get the kid to open up. But he'd tried to reach the kid almost every day since the first time Max set foot in his gym with those spirited eyes and a heart that seemed cold and empty. He would always be there if Max came back, if Max allowed him to help, but Max wasn't his only student and he had others counting on him.
Heart heavy at watching another promising soul slipping away, Norman turned back to his gym to finish preparations for the class — now one down.
-==OOO==-
Max ducked out of school through a side door away from most of the classrooms with teachers who hated his guts. Well, that was most teachers besides Coach Norman, but still. He'd had it with Simmons and his superiority and all the other kids in the class laughing while he got the short end of the stick. It's not like he didn't want to learn some stuff; he just never seemed to hold onto anything for long.
Once clear of the building, Max set off for downtown. Theirs wasn't a big city, but it was big enough that he could blend in, or at least hide out, and hopefully avoid any more trouble for the day. He couldn't go anywhere near any place other kids cutting school would hang out without risking being caught for truancy again, but at least he could be on his own without having to deal with the hostile glares all around. And that was better than going home to suffocating silence again.
Max wondered for the millionth time when it had gotten so bad. Not just school — life.
For as long as he could remember, Max had been different from his peers. They read comic books and played arcade games and swung around plastic swords like he did, but then they went home and ate dinner and went to bed without the gaping hole in their chests that followed him every minute of every day. He'd asked others periodically, but no one seemed to understand why he couldn't just laugh sometimes, or how he was always cold even in a hot tub or baking under the summer sun.
Maybe he was just cursed.
That had been his working theory for the last few years. Everybody knew that magic and monsters and curses weren't real, but obviously people thought they had been a long time ago. Maybe there weren't real curses now, but Max could be the last holdout. That would follow with the rest of his awful luck, after all.
There was no other explanation for any of it. For the pit of icy black despair that lived somewhere around his diaphragm and never evaporated or abated. For the constant restlessness that manifested in a lifelong lack of appetite, constant twitchiness especially in sleep, and a permanent feeling of being ready to bolt like a baby deer scenting a bear. For the pervasive emotions and thoughts that were as dark as dark could be — and always focused on how Max simply didn't belong and shouldn't even try. Exercise, medication, meditation, therapy, even a brief period with a support dog hadn't made so much as a dent in any of it. The one and only reason Max hadn't done anything that would land him under supervised care in a hospital was that he loved his mom and couldn't let her down.
If not for that, if not for mom, Max knew with total certainty that he wouldn't have made it to middle school. Intentionally or by happy accident, he would have exited the world long ago.
He remembered a class assignment from elementary school — while practicing writing, the class had been asked to write down their favorite day ever. Others in his class wrote about a trip to a big sporting event, or a birthday, or a visit to a beloved relative. Max's entry had been the shortest, and the teacher had given him a failing mark for it.
"I do not have a favorite. I have never had a good day worth remembering."
That was back when he still told his mom about his feelings, about the creeping depression that gripped him with barbed wire and chain every minute of the day. Back when his feelings and lack thereof resulted in nearly daily calls from the school home. His mom took it all in stride as she did everything else. Even though her job took her away from him more often than she would have liked, she was always attentive to him, always looking out for him.
Eventually, Max realized he needed to look out for her in return and quit being a problem holding her back. Two years ago, he managed to convince her that he was "better now" and that he didn't need her to give up her life for him anymore. The therapy appointments stopped, the service dog went to a more deserving kid, and Max resolved to endure in silence for her as best he could.
It mostly worked — his mom had gotten used to him having problems at school long ago, and as long as his grades weren't abysmal and he didn't get brought home by the police, she accepted that her son was not going to be a straight-A model student and that was as much as either of them could expect from him. She checked in with him frequently when she was away, and made sure to spend time with him whenever she was home for any length of time, but Max was sure he wasn't the only one relieved when she returned to her work and travel full-time. He'd also gotten really good at forging her signature when the school sent letters home reporting on his behavior, demanding an acknowledgement from his parent or guardian that they were aware of the problem. Max figured his mom was happier not knowing, and out there living her life the way she wanted without him weighing her down.
It wasn't her fault he'd been born cursed, after all.
Max rounded a corner and picked up the pace, listening carefully for anyone approaching him. There weren't any parts of the city that he would call "bad," not the way he'd seen them on the rare occasions he had traveled with his mom to other cities and countries anyway, but this was definitely one of the trouble spots in town. For about six blocks in every direction, he would have to be careful if he didn't want to get jumped. He'd already been mugged once this year, and he didn't care to repeat the experience.
Ducking his head into his thin coat, he stubbornly avoided eye contact and made himself look like anything but a target. The only good part about walking through this area was that he wasn't likely to run into any adults with that air of do-gooder about them who would demand to know why he wasn't in school and threaten to call some kind of protective services for him. Right now, Max would rather get mugged again than deal with that kind of well-meaning, useless attention.
He was most of the way through the trouble spot and into the start of the university district when he heard a yell from down an alleyway.
Later he would wonder what made him run towards the sound of distress. He was certain he'd never done such a thing before in his life.
Past a few big dumpsters, Max saw four big guys circling around a woman with long dark hair who was dressed far too nicely for the dingy alleyway.
Max didn't stop to listen to their jeering taunts. He just charged.
As he reached the group, he pulled off his backpack and threw it with all his strength. For all that Max was scrappy and uncoordinated, that backpack weighed a ton with all his schoolbooks in it. It hit the nearest guy in the head and knocked him down.
Max used the moment of surprise to dart straight through the crowd, head-butting another of the guys in the gut with all the momentum of his sprint.
"Run!" he yelled to the woman.
"Don't have to tell me twice!" With surprising agility for the heels she wore, she took off in his wake, just barely dodging a grab from one of the two still standing.
Max had only taken a few more steps, feeling like maybe this was going to work out okay and they would get away, when his curse hit him again, because of course it did.
This time, literally. Something sharp and painful struck him on the back of one of his shoulders, and he dropped with a cry of pain.
Max curled up, one hand reaching instinctively for his shoulder. His fingers hit blood and he realized that someone had hit him with a board that had nails sticking out of it. He could tell because the board was still stuck to him, nails buried deep.
The woman he had tried to rescue stopped, kneeling beside him.
"Help's coming," she said. "Can you stand?"
Max shook his head, biting back the urge to cry.
The two goons he'd hit recovered and all four stood looming over him and the woman. The two he'd hurt were flushed with anger, and the other two looked smug.
Max missed whatever they said, though; what he noticed was the way the woman visibly relaxed all of a sudden.
And then there was a fifth pair of shoes in his line of sight — just behind the crowd of thugs.
"You're late," the woman said.
The four goons had just enough time to look confused before someone tore into them from behind. In a fury of fists and elbows and feet, a human blur crushed the four into the ground, not letting up until every one of them was down, unconscious, bleeding, and sporting obvious broken limbs.
"Sorry," came a gruff voice. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, but…"
Max's vision was swimming now, so he could really only see the outline of a face leaning over him and gentle hands probing at his shoulder. He must have made a sound, because the probing stopped immediately.
A conversation went on over his head, and it didn't make sense until he heard mention of calling "the police, or his parents, or both."
"Don't," he managed. "No point. Don't...call anybody."
He was pretty sure the next thing was stunned silence, but it was hard to tell, because the next thing for him was some very welcome unconsciousness.
He floated uncomfortably for a while, not awake, not asleep, not dreaming, just fuzzy and dim, but that was okay because his constant companion of nagging awfulness was just as out of it as he was. When he finally woke up, there was a dull pain in his shoulder, a thick bandage stretched across his torso, a warm blanket covering him up, and a monologue going on in the background of which he appeared to be the subject.
"...Anyway, his home life seems okay, but he's alone an awful lot. Like, his mom is off in Micronesia right now and her flight plan says she won't be home for a couple more months. His last visit with a therapist was more than two years ago, and all his teachers seem kind of indifferent. Kid doesn't even have any social media accounts, and, like, who does that in this day and age? Don't say a word, I'm not talking about technologically-incompetent hermits like you, but regular people, okay? Getting back to before I was nearly interrupted and don't think I don't see your face but I am choosing not to care right now, his diagnoses are all over the map. Everybody agrees there's something not right about him, but nobody knows what, and other than his mom it looks like nobody cares."
"They don't."
It took Max a moment to realize he'd spoken aloud. He sighed and pushed his eyes open.
Well, this was a weird place to wake up, so that was something. It looked like the inside of a conference room, but one that had been co-opted from something else. A large table had been pushed forward where it could sit in front of a big screen and projector. But back here was a stash of various random couches and chairs as if somebody had stuffed their living room furniture in here. Open on the floor next to him was the remains of a first aid kit. Hanging over a nearby chair he could see his bloodied shirt and jacket.
Four people were sitting at the table in front of him and one stood beyond it.
"How are you feeling, Max?"
Max pushed himself up so he could balance his weight on an elbow and considered the man who asked. Floppy brown hair, blue eyes, suit jacket, drink in his hand. He looked like any off-duty businessman Max had ever passed on the street.
But there was an edge, a razor blade in the man's eyes that could cut both ways, and Max knew in an instant that this man was so much more than he seemed.
"Like I got stabbed by some nails," Max said, causing the man to almost flinch before huffing a laugh.
"Well, you're not wrong about that."
Max realized that someone had moved — he'd been so caught up in a staring contest he hadn't noticed until now. The man who stood over him now was compact, square, with long hair and even bluer eyes. And some animal instinct deep in Max's chest stuttered to life just long enough to tell him that this was the most dangerous person Max had ever met besides Coach Norman, and Coach Norman could never really be dangerous. But this was the first and only person Max had ever thought could maybe take Coach one or two falls out of three.
Then, of course, that burst of feeling died, like all feeling did, and retreated back into the black hole that was his sorry excuse for a soul.
"I patched you up," the man said, and Max knew that voice from the rescuer in the alley. "Hurts like hell, I bet, but not serious. If you want to go to a hospital, they'll just take out my stitches and put in their own anyway."
He didn't smile, but Max felt it anyway. He swallowed and nodded.
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"You helped us out," was the answer he received verbally. Non-verbally, Max was fairly sure that these two people were seeing a lot more than he intended. But then, what did he really have that mattered to share anyway? Let them look — he didn't care.
The dark haired woman approached, now wearing a more casual outfit and sneakers. "It was very brave, what you did. Patching you up was the least we could do. Are you hungry? We have some leftovers."
Max shook his head, and rather than meet any of the three pairs of eyes on him — this was exactly what he wanted to avoid! — he peeked at the other two people in the room. One was a tall, thin black man with a tablet in his hands who had not-too-subtly tried to hide the plethora of Max's records up on the screen for all to see. The other, though, had long blonde hair and she was absolutely staring at him.
Max scowled at her. "What's your problem?"
The dark haired woman looked over her shoulder. "Parker?"
"He's like me," Parker said. Her face did something Max couldn't quite identify. "Like me the way I was before."
"Parker…" the scary man with the razor eyes began.
"Look at him, Nate. He's just like me." Parker folded her arms. "He's wrong, the way I was wrong."
Max couldn't be offended because he understood exactly what she meant, and she couldn't have put it more simply or accurately. So he just shrugged.
"I really hope you're wrong about that, because nobody deserves this," Max said.
Then his chin was gripped in a fist, and Max found his nose inches from the face of the person who had beat up all those guys and bandaged his shoulder. He could only look for a moment, though, before he couldn't meet those eyes anymore.
Max hadn't known other people who were basically normal on the outside could still be screaming inside, either.
When his chin was released, he shut his eyes, not wanting to see anymore. Not wanting to see the chasm in his chest reflected yet another time. Max had always been the only one who was broken. Incomplete. He didn't really want to find out that others had been living with this same despair. The world shouldn't be that unfair.
"He's staying with us," came the low voice beside him. "Hardison said his mom isn't even here and I want to keep an eye on those stitches for a while. He's staying with us."
There was a deep sigh that ended in a defeated chuckle. "Fine."
Max opened his eyes. "Why? Just out of curiosity."
"Sweetie, we help people," the dark haired woman said. "And it looks like you need it."
"Since when did we become the happiness police?" the man Parker had called Nate wanted to know.
"Since always," the black man, Hardison, said. "Don't pretend otherwise."
"Fine." But Max could see that it wasn't capitulation at all — it was victory. He wondered how long this man had known that these people would want to keep him.
Max didn't wonder if he wanted to be kept. He never wanted anything, really, after all.
"So, I'm Nate, and that's Sophie, Eliot, Parker, and Hardison. Apparently we're keeping you around for a while. If you're okay with that."
Max shrugged again. "Nowhere else to go, nothing better to do."
"It's a good start," Nate said. "Welcome to Leverage Incorporated."