"You are scared of dying - and, tell me, is the kind of life you lead any different than being dead?" - Lucius Annaeus Seneca

It is with the horrible, howling crash of an artillery shell that she is roused from her slumber.

With a jerk, she rises from the ashes and dirt. The ground beneath her trembles with the thunderous barrage, its rumbling of the earth threatening to shake her back down as she stands up on unsteady shins. Within her sight is the span of the trench, and its charred-black walls glow scarlet with the fiery flames from above its shelter. Crackling, burning pines surrounded the dugout where she stands. Smoke hangs and flows like tendrils into the air, darkening the sky to near pitch black. There the figures come into sight; shadows set on the terribly bright flames. They dance in the shadow of the smoke, and like animals do these shadows cry the sounds of war. So haunting are these cries for vengeance, that she catches herself from responding out of fear. In their hands, their rifles are waved as batons, waving the introduction of the damned beings, of a broken world.

A looming howl catches her ears, and she can picture another bomb sailing over the heavens. She throws herself forward, diving into a passageway on her right as an explosive THWUM rocks the ground. A geyser of dirt falls from the air and rains down over her back, yet the heavy raincoat she wears keeps the flecks of charred earth from searing her skin. Dragging herself up, she takes two steps before she recoils, falling back and scurrying away on all fours with a terrified cry.

Before her lies the tangle of corpses of people she could not recognize, they lay crudely against the walls of the trench. These terrible, lifeless beings stricken with mud, their blood speckled and pooled in the holes of the trench, and their eyes were gauged out, hollow, empty. And they stared at her, every last one of them, with an accusation that had died before it could be known. She pulls her trembling eyes away from the mess of limbs and gore and curls in on herself. She can't stop the sobs, the panic seeping into her.

All she can hear are the cries of the devils, and the thunder of the guns.

She tightens the hug around her mud-soaked jeans. Another yawning howl, long and resounding, climbs into the heavens and warns her to run, but she doesn't care anymore, she just wants to be over with this hell, whatever this was. It couldn't be real; it just couldn't be rea—

It is with the sudden, rather shrill ringing of the school bell that she is roused from her slumber.

Max Caulfield snapped awake, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair as she took in the scene before her. With her spot being at the back of the classroom, she watched as the majority of her classmates hastily rummaged their notebooks into their bags. Like it was a race, these peers sped for the door, spilling out into the hall and most importantly, not looking anywhere in her direction. Max is glad about this; she's sure that she would suffocate from embarrassment to know the whole class was watching her while she dozed.

What the hell was with that dream, anyways?

She eases herself up and out her seat, snatching her things and stuffing them in her rugged messenger bag, and slowly stumbled out the classroom. As she passed the empty desks, she cast a short glance over at the photography teacher. Mister Jefferson, an idol of her passion for photography and a handsome man with his goatee and sharp spectacles, was stood by his desk and engaging in a lively conversation with a female student. This girl was a pixie blonde with an outfit worth more than anyone's guess, looking promiscuous with the way she handles herself around Max's idol. Caulfield frowned at the sight, envious.

The Queen doesn't waste a second kissing ass. Again.

As she walks out into the hall, Max recites her priorities in her head, with a trip to the bathroom to calm down and breathe being first on the list. Jamming headphones into ears, she lets the music guide her through the hall, past the cacophony of high school students bustling to classrooms or brashly speaking to friends.

Max walks through the hall, reaching an intersection. To her left stood the red double-doors leading outside to the quad and the rest of campus, and to her right were the teachers' offices, never explored and never ventured by anyone except faculty and a select few of the student body. To the left of those offices stood a black wooden door, and its navy-blue sign positioned at eye level spelled out WOMEN in its off-white font.

Max rushes to the door, barging in and letting the door's bolt click into place before easing the tension off her shoulders. She pulls the headphones out her ears and walks past a couple sinks, one with a broken soap dispenser and another with its mirror defamed to near uselessness. Assuming her spot at the third sink from the door, she turns the faucet on and splashes crisp cold water onto her face, glancing to her reflection.

Tired, and unsure. Another Monday like the rest, minus the daydreaming.

She pulls out a polaroid shot from her bag. It was a picture of her looking up to a beautiful collage of other polaroid shots adorned on a wall. Its edges were slightly bent from being hastily stuffed into the side pocket, but it was still good enough to work by her standards.

Is this enough to count for the upcoming Everyday Heroes Contest? What if Mr. Jefferson thinks it's not good enough?

With a sigh, Max carefully stuffed the photo back into her messenger bag. If she wanted a chance to win the contest and go fly out to San Francisco with her favorite teacher and idol, Mr. Jefferson, then she'd need to find some better material or start praying really quick. To think that she hadn't taken his advice, it brought a sense of guilt in her heart. It was obvious he wanted to help her break out from the shell of social anxiety, but the choice lied in her hands, and her inaction was the fault of no one except herself.

You, alone, decide your fate.

A twitch of movement off to her left caught her attention, and when turning Max looked on with wonder as a bright blue butterfly flitted its way inside from a small single-pane window. It fluttered this way and that, making its way past an interior wall behind the bathroom stalls. Caulfield followed with careful steps, reaching for her polaroid camera as the fluttering insect now perched itself upon the rim of a janitor's bucket. She lined up the viewfinder and framed center mass, then depressed the shutter.

Click

The butterfly flapped its wings, unappreciative of the camera's flash. With practiced ease Max took the developing photo and gave it a very gentle shake, storing it with the rest of her other shots. She smiled, and watched the blue subject take flight and flutter further into the bathroom.

The creak of the bathroom entrance stopped her from following its lead, and she listened with rapt attention as footsteps thudded off the tile floor. Hushed whispering, a monologue like that of a madman accompanied the shuffling. Its baritone pitch sent Max a spur of dread, and she tensed.

What the hell is a guy doing in here—?

Cautiously, she edged closer and peeked around the wall she hid behind, silently gasping upon recognizing the twitchy male at one of the sinks. There stood Nathan Prescott, the heir of the prestigious Prescott family, and current de-facto Prince of Blackwell, who was looking on the verge of a breakdown in the girl's restroom. He spoke to himself with rasp, rushed words spilling from his mouth in a clustered mess, before he clenched his jaw. Taking a deep breath, the boy eased his shoulders, and his tranquility only made Max more nervous.

What is he doing here? How the hell was she going to get out and away from him? Stories she's heard from others have spoken of his temper, of his subtle and unrelenting wrath towards anyone that opposed him and his rule. Keeping her head down had kept Max off his radar, even if she found herself targeted by others of Prescott's ilk. The Queen of Blackwell must have spilled to the prince her troubles with the waif hipster bitch, as Max had been generously named. Now she was doomed to face him here, alone, and without any help—!

The door was swung open again, the newcomer startling Max and forcing her to duck into her spot. Calming her thundering heart, the brunette listened to this newcomer's voice, raw like that of a smoker's, but also feminine.

"I hope you at least checked the perimeter, as my step-father would say."

The clang of stall doors being slammed open echoed closer and closer, and Max felt panic shoot up from her legs and settle in her lungs, robbing her of breath. She'd be discovered before she could say a word in her defense! They'd probably beat her to a pulp for intruding on something she shouldn't. The footsteps were closing in, and Max raised a hand to her mouth, biting her tongue to keep silent.

"No one's here, stop being so fucking paranoid."

A pause, then the slight squeak of shoes moved away, allowing Max a silent sigh of relief.

"Fine, then let's talk bidness."

"I've got nothing for you."

"Wrong, you got hella cash."

Daring another peek, Max looked from Nathan to the figure hovering 'round him, like a vulture circling her prey. This girl was tall, an inch or so taller than Nathan and even more so for Max. What caught the brunette's eye was the vibrant blue hair sticking out from under a dark blue beanie. This girl's frame was decked in a leather jacket, with a larger white shirt hung underneath, which covered the hem of weathered jeans, long and baggy that led down to heavy combat boots. Max couldn't help but feel a twinge of some feeling, one that is like nostalgia grip her, and she questions if she's ever met this girl before.

"That's my father, not me," Prescott deflected.

"Oh boo-hoo, poor little rich kid. You think I give a damn where your money comes from? Don't give me that shit," the girl edges closer to the sink Nathan hangs over. Max sees the Prescott heir almost curl in agitation, but the girl doesn't take notice, rattling him evermore, "I know you've been pumping drugs n' shit into the kids around here—I bet your respectable father would be shocked to find out, if I went to him. Man, I can see the headlines now—" The boy visibly shivered, a vein grew visible on his slightly reddened face as he barked his retort—

"Leave him out of this, bitch."

"I can tell him and everybody else, that Nathan Prescott is a punk ass—" she shoves him off the sink, his hands ducking into his jacket pockets, "who begs like a little girl and gets off to—"

The girl is cut short, and Max watches with wide eyes as Prescott suddenly pulls a pistol from his coat—

Gun. Gun, GUN!

His thumb clicks the hammer back with a slight click, leveling it at the punk. The girl instinctually steps back, trying to keep as much distance from Nathan and his GB-17 handgun as possible.

"You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're fucking around with!" Each syllable out of Prescott's mouth grows more tense than the last, and he pushed towards her, he'd foregone keeping his finger off the trigger, angered and so ready to put a bullet between her eyes.

"Where'd you get that, what are you doing—" the taller girl nearly trips over herself, and in no time, she finds herself backed into the wall next to the door, looking back a second then eyeing Nathan with dread, "Come on man, put that thing down!"

"Don't ever tell me what to do," Prescott pushed himself into her space, poking the barrel of his pistol into her stomach. The bluenette could smell the rancid aftertaste of alcohol as he spat in her face, "I'm so fucking sick of people like you trying to fuck with me!"

Max, now hyperventilating, turned away from the scene before her, gripping her head with shaking hands and sliding down the cold tile wall.

It's a dream. It's a dream, stop shaking it's just a dream—

She must have passed out again, she has definitely passed out again because now her mind is playing demented tricks on her, making her bear witness to this terrible scene. Oh God, her dreams were just getting darker and more terrifying and worse yet, they feel so potently real. How the hell was she going to explain this to whoever wakes her up?

What if it's not a dream? What if this is real?

What then, Max?

"You're gonna get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—!"

"Nobody would even miss your punk ass, now would they?"

His wording was suddenly cold, unlike the shouting he'd been doing, so wrenching of the heart and deathly. The blue punk felt her eyes widen, and she grew stiff as Prescott took his free left hand, reaching up and roughly grabbing her by the back of the neck. He slowly pulled her close, too close, she was too scared to consider pushing him off and the cold metal pressing into her abdomen told her to stay still. He brought his mouth to her ear, whispering with a malice that bereft her of speech.

"You're not the one in control here. I am. I will say this once, then never again. You let word get out about this, I will hunt you down. I don't care what kind of people you got; I don't care how many. You will not live to see the sun rise if you fuck with me again."

For a long second, silence reigned. No one moved, no one spoke, the tension had been wound to its breaking point. Then, slowly, Nathan lowered his pistol off the girl, backing a step, two, three away from her, then flicking the safety catch and stuffing the pistol in his pocket. Max could hear the muted sobs being choked out a second later, and she peeked around the corner to see Nathan standing over the other girl, who was curled on the tiled floor and shivering. With indifference, he pulled out a wad of cash, so small and ironic for a boy of his wealth and tossed it on the ground in front of the sobbing punk.

"Stay the fuck out of my way, Price. It'll keep you alive."

Nathan swings the bathroom door open, and abruptly leaves the girl, Price, still heaving out her pent-up terror on the floor, too out of it to notice the other occupant still inside. With a cautious gait Max stepped out from her hiding place, her mind abuzz over the name Nathan had given the blue haired girl, for it was almost like she was—

Price.

"Chloe?"

The punk jerked, rearing back like a cornered animal. Wide eyes zeroed themselves to Max. Slowly, Caulfield eased herself into a crouch, keeping her eyes locked on the girl's icy blue gaze.

"Chloe, is that you?"

"Max..."

It wasn't a question; it was something Max couldn't pinpoint. Chloe looked to her as if she were a star, eyes wide with disbelief. Before the mousy brunette could ask her long-time best friend if she was alright, two shaky arms wrapped themselves around her small frame, squeezing her short of breath. Reciprocating, Max eased Chloe from her hysterics, whispering comforting nothings to her long-forgotten friend.

"...you came back."

The lighthouse stood tall and mighty over the cliff. This eternal guardian of Arkadia-town, silent in its endeavor, impervious to the slight breeze that swept over the bench they sat on, looking down vigilantly to the entirety of their home. In the outer stretch of the docks, jutting from the beach about a half mile out into the bay, the small fishing boats jostled to the rhythm of the waves. Max watched the craft bounce up and down with the swell. Beyond the horizon, the sun glowed a bright shade of gold, bidding the visible world its final farewells.

"After all this time, you finally came back."

The brunette turned to her blue counterpart, who was also looking down at the bustle of the town with unseeing eyes.

"It only took five years, but shit, you're here again."

With a sigh, Max looked to the ground, bleeding with guilt. It was going to be brought up sooner or later, she ought to get over the hurdle while she had the courage to.

"Chloe, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Caulfield, shut the hell up."

Chloe wasn't done with her yet, and Max felt the guilt increase tenfold as her friend verbally struck her again, "I don't want to hear your excuses. I want to know why it took you this long to even talk to me—fucking five years, jesus, Max—"

With a huff, the bluenette turned to the smaller girl, expecting an answer. Max tried her best to ease her nerves, "Chloe, I...I didn't mean to go silent on you. I was too busy helping my parents, they were so stressed after the crash, and the riots in Seattle. Going there was a bad choice, I know, but we couldn't come back so quickly, we'd lose everything we have. I wanted to call you, but I felt so—" a pause, then, "I felt so horrible, leaving you not even a day after the funeral."

The funeral. The crash. The Riots. Like the striking of a hammer upon steel, these events served as mighty blows to their hearts. The world had torn itself apart, all in the short span of a couple years. It was there that misery had seeped into the cracks, had given the girls their first taste of grief. Dreams of being an adult and doing whatever they wanted were tossed away. Childhood ideas of becoming whatever profession they chose were ripped from their grasp.

The guilt seared, a flash of pain bloomed in her chest and Max raised a hand to her heart to quell the discomfort.

She spared a glance at Chloe, who was glaring at her, waiting for her to lay herself bare to the punk's obvious fury. It was exactly the reaction Max feared for all those years, laying up late at night, unable to sleep, her best friend judging her like the horrible person she was. She continued on, "I was so scared of what you would say, I didn't want to deal with the hurt you were gonna give me, for leaving you, and Joyce, and William, and everything—"

Max choked down the sob threatening to spill forth, but she couldn't stop the tears. She wanted nothing more than to stop crying yet succumbed as a pair of lanky arms wrapped around her. She wept silent, anguished tears into Chloe's shoulder, not even noticing the bluenette now silently cry with her.

"Is that what kept you, Max?"

Her response was a harsher sob than the previous, so Chloe responded back with a tighter hug. No longer was anger flowing in her veins, so quickly dashed at the sight of her dearest friend in pain, still in pain, like her.

Max, from what Chloe could make of her ramble, had felt entirely guilty about leaving Arkadia despite it not being her own choice, and what with the Great Riots that happened only months after the Caulfield family left, Chloe imagined that getting in touch with her was the least of Max's worries.

In a way, they never got better, as Chloe had thought otherwise for so long. Neither of them. Thinking this the punk girl held Caulfield close, hearing the fragile apologies spill like a stream from the brunette.

"Max, it's ok, it's alright."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Max, stop. Look at me—hey, look at me."

Glassy, ocean blue eyes looked up, ashamed and weary.

"It's alright dude, I get it."

Chloe smiled, small and betraying the hollow feeling in her heart, but if it meant that Max would stop feeling so horrible, she'd smile bright and true. Her efforts were rewarded with a smile returned, and so unusual was it with the tears flowing down reddened cheeks, that Chloe let out an airy chuckle at Max's gesture. Infectiously, they began to laugh, so raw from the sobfest but happy, joyful, for the first time in a long while.

Chloe hadn't felt this inherently good since many a month ago, since—

The smile was immediately wiped from the bluenette's face, so sudden was her shift that it didn't go unnoticed.

"Chloe?"

With a constant twiddle of her hands, Chloe hesitantly opened up about her gripes, "I haven't been this relieved for a while Max. I, uhm—I had this girl; she was like my angel, watching over me and all that. Many months ago, she just disappears, like that," a snap of the fingers, "I don't know where she is or if she's even here anymore."

Max became uncomfortable at Chloe's use of anymore.

"She was my everything, Max. She filled the hole in my heart when no one else wanted to. Everyone would always give her shit because of how she was, but they didn't know her like I did. She was the best thing to ever happen to me."

Max watched Chloe's eyes go from shining nostalgia to cold realization in a blink.

"Now she's gone."

And they stayed like that, watching the slow motions of the waves, and the streaks of vehicles moving up and down the little streets of the town below.

"I'll help you."

"...what?"

"I'll help you, Chloe," and Price looked into that sudden determination in her best friend, and saw no hint of shallow promise, no second-hand doubts, and the punk smirked with relief.

"We'll find this girl, and then it'll be like nothing ever happened. It'd be you, her, and me—all of us, together," Max promised.

Chloe felt her vision become glassy with tears, before pulling Max into another hug, basking in the positive light Caulfield radiated. For the first time in a long while, she felt what it was like to have hope.

A/N - There is a manual found in Nathan's dorm room for his handgun in Episode Four, in which the firearm is labeled as a "GB-17" pistol. It is unknown whether "GB" is an acronym for a longer title of the gun, or the initials of the manufacturing company that produces the firearm, yet it can be reasonably assumed this model of "GB" is the 17th model/type of the gun, denoted by the "-17". According to said manual, the Model 17 is chambered in 9x19mm Parabellum, one of the most common pistol cartridges in the world.