"A few vices are sufficient to darken many virtues." - Plutarch

The first afternoon bell of the day rung as soon as Max stepped out the cafeteria, shoving the last bit of her lunch into her mouth and hurrying quickly to her next class. Time was of the essence, and to be honest with herself, she felt invigorated by a purposeful sensation. Eavesdropping on conversations had made her privy to other things besides the day-to-day routines of her peers.

The main talk this day was about the half-year long labor strikes beginning to settle in the Midwest, for now there was an increase in transported domestic goods to seaside states like Oregon, and thus, to Blackwell's own supply as well. Since Blackwell was a private institution, its income was determined by any exceedingly generous donations, as well as any fees that which the administration could tack on as part of the already costly tuition. This was a big concern, since some students did not have the money to cover the extra costs that came with access to the school cafeteria and Blackwell's discounted meal plans. Reforms to enact a change in this monetary policy had been growing at a steadfast pace, fueled in part by those labor strikes that had sprung up in the Midwest since the previous fall of 2012. However, these reforms held little merits, even in the eyes of a sizable portion of the student body; if Blackwell could not attain money through its small fees, then it would resort to other, more subtle methods to wring the wallets of its constituents. It did not matter now, since the labor strikes were dying down, and the flow of goods through other methods outside of Blackwell now came as a cheaper alternative.

Indeed, it was nice for Max that things were taking a turn for the best, that some form of peace might come within her lifetime. Though that wasn't her main concern right now, as lunch was over. She had photography class next and was looking forward to hearing about whatever Jefferson had planned for this Tuesday.

She kept her head down as she walked into the classroom to attract less attention, walking past the majority of her classmates busying themselves with whatever they saw fit. As she walked from the threshold, Max could observe everyone within the classroom.

There was a boy who stood over by the large windows that looked out to the front quad, quiet and brooding. She did not know his name, as he was standoffish and refused to chat with anyone. Judging by his red-and-white letterman jacket, he was a player for the school's football team and a member of the school's rich-clique club, the Blackwell Internationale. Max didn't care much for the club; as far as she was concerned, its members were all wealthy kids who did what they wanted, given enough money on-hand. What concerned her most was the leader of the club, Nathan Prescott. Anything having to do with the unstable Prince was trouble, without a doubt. She didn't want to associate with the Internationale, nor its members with the likes of Nathan—it was possible that not everyone in the club was in accordance with the Prescott heir—but she didn't want to be too trusting. People don't call the Internationale members hounds for no reason. She kept her distance and pressed on.

Walking around the closest of the five tables in the classroom, there sat an ebony brunette with the same frame as Max, scribbling notes as fast as her hand would allow. Max knew her as Stella Hill, studious to all who did not know her personally. Yet, from the few instances she's seen of her friends talking with the girl, Max could reasonably say Stella was a somewhat laid-back character, an impractical joker that liked to tease her friends. However, Stella was not one without a steadfast dream, it was just hard to tell what such a dream could be, given how often the girl would avoid talking about herself. Max concluded that she was a wildcard—a good person to be partnered with for projects, but a constant chatterbox.

It seemed that Stella was chatting with a girl off to her right, who lounged in a chair, relaxed to a fault. This girl had toned arms and hair a very deep shade of black. Max remembered her name was Alyssa Anderson, a reserved individual who never spoke more than necessary. Even now, Alyssa was letting Stella do most the talking, occasionally humming in acknowledgement. Max left them be and continued onwards.

At another table further back there were three girls, one of which was impromptu posing for another's camera. This model Max remembered to be Dana Ward, a cheerleader for the sports team and a good acquaintance for schoolwork. Caulfield liked Dana; for while she gave off the impression of being airy and bull-headed, she had a good heart, always caring, always wanting to help. Ward was the kind to find purpose in helping others in need, like the girl she was modeling for.

Max felt a twinge of discomfort, not from a disliking of this other girl, but for who she was close with. Long blonde hair framed her denim jacket and denim short-shorts, exposing almost entirely the girl's shapely legs down to her shin-high boots. Max took in the sight of Taylor Christensen, another member of the Internationale, and a personal friend to the Queen of Blackwell sitting next to her, Victoria Chase. Max had no idea what Taylor was like alone, and not in the company of the Queen, so she could only hope that Christensen wasn't as horrid of a person as Chase was.

Max made her way past these tables closer to the front, treading all the way to the back of the classroom and passing by the last student in the class, a lean-built, bespectacled lad by the name of Daniel DaCosta. From what she remembered when they first introduced themselves, Daniel had immigrated from Spain, following the dissolution of the European Union in early 2012. He had mentioned something about how his home country was flooded with migrants from the unending conflict zones in Europe, and thus making Spain a hotbed of crime due to poor management and cultural differences brought by the arrivals. He seemed kind, but Max hardly knew him and hardly cared to bother.

She placed herself in her spot, back of the fifth table in the back of class. Never would she consider sitting up front where all the eyes could—would—be on her. Max liked being the wallflower since it allowed her the opportunity of seeing the world from an outsider's perspective, and not have to pry herself open in exchange. She knew it to be selfish in that sense, but it was second nature to her to be invisible in plain sight.

Max felt another bout of discomfort and checked herself to see if something was wrong. Finding nothing, she looked to all the other students, her gaze finally resting on an empty table closer to where she was in the back, with a computer occupying half the desktop and a giant printer machine stood next to it, hunched in the corner of the room. The chair opposite the computer, usually occupied, was sitting vacant, untouched. It filled Max with a sudden weight in her heart and she partially knew why.

Kate.

Max had one, and only one true friend in Blackwell. It was on the moving day in August, a week before the semester would start and everyone was situating themselves into the dorms. A blonde who had a starry bright smile had knocked on Max's door, asking the brunette if she could be of any help. At the time, Max assumed that this girl was just trying to gain a favor from her, but this notion was dissuaded as they got to know each other. Her name, as Max found out, was Kate Marsh—a devout protestant, born three doors down from her in the same hospital, in the same year, only nine days apart. A heart of gold is what defines Kate best, her ability to be forgiving to mostly anyone who wrongs her was what awed Max the most. The blonde liked to set up tea dates with Max in her room, and they'd sip any flavor of tea she had brought from her grandparent's home in Spokane, and talk 'till the afternoon light would dim.

It then seemed unfair to Max, that her only close friend in this school just so happens to be the ever-constant punching bag by the likes of Queen Victoria and Prince Nathan, they who seemed to have a vendetta against the Christian girl for some unspecified reason. Frankly, it upset Max to no end. To see Kate now absent from photography class, knowing it was the only class they shared, worried her even more. A quick check of her phone revealed that they hadn't texted each other since last Friday, when Kate had gone to that party; Max fretted even more. Terrible possibilities played out in her head, and she shook them away, running a hand through her bangs.

She's fine. Stop worrying so much.

As if gripped by intuition, Max felt the sudden urge to check up on Kate. Yet, Mr. Jefferson took this opportunity to walk into the room and instructed the class to take their seats, with some students like Dana and Alyssa excused themselves to the classrooms they were supposed to be at. Max brought herself from her thoughts and tried to focus on the coming lesson and deal with her concerns later.

"...alright, now that I've sufficiently bored you all about the abilities of editing in Photoshop, we'll get to the final point of this lecture—" and just like that, Max observed the whole class rise with rapt attention, finally interested in Jefferson's words, "As you know, should any of you end up out there in the art world, you will at least once in your life be required to work with someone who is different from you in many ways. The ability to cooperate with these people despite those differences, is the cornerstone of being successful."

He calmly sauntered over to the teacher's desk, grabbed a sheet of paper, then placed himself before the blackboard in front of everyone. He cleared his throat and then smirked, wolfish and giddy. Max found him to have a habitual need for dramatics.

He's so cool when he does it though~

The admiration was a genuine feeling, borne from her own desires. Max longed to have the confidence to stand before a crowd and be able to speak her mind without the crushing weight of others looking to her in expectation. And to see her inspiration commit to such a gargantuan obligation with ease—a true sense of admiration it was! Oh, how she wished to stand by his side, and not be afraid.

Enough with the gushing Max, focus.

"You all will be assigned partners, and with these partners you will be doing a mini-project. This project is going to be due sometime after the Everyday Heroes Contest and involves you finding a unique and—most importantly—unexpected side to your partner. Something I nor anyone else have seen from them. I want you all to get acquainted with your partner, as I will not be reassigning anyone from this point on."

He began listing off coupled names, but Max was now focused on that empty seat, taunting her since the beginning of class. Had she even noticed that Kate was also absent on Monday, yesterday? She had thought it over about how she could excuse herself from class and head back to Kate's dorm room, but she didn't want to earn the ire of Mr. Jefferson. She felt so conflicted about it, she almost didn't hear Jefferson call out her name—

"Maxine Caulfield, you'll be partnered with Victoria Chase."

Wait, what—

Now everyone's eyes were on her, including the pixie blonde that was now her partner, who outright glared at the brunette. Max instinctually shrunk in her seat—if this day had anymore curveballs for her, she'd probably have a breakdown and hole herself up in her room.

Jefferson, for his part, seemed entirely oblivious to the fate he'd laid upon Max, and she felt her emotions stir a bit in aggravation. Once he had finished calling names, he beckoned them for an early dismissal. In seconds, everyone was up and about, some talking with their assigned companions and sparking a conversation.

But not Max and Victoria.

Immediately when Jefferson dismissed the class, Chase was out of her seat and out the door; her aide, Taylor, followed behind post haste, leaving Max all by herself.

Caulfield couldn't care less. One less thing to worry about.

"Max," came a call, and she met Jefferson's eyes, "Could you come up here for a second?"

His voice was twinged with concern, an unusual tone from his normally calm and collected manner. She gathered her things and stood, walking up to her teacher. Mark had returned to his personal desk in the corner of the classroom and was sifting through papers from last project when Max approached.

"Yes, Mr. Jefferson?"

He took a moment to compose himself, looking up to her, "I'd like to explain myself, considering the nature of who you're partnered with."

"I am...aware, of the not-so-savory relationship between you and Ms. Chase," he started, earning a raised eyebrow from Max, "but I don't want this to seem like I'm punishing you. On the contrary, I want this to be a show of your strength—I know that if anyone can make something good out of being with Ms. Chase, then it could only be you, Max."

Gosh, when you put it like that—

"Ah, well, thank you Mr. Jefferson," Max stuttered, "But I'm not so sure if I can. I mean..."

A hand was raised, and she paused.

"We must be truthful to ourselves, before we can be truthful to others. This is what makes the words we speak have meaning, because we mean them to be truthful, and not be hollow or self-serving," he explained, "I know you can do it, Max. Believe in yourself, tell yourself that you can do it, and what you speak will become true."

And with those words, he let her go. Max found it true indeed, that there must be some courage of her own before she could dare to spread her wings.

But should all this effort be sown, especially to someone like the Queen? She who had tormented Max and Kate, and many others during her tumultuous reign here at Blackwell? Max found it hardly fair to waste her time to someone so heartless and cruel. No—she had others who mattered to her more than that, like Chloe, and Kate, and even Rachel.

I wonder what Rachel was like. Would she be someone like Victoria, or would she be someone that I could trust? Perhaps, when we find her, I'll know for certain.

Max didn't want to have to talk to a prissy rich girl like Victoria when she had much more pressing matters. Her phone buzzed, she pulled it from her jeans pocket to see she had received a text message, from an unknown number.

So much for a normal one-on-one, then.

Max navigated the winding gravel trail, leading up the mountain that surrounded the entire east side of Blackwell campus. The condescending tone of the text message hinted to Max that it was Victoria who directed her to meet up at a secluded location, trying to be hard-to-work with. The joke was on that bitchy Queen however, since Max wasn't that disheveled about having to hike to this specified location.

Instead, the hiking reminded Caulfield of the time her family had gone camping, mostly to get away from the struggles of downtown Seattle city life. Her father, a mighty bear of a man named Ryan, had found this nice spot just on the boundary of Olympic National Park, where they could go down a mile or so to Lake Cushman and fish for hours on end. Max thought of those perfectly cooked marshmallows squished together between graham crackers, and looking to magenta sunsets, and the smell of petrichor, and laughing to her dad's stories about shenanigans he did when he was young. Her mother, Vanessa, would always be so worried sick about Max and her dad being back before rain or dark, always doting, always chiding like the mother hen she was.

Max suddenly felt so hollow, knowing her parents were likely missing her a lot. She sighed and marched on, further up the trail.

The brunette walked a curve in the path, past a thick bunching of pines to her left and into a clearing, where a single bench sat forlornly near the edge looking over the expanse of the academy and the town below. On said bench was the pixie blonde that Max was partnered with, a lit cigarette poked from her lips and billowed a faint trail of smoke.

Gravel crunched under Max's shoes as she stepped closer, then stopped. She stood a good distance from the blonde on the bench, and chose to keep her distance.

"…um, Victoria?"

The blonde took a drag from her cigarette, then flicked it to her feet, stomping the flame out before it could touch the nearby grass. With a slight turn of her head, she spoke words like honey, like venom—

"Caulfield."

Chase stood and faced the nervous brunette, her eyes scanning the nobody before her. Emerald green eyes glared down the bridge of the nose, burning with contempt.

Biting back a comment on Max's tasteless attire, Victoria spoke up, "I'm saying this once. If you space out again, I'm just going to leave you to guess, 'cause I'm not repeating myself to you."

So unbelievably arrogant, so unashamedly haughty; it was everything Max disliked about Victoria and the Queen knew how to project it, "I'm pretty sure it is physically impossible to make you be the opposite of whatever waif hipster act you constantly put on, but hey, if you're that good at deceiving others—you're not, by the way—then it shouldn't be that hard for you to come up with something new and original," and Victoria took the time to air-quote those words. Perhaps she really did believe Max was incapable of self-expression.

Just twenty seconds in and Max already felt this was going to be a fruitless endeavor. In the hour and twenty-five minutes of the last school period—which was cancelled due to the teacher being sick without a replacement—and considering the time they had before she called it quits, Caulfield was sure they'd get nowhere at this rate.

"You'll follow my lead, for I know best," Chase asserted, her lips curling into a self-serving grin, "Jefferson will want something unique, something that stands out, and there's no better substitute for such a job than me. Such is the way I am, and that you will never be—"

"What are you, really?"

A pause, as the Queen looks down at Max incredulously, like she really would dare to speak over her superior. A meek peasant never had the gall, much less when face to face with the Queen herself.

"Excuse you?"

"What are you then, Victoria?" Max poked again, louder this time.

A scoff, airy and baffled by the seriousness Max delivered, Chase now looked amused.

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean, then?" the Queen jested, a wicked smirk on her face. Emerald eyes were sharp and jagged with prejudice, "I know it is impossible for you to capture what I'm really like. So, unless you have some idea—"

"I want to know what you think of yourself."

If Max was going to spend an hour and a half with Victoria Chase alone, then she was at least going to make it worthwhile. The Queen obliged to the entertainment.

"Nothing you've ever thought about me, I can assure you that. Now, let's—"

"Do you think I hate you, Victoria?" Max genuinely asked.

Another pause, this one more deliberate. Her brows scrunched up, frustrated at the interruption and even more at the lack of a decent retort. Her fake smile remained.

"I don't know, why, should I? Do you think I concern myself with the opinions of those below me? I figured you'd be smarter than that, Maxine."

"I don't hate you, Victoria," Max curve-balled.

Gone was the smile, in its place was suspicion, "…why are you telling me this?"

"I'm telling you because, believe it or not, I really don't hate you. I really think you're a great photographer, y'know. You remind me of someone famous, like—like Richard Avedon, or…I don't know. Someone who wants to see the greatest truth in others, always trying their best, always achieving the most. The greatest strength you have is being able to guide people to a greater sense of purpose," Max fibbed.

The pixie blonde stood, muted. It seemed too unusual that she was complimented and referenced to the person who indeed inspired her passion of the arts, more so by the one person she was sure outright despised her. Surely there had to be something beyond—

"But—"

There it is.

A sigh, then Max tried again, "Look, I admire you for what you can do, but you don't need to be so…so hostile to everyone. In only a few months I've seen how mean you can be, and I still don't get why you do it. Like, sure, maybe you're just really competitive or something, I don't know. It still doesn't mean you can treat others like trash—"

"This is about Marsh, isn't it?"

Max did not want the point to be about how Victoria had been almost tormenting her friend Kate, but with the way the name came off Chase's tongue, so disregarding, so flippant, it triggered a feeling of agitation within the brunette. She straightened her posture and glared back at the Queen.

"Yes, it is."

"That's all I needed to know."

The royal blonde about-faced and smartly walked to the front of the bench, picking up a black duffel bag Max hadn't noticed on the bench's wooden planks.

"We'll meet again when I'm more prepared and when you're not bullshitting me. Maybe soon, hopefully never."

"Wait, you can't just—!"

"Yes, I fucking can, Caulfield," Victoria was entirely done with the conversation, and nothing Max could say would change her mind, "Now, do me a favor and stay the fuck out of my sight until then—"

Unfortunately for the Queen, she did not account for a strap hanging loose off the metal armrest, which was snagged as she hoisted the bag to her shoulder. The sudden resistance caused her to jerk and lose her balance and the Queen yelped in surprise, rolling off the edge onto the heavy, lumpy rocks surrounding the clearing.

The world spun. Flesh groaned at the sudden friction, and the Queen wallowed in her misery, there in the cold and cutting embrace of the rocks.

Stunned from the fall, Chase was unresisting to the pair of arms that wrapped around her torso and pulled her from these rocks to a slightly less aggravating spot on the gravel. The blonde only saw the sky then, blue and dull from the angle of the late afternoon sun. Her entire back felt as if it were worn away by sandpaper, so scratchy and sensitive to the touch. A bob of brown hair in Victoria's peripheral caught her attention and she looked to Max, seeing the girl pull a red pouch from that ratty messenger bag at her side.

What the hell...?

Victoria became flustered, even more so when she couldn't exactly parcellate why she was feeling flustered in the first place. Watching her sworn rival fiddle with the roll of gauze and disinfectant, and tend to the bleeding wound on her kneecap, she can't help but really think about her words, the entire conversation leading up to this.

Victoria had given Max every reason to want to leave, and she was perfectly fine with that. For Max was true to her emotions, for she was like an open book—nothing was left to guess with Caulfield. The admiration that the brunette held for Victoria's love interest, it was guaranteed to have them compete against each other for his attention. 'Tis why Victoria looked down so quickly at Max, for any weakness was sure to be her detriment, and better was it to keep one's enemies at distance. If anything, she'd hoped to rile up Max enough to get a snapshot of the brunette when she was angry, so maybe then Victoria could have what she needed for the project and leave Max in the dust.

A slight sting accompanied the pressure on her joint, as Max applied the gauze.

Here she lay, the Queen of Blackwell, being helped from her blunder by a peasant, by her not-friend-but-not-enemy. What even was Max to her at this point?

A silence settled between them, where Victoria had nothing by which she could say; but before she could, Max shuffled to her feet and walked to where the duffel bag had spilled open. Chase looked on aghast, seeing the pieces of top-notch equipment that had ended up in the dirt and the rocks, dusty, cracked and broken. To think she had second thoughts about bringing her stuff to this clearing in the hopes of getting some nice angles of Blackwell and the surrounding landscapes. Now what was she to justify this loss? How was she even going to begin explaining to her mother and father that thousands of dollars were thrown away, all because she fucking tripped—?

Max crouched down and picked up a lens. Her free hand reached into her messenger bag and pulled from it a cloth, and she carefully wiped away the dirt and the dust, placing it gently back in the duffel bag still snagged by the bench. Caulfield did this with each piece that she picked up off the ground, as if it was to be expected of her. The thought of this idea being the case brought a pang of some feeling to the pixie blonde's heart, a terrible feeling which took hold so swiftly, she rose a hand to her chest. It was confusing, so damn confusing—

"What are you doing?" Chase finally asked.

The brunette was finishing with the last of the salvaged pieces when she replied, "Fixing them up."

An assured response. As if it was a natural thing, to seek the fulfillment of kindness. It only served to confuse the cold-hearted Queen even more.

"What the hell are you?"

Max looked over, and locked eyes with Victoria, "What?"

"What the hell are you, Caulfield?" Victoria repeated, in a slight daze.

A cautious shrug, "I don't know. I'm me, I guess."

"That's not—why are you helping me? You could have just left me here, so why...?"

Max took some time to answer. When she did, she did not shy away from Victoria, looking the royal blonde in the eyes.

"Because I believe there's someone inside you that's the real you, and not whatever you show everyone else, and I feel like she's been put aside for so long, she doesn't know how to express herself."

Victoria was twitching with discomfort at the words. It seemed to her then and there, that Max wasn't looking at her, no—she was looking into her, at what she herself could not look at. It was disturbingly unfamiliar, this foreign feeling of bareness, of vulnerability—and so Chase rose to her feet, taking a seat at the bench as distant to Max as possible. She occupied herself with pulling the black duffel bag off the dirt and onto her lap, clutching it, checking to make sure all was in order. Perhaps it was all a show to get her to lower her guard, that had to be it—!

All was accounted for. The damage on some of what she brought was plain to see, but it was not the end of the world.

Max sat down on the opposite end, choosing to twiddle her thumbs to occupy herself. Victoria decided to look down at the school, hearing the gentle breeze now whisper in her ear, watching the students below move around the campus like mini figurines, like ants to the grand, external ant hill.

"I'm sorry."

Victoria spared a glance to Max and noticed the brunette had found the dead grass at her feet more interesting for whatever reason. It was nervousness that kept Max from looking back.

"What are you sorry for? I should be the one apologizing," the Queen eventually muttered.

"I'm sorry for being all psycho-analytical there. I didn't mean to strike a chord—"

"Caulfield, stop."

For the first time since she fell from her pedestal, Victoria took control.

"You're…you're right. You're right about what you said. You know I also can't necessarily do anything to change it. I've placed myself on the top because I want to be there, even with its cons. I just—"

She sighed. A reach for her breast pocket on her now dirty black designer shirt left Victoria with no carton of Marlboros, and she felt her brows furrow upon noticing the contents spread over the rocks below, "I just can't change myself like that, I can't just show up tomorrow and be all turned leaf or some shit. Those who'd do anything to see my downfall wouldn't hesitate to knock me off my place, and then what?"

"I'm not asking you to become a different person, Victoria," Max's light-grey hoodie, while bland and tasteless, caught Victoria's attention as it glowed a bright shade of white whenever Caulfield awkwardly shrugged her shoulders.

"Then what do you want from me?" Victoria looked to her.

Max looked back, "I want you to realize you don't have to hurt people to get to your dreams."

And Max had this look, something new, something Victoria had never seen her with before. Max's look of determination carried more feeling than her two-thousand dollar DSLR camera could ever recreate, so pointed and demanding of her to be the person she could be, that she ought to be. It was true that Max wasn't her friend, but Victoria could tell when someone cared about her enough to warrant not being a rival in any sense.

A/N - The Blackwell Internationale, in part with the divergence of this story from the original plotline in Life is Strange, is the school-endorsed, student-led club on campus, its goal being the "fostering of companionship and solidarity between students, by students, for students." Founded in the early stages of Blackwell's academic life in the year 1925, The Blackwell Internationale officially served as a space for students to come together and build relationships.

Over time, the club adopted a more politically motivated populous, following the Second World War and the Red Scare of the 1950's, and was the focal point of small-town Arkadia's civil rights movement within Blackwell. In the storyline's current year of 2013, the Internationale has changed once more, into an elitist clique of urbanite upper-class students, and is the hosting organization for almost all of Blackwell's celebrations and holiday parties. This was further reinforced in the year 2011, when control of the clique was given over to then sophomore and school prince, Nathan Prescott.

After solidifying his control, and with the assurance that the school principal, Mr. Raymond Wells, would not intervene on Blackwell's behalf, Prescott conducted a purge of all members in the clique that were of no use to him, or actively disapproved of him. Following this purge, the Internationale was rumored by the student populous as a cult of social elites, and aside from the several of those students that were loyal or sympathetic to Prescott, applications for joining the club plummeted. In order to curb public opinion about the club, it was negotiated by Principal Wells and Internationale President Nathan Prescott, that the parties for Internationale members exclusively would be abolished, and all parties hosted by the club be mandated public. In return for this, Principal Wells would, under threat of staggering Prescott influence, allow Nathan to included forms of entertainment in such parties that would otherwise not be tolerated on campus grounds, such as the serving of alcoholic substances and various types of narcotics. The Internationale stands as the largest and most influential club in Blackwell and is speculated to remain such for the rest of the academy's lifetime.