"Each of us makes his own weather, determines the color of the skies in the emotional universe which he inhabits." - Fulton J. Sheen
Max walked down the steps and took a left, passing through the corridor that separated the main building and the girl's dormitory. Turning right at the gate entrance to the latter, she lay witness to the dorm courtyard, with its web of concrete paths and vibrant green grass in its plots. To the left, the giant pine trees around the eastern perimeter wall rose up with the mountainside.
Max didn't focus on this for long as she bee-lined it to the dorm entrance, pulling at the aluminum door handle and hurrying inside. She walked with a begrudging gait, taking the stairway opposite to the hallway of the first-floor rooms, up one flight, two flights of stairs, then opening the entrance to the rooms on the second floor.
She made her way past the rows of wooden doors, walking up to one labeled with the number plate 219. She snuck a glance at the door opposite to hers and off to the right, Room 222, and sighed again.
Just get the flash drive, and you'll be back in a moment. It'll be fine. She'll be fine.
She opened her door and was greeted to her homely abode. There lay a bed to her immediate right, and a standard built-in closet on her left, along with a black leather couch and a wooden desk that had been provided by the school, all of which were strewn with Max's personal items. The four walls of the space had been sparsely decorated with posters of various bands, artists, and a string of interior décor lamps that hovered over her bed, rarely used.
She made her way over to the desk, to where one of her most precious possessions, her laptop, sat unused since last night. Tossing the thought of AP English notes aside, she snatched her other dearest possession, the flash drive, and checked her phone.
She had received a message from another friend she had in Blackwell, a self-ascribed geek named Warren Graham. Max liked Warren, and Warren liked Max. She enjoyed having a friendship with him, especially since they shared some classes together and he would help her out with science and chemistry, the bane of her academic existence. However, she wasn't up for the whole romance thing that he wanted, and she cursed her heart for letting him think otherwise for far too long. She had told him in a moment she wished was better timed, after class on a warm September afternoon, when he'd asked her to walk with him for a relaxing stroll in Arkadia Park. He took it well, at least, saying he needed time to get over his feelings.
That was weeks ago, and now everything was relatively normal, enough to where she felt appreciative of him letting her borrow a flash drive containing movies that she'd wanted to see but had no money to buy. The thrill of having it was enough to spur a sense of excitement, a wonderfully subtle rebellion to the tragic realm of motion pictures. With how much the price for buying or even renting out something from some BlockBuster, it seemed only rational to tread on the fine line of piracy with a flash drive.
Except now, Warren was asking for it back, saying he needed it for something important.
She wished he'd be more open about why, but she wasn't interested in trying to open any old wounds.
Though, maybe asking him couldn't hurt.
So, she retraced her steps out the dorm, through the corridor, past the quad in front of Blackwell's main building, past the gymnasium, and down a flight of steps to the Blackwell parking lot. Looking over this packed lot, she spotted Graham lounging upon the hood of his car, a small little blue Hatchback. Shaggy, nape-length curled brown hair blew slightly with the breeze as Warren smiled, waving her over.
"Max, hey."
"Hey Warren," she smiled back.
"D'you get the drive?"
Max fumbled the drive out her pocket, he took it and nodded his thanks.
"So, how's it been? I didn't go to the party last Friday, but you went, right? Must've been wild as ever," Warren suddenly frowned, concerned, "hey, you look a little out of it."
Self-consciousness stunned her. Max now worried about how she looked.
"Yeah, uhm—I've had a helluva day, Warren," Max replied, running a tired hand through her bangs, "same goes for yesterday as well."
He's got a curious glint in his eye, but he shows enough concern to mask it. He chooses to rest on the hood of the Hatchback, his hands in his pant pockets.
"You up to talk about it?"
"Not unless you open up about what you need the flash drive for."
Max said it with a dissuasive smile, letting him know she was joking with him, but he was caught up in her words. Graham looked over the lot, and Max realized he was being serious when he rose from his laxing spot on his car, looking her in the eye.
"It's got something to do with Prescott," he furrowed his brows at the name, "someone snuck into his room after that party last Friday and found a whole stash of these prescription pills or something like that—I'm talking like a whole drawer full of the stuff," he emphasized, "Now, I don't know the details, but they needed a flash drive to keep a copy of the photos they got of it all, and I was the first one convenient for them."
Her interest piqued, Max asked, "Wait, who are they, do you know who these people are, or—?"
"I don't wanna spill—" he stopped himself, reconsidering, "Max, can you promise me to keep this a secret?"
"I promise."
Again, Warren looked about the parking lot. When he was satisfied that they were away from prying ears, he spoke in a hushed tone, "I don't know who broke into his room, but it was mostly Juliet Watson's idea, her and Dana are—were—a part of the Internationale before they got kicked out by Prescott. I'm betting they got some beef with him over that, so they're probably trying to get back at him."
He pulled out the flash drive, a simple design, slightly bigger than Max's thumb, "Since they're friends with Brooke, and she's close to me, they figured that I could help them take Prescott down a peg or two with this little guy right here."
He pocketed the drive, talking boldly once again, "And, well, who am I to disagree with that? I'm tired of him being an asshole to everyone else just because he's got all the money in the world. Y'know, I heard from some talk around here that his hounds been harassing people like Kate and whatnot, and I'm not going to sit by while he does shit like that."
Max realized the power behind that statement and couldn't help but feel the sway of such power send goosebumps on her skin. The tyrant of Blackwell, and his entire livelihood, all at risk within the grasp of a small piece of technology. It was exhilarating, a power trip.
"So, what's been getting to you recently—?"
"Hey, Graham!" a rough voice called from behind Max.
She flinches, feeling the memory of cool air and blue-tiled walls as she turns, eyeing Prescott as he walks from behind a nearby red truck—his truck—and moves closer to them. His face was tilted down, and Max could see the fire in his gaze, superseded by the cold atmosphere that hung around him.
"Why don't you go on and fuck off to your little rat cave for a day or two," he growled to Warren, "I've got some business with the girl."
She froze, like a deer in headlights.
He couldn't have heard them, right? What if he did? What if he knew she was there, in the bathroom yesterday? He knows, he must know, oh God—!
Nathan scowls, angled and predatory as Warren immediately puts himself between Max and the encroaching Prince, "The hell do you want, Prescott? If you think I'm gonna let you try and keep me from my friend—"
"Shut the fuck up, Graham."
Prescott stuffed his hands in the pockets in his letterman jacket, and Max tensed again, suddenly being confrontational wasn't such a good idea. Warren didn't care though, for he was too caught up in the glaring contest with Nathan to notice. Here, the silent clash of wills was so tangibly visible—of who may dare to bow his head and relinquish their dignity in the face of the other's might, but the stakes were too high, much too high for them both. Neither would bend, neither would shy away.
But the geek wanted his answer, so Nathan obliged him, "You want to know what I want Graham? Fine, I'll tell you what I fucking want—" blind was the Prescott heir with his wrath, burning and boiling in his words, that he saw no other path to his desires than what lay before him. Though inundated with his own self-interest, Graham could see what had to be done, and thus planted himself firmly between his friend and the Prescott heir, daring the aggressor to try. The Prince suddenly stepped into Warren's personal space, and that was all it took.
Warren instinctually shoved him away, not enough to send him sprawling but enough to throw his balance off, to get him away. Yet Nathan swiftly countered, closing the distance again with a fist aimed at the boy's face, a sickening thunk sounded as knuckles impacted Warren's cheekbone. Graham tried to roll with the swing but ended up sprawled on the asphalt, as Nathan lost himself to his rage, tackling his opponent and wailing on him with all his might.
Max stood still, horrified, transfixed at the level of swift brutality, for it was infectious and frightening. Adrenaline seized her, and she felt her resolve flare as she chose to help Warren. Taking Prescott under his arms from behind, Max heaved back, throwing him off and giving Graham time to recover. Nathan flung himself from her grip and snarled at her; his back was hunched, and his heels were coiled, his fists were curled tightly, and his eyes burned with hatred. She awaited his strike with bated breath and clenched fists of her own, taking comfort in the fact that if she were to die here, that others would go on and fight the tyrant in her stead.
A car horn dissuaded such a notion, as an incoming truck took both of them by surprise. They threw themselves back as the vehicle swerved short of hitting them.
It was all the distraction Warren needed to drop Prescott with a wild right hook from behind, nailing the rich boy in his right ear and sending him to the ground. The two boys tussled each other, and the fight devolved into a wrestling of will, of who could overmatch the other's strength. Max looked on to see if Warren needed help again—
"Max, get in here, now!"
The passenger door to the truck opened, and Max saw that it was Chloe who was driving the vehicle. The bluenette was waving her arm to her frantically, pleading with her to get out of the fight and bail with her. Deciding quick, Caulfield jumped into the passenger seat, slamming the door and holding tight as Chloe gunned the engine, leaving the two boys and an approaching security guard behind in their dust.
"God-damn, Max, if I had known that you were busy ousting that fucker from his throne all this time, I wouldn't've given you so much shit earlier!"
Max gave a dry chuckle to Chloe's joking remark, adjusting herself to the ragged cushions of her seat. Truth be told, Max wasn't upset at Chloe's brashness, but rather still hyped on the rush from being in what technically counts as her first fight. Sure, there'd been this one time back in Seattle where she'd gotten a lucky swing on some homeless person trying to steal her father's toolset, but that hardly counted as her dad had dealt with that hobo immediately afterwards.
But this? This was her high point, the apex of her street record here at Blackwell. Oh, but to recall the beating Warren took keeping Nathan occupied—it was worrisome. Without him, she'd probably be a bloody mess on the ground, dead from one-too-many blows to the head.
But that's why she's got Chloe right now: to help her out of situations that would normally spell her untimely demise at the hands of outside forces.
They traveled the weathered grey asphalt of Oak Avenue, turning right onto Main Street. Chloe took the route that directed them northwards, outside the town limits and, if they traveled far enough, to Astoria.
Max didn't care where they ended up, she just wanted to be away from Blackwell and Prescott and everything that gave her stress. She trusted Chloe to guide her to where her heart could beat with ease, despite it only being a day since they reunited. It felt so surreal to her in that sense, to be so comfortable around each other despite the gap of time stretching between them.
Perhaps, this only stems from the feelings that one harbors for such misgivings, these horrid choices and outcomes that we forget we cannot always control. If such stretches of time were to separate them, then they could not exist as friends, for what then would those childhood memories they had created been for? What would become from discarding those moments, those adventures they had way back when?
Apparently, getting near mauled by some unstable rich kid gives me philosophical thoughts.
Max shook her head loose from the figurative train-wreck and braced herself as Chloe took an abrupt right turn, the rusty truck veering onto a dirt road with grass still growing in a line between the wheels. They jostled with the uneven terrain and came to a standstill outside a wire fence, surrounding a small biome of old, rusted forgettables. Old appliances, vehicles, worn out construction equipment, and a sea of wood and rusted metal.
"Home sweet home."
The way Chloe says it reminds Max of when the bluenette once said that about her actual home, down on Cedar Avenue. She supposed it meant that there were some grand memories that Chloe hadn't shared with her yet. Hopefully, time will permit Caulfield to see such a nostalgic place.
They got out the truck, and Chloe moves quickly to a cinderblock structure farther in the back, shouting a c'mon, Max! over her shoulder.
Max took her time, walking slowly and admiring an old, rusted car balanced atop a mountain of debris. Like alcoves in a museum, this shelter of chaos had left a space for one to walk through, enough to observe every trinket, every forgotten relic. Now she observed a washing machine, its door having been ripped off and the cylinder looking torn within, she couldn't help but think that this place reminded her of Chloe, in a way.
Broken, forgotten. Icy blue eyes wide with fright.
A hand comes up to pinch the wrinkled bridge of her nose, with a sigh she focuses on the door—more a door-shaped opening—of the building, and walks in.
Weird memories, weird feelings—this isn't right. It's—it's 'cause of the weird shit I've been dreaming, that's all it is. Get a grip.
Through the threshold, Max takes in the interior, seeing one wall layered with exotic articles of cloth; at least, exotic considering the standard of this junkyard. Above was a giant hole in the roof—the metal rebar still remained, but otherwise it wouldn't stop any rainfall. On two sides of the walls, opposite to Max and also on her left, there were makeshift benches layered with towels and facing a small round wooden table. The tabletop was strewn with empty beer bottles, some takeout from a local restaurant, and of all things, a palette of makeup and polish remover. Chloe sat to the right in an old La-Z-Boy, nursing a freshly opened bottle of beer. So lost in the ambience was Max, that she damn-near tripped over an unseen baseball bat on the concrete floor.
The bluenette chuckled a bit, rising to a full-blown laugh as Max glared daggers at this baseball bat. Her signature Caulfield pout was showing clear, and with some smugness Chloe quipped, "Ya' should'a saw that coming, Maximus; always expect the unexpected. Like that baseball bat—ow, hey!"
The trade of pouts was complete as Max gave Chloe's shoulder a light smack, the mousy brunette smirking her victory as her taller friend nursed her smacked deltoid.
"There, now we're even."
"Oh, come on, I have a little chuckle and now I'm the evil one? Ess-em-aych, Max."
A curve of the eyebrow was all Max would offer to Chloe, that and, "Essem-what?"
"Y'know? The acronym or whatever?"
"Uh…no?"
Price sits up from her languid position on the chair, taking a dramatic swig of the alcohol and smiling with not a care in the world.
"Jesus, you're so fucking clueless," Chloe chuckled, a mighty grin on her face, "come on Max, I know you didn't live under a rock all these years."
"Damn, Chloe, you really got me laughing here," the brunette deadpanned, "Seriously though, what the hell does S-M-H mean? Smack my hams?"
A snort was all she got.
"Chloe, come on, what does it mean?"
"It means 'shaking my head', Max, you perv—" a wheeze, it shouldn't be this funny, it really shouldn't.
"Fuckin'— 'smack my hams'," the punk was red in the face, then fell into a coughing fit, laughing so hard. A swig of the beer only paused her wheezing, and then she continued, much to Max's embarrassment.
"It really isn't that funny," Caulfield rolled her eyes as Chloe snickered madly, grinning despite herself. It was the dumbest shit alright, and it was true that Max never got behind the acronyms that most people used, but it was a bit funny. It seemed better to mess around like this, than do anything the outside world could offer her as of now, and Chloe was now in good spirits, "don't tell me you still say, 'Oh my Dog' unironically, I want to think you're still redeemable."
An indignant huff, "Oh come on, are you cereal? I haven't said that since seventh grade."
"Heh, cereal. Haven't heard that one in a while," Chloe cackled, then, more slyly, "also haven't heard about you getting a new boyfriend."
Max flushed, and spoke tersely, "Warren is not my boyfriend, don't get your hopes up."
"I'm just sayin', you know how guys are. They get all protective an' shit only because they want something in return," another swig from the bottle, "least that's how it's been for all the guys I've seen."
"Warren isn't like that, Chloe," Max stood fast to her belief, "besides, I...I already talked to him about it. He knows how I feel about him, and we've accepted that."
Price side-eyes her, stone-faced, then smiles ever the slightest, as if proud, "If you say so."
"Besides, this other girl is already on top of him anyways, it'd make no sense to ruin our friendship like that."
Chloe was mid-swig, and nearly choked on her drink as she spat it out, blindsided and cackling, "Damn, Max, go on."
A shake of the head, as the brunette also smiled too, "It's just, she wants him, and I don't want to get in the way of that."
Max takes a seat on one of the wooden planks, finding out that it doesn't hurt as much and it's actually rather homely once you ignore all the dust. Caulfield eyed the makeup set, perched between the green beer bottles and that empty carton of leftover takeout. She idly wondered what a perfectly good makeup set, only somewhat used if the full assortment of colors were anything to go by, would be doing here in a trashy place like this.
"That's Rachel's."
The somber inflection was what pulled Max from her reverie. She looked to Chloe, who eyed the plastic case like as if it were the very thing that broke her heart.
"It's her favorite of the three sets she has. There's this specific shade of shadow that she uses, the one right there," she pointed towards it, and Max identified it as the one most used of them all, "It brought out her eyes every time she had it on."
Another swig, this time remorseful.
"I never told her before, but it was my favorite too, 'cause when she'd look at me all excited and happy, her eyes would shine."
As if the girl in question was right in front of her, Chloe stared into nothing yet everything, "She's the best thing I had all those years. I don't mean to be hurtful, Max, but she was there for me when you weren't. She saved me from doing real…really bad things—"
It did hurt, but Max took comfort in the fact that Rachel had been there for Chloe in her stead. After the jealousy, after the cloud of emotions swirling in her heart, the brunette realized that she'd accept the pain if it meant Chloe would feel a desire to keep going in life.
"We planned on getting the hell out of this place, her and I; just up and out to the great hills of LA. She'd be the model that she always wanted to be. I'd be a mechanic or somethin', and we'd have our own place, small and cheap, but it'd be ours. We would make it big one day, y'know. Maybe she strikes a big contract, or I win the lottery or something, but one day."
Another swig, except Chloe realizes the little amount remaining is gone, already drunken in her nostalgic stupor. She tosses the bottle towards a small trash can a few feet away, a clunk sounded as the glass sailed through the lid.
"That was our dream, and nobody could take that from us."
Chloe had something else on her mind, and the alcohol in her system spurred the bluenette even more, "It was this Blackwell party, had something to do with the student club that fucker, Nathan, runs at Blackwell. Rachel wanted to go, but I got a bad case of the cold. I told her to go without me. I didn't think she'd—"
Fingers dug into the worn leather of the armrests as Chloe took a deep breath, steadying herself. Max watched as the tension in her friend's shoulders receded, like a flip of the switch, Chloe slumped back into her chair.
"I don't want to think she's gone, Max."
"When was the party, Chloe?"
"April, six months ago."
Six months. In a twist of cruel, morbid thought, Max wondered if Chloe would've searched for her for six months like she's done for this Rachel, with how much she meant to her best friend. Either way, there was a very good chance that Rachel had truly ditched Chloe, having found no use for the punk and fucked off to who-knows-where—
Or most likely, Rachel was gone.
"Chloe, can I be honest with you?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't think Rachel is coming back," as soon as Max said it Chloe flinched, the pain of what could be the truth was powerful in that regard, "But if she's out there, we can find her—we will find her. You and me. Like pirates from way back when."
A light shines in Chloe's heart and is reflected in her sudden smile, an airy chuckle follows, "Yeah huh, the pirates of Arkadia. Long Max Silver and Cap'n Bluebeard, on the hunt for some grand treasure, lost to the wretched seas and time itself."
Rising from her seat, the captain looks to her first mate, renewed with the bond of friendship, tried and tested but still never broken, "Come the next morn, we'll ride once more, for riches, for adventure!"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n. For riches, for adventure—" a yawn interrupts Max's spiel, "For sleep, goddamn."
A laugh, hearty and full of life greets her broken mantra, and Max smiles, looking forward to the coming day.
Max blinked.
The rain patters off the shoulders of her jacket and drips from her bangs. The wind roars in her ears.
A slab of concrete and rebar sailed across her vision, losing much of its initial velocity and slamming into the asphalt of the street, tumbling into jagged chunks of debris as she stands. Caulfield is deaf to the crash of metal on rock, she looks not to the sheet metal roof of a building being torn off like wrapping paper. Max sees nothing but the vortex towering from the black water of the bay, its talons of moisture like claws digging their destructive grip into the land and sea. An orbit of material surrounded this great monstrosity of nature, specs of wood and concrete and metal, of cars and trucks and homes and everything that once held rigidity, swept in the great leaping wind!
The Storm glares down at Arkadia and reaps its reward. Nothing shall remain.
Max blinked.
The light of day reaches the forest floor despite the shade. The subtle sway of the brush is all that hints of what once lived.
Silence reigned, here in the expanse of the pines, and the fir trees. The birds have gone quiet this time.
Hairs stand on the back of her neck, and she snaps her head to the distant sound of a twig crunching underfoot. Her heart drums, the shakiness of her breath rumbles along in a panicked tune. The safety catch on her rifle is slowly clicked back.
Her rifle—?
Max blinked. She looked down.
A shovel lies in her gloved hands. They still sting from the friction, but at least it's better than nothing. But it does not explain what had brought her here, into the petrichor of the early morning?
The trench is six feet from the floor and stacked on a treble system. Notches in the trench line would disperse the possibility of an artillery shell from exploding in the trench and sending fragments of hot, jagged lead from tearing through everyone and everything up and down the line. It was an attempt to minimize the casualties that would result from a direct hit on the trench.
And you know this specific piece of information, how?
From the section leader with the clipboard, somewhere over there—
Max turns her head to where she could've sworn the voices came from, but the glare from the morning fog is too bright to make anyone out. So, she looks back down to the drainage ditch she was working on and drives the shovel's spade into the earth.
Max blinked.
Her foot slips from the loss of support, and she braces her arms for the rough impact onto the rocks. Though weathered by the rain, their edges were unflinching to the sudden assault by the flesh of her arms, scratching away at her skin with ease. She bled rivers as she staggered back up, her hand catching on something that wasn't callous like the limestone surrounding her and she looked up to find a hiking boot.
The Queen stared down at her. She made no move to help Max onto the clearing.
Max didn't hate her, especially now that there was blood on some perfectly good shoes. Caulfield would hate it to ruin her own shoes like that as well.
No, she's just afraid of the gaping void waiting to swallow her down below.
Wait, the what—?
She looks back, and the nothingness is there, it's here, it's everywhere and nowhere and she can't see her hands even though she knows she's holding them up to her face. She blinks, but nothing changes. She wrenches her eyes shut, then blinks again, and again—
Max.
Max.
Max—?
Max blinks her eyes open.
"Dude, you good?"
Caulfield snaps to a sitting position, her tailbone aching from the pressure of the hard wood bench she was laying on. She's in the blockhouse, in the junkyard. It's still got the late afternoon sunlight shining through the blocks.
And Chloe was crouched next to her, looking a bit concerned.
"W-what—what happened?"
"You got real tired and passed out. It's been a half-hour or so," Chloe explained, "I figured you needed the sleep, but you got all twitchy for a second there, so I nudged you awake."
"Ah...shit."
I am tripping. Just straight tripping. I'm going to end up in an asylum at this rate.
"Hey, you wanna get back to Blackhell? I mean, I don't blame you for wanting to stay away from that place, but it looks like you could use some actual shut-eye."
Max pondered for a moment, watching the deep orange rays of light glow from over the horizon of the trees, "...yeah. I should."
A/N - It is of my own experience, as the writer, that I make this claim: Friendships are the building block to the fulfillment of a well-lived life. In tangent with the memories that one creates through these friendships, one may also create the feeling of trust, of worth, that which cannot be separated easily by entropic entities like time. Max and Chloe's friendship stands as the prime example of what it is to be friends, to be companions, comrades, BFF's, whatever one defines it. While I refuse to proceed with anything farther than this platonic relationship, I understand why such conceptions of romantic feelings for these two are played out in canon and in many a fic. Indeed, we all wish for a trust that can supersede time itself, for without it we are left hollow, and in some cases, without meaning or purpose.