October 7, 2013 - Second Choice Timeline
The blinding flash of the jump faded, and Max stood, shaking out her photo as she did, but with a little too much shake. Her body felt relaxed in that moment of emergence, at least more relaxed than it had been, only awash in the normal tension of social anxiety and the confusion of her preceding vision; and yet there was an emptiness that flooded over her in the absence of pain, an absence that was so startling in its severity that only in that lack did she truly become aware of just how much pain she had been in mere moments earlier (months later). Despite that lack, however, her anxiety carried with her, washing over her anew, adrenaline and cortisol flushing through her system as her mind convinced the rest of her that it was fight or flight time.
And there before her eyes loomed the Dark Room and that voice, his voice, the Voice.
"Oh, that's great… Oh Max… This angle highlights your purity, see?"
Max shut her eyes tight, fighting off that vision. She couldn't let that past (future?) bleed through; not now. Now she needed to focus on this past, this present. This fight or flight time. Yes, her arms weren't strapped down (though she could still feel that tape binding her wrists, threatening to plunge her back to that place and time), but a different danger lingered now – an old danger and a new danger. And so much more.
She was back in that bathroom now, back on the seventh of October in the place where it all began. She opened her eyes, and was greeted with that dingy blue and white tile, the Dark Room for now banished. She had made it back, but that old danger would be beginning again now – Nathan.
Yes, it was fight or flight time. It really, really was.
Victoria had been dying in her arms moments earlier; Warren and Allyssa were dead, and Dana had been shot, and everything that she had spent the past two months saving had been in jeopardy. Only that wasn't the case now. There was no semi-truck blasting across the intersection; no beige van running down her friends, no men with guns shooting up her –
– Oh wait.
The door opened and shut, and Max knew that a different man with a gun had just entered the scene. Max backed towards the janitor's cart and the fire alarm. Across from her, above the tampon dispenser and through the open window, she could make out the flickering veil of washed out time pulsing outside.
When a door closes, a window opens… or something like that.
She had so much to do, and there her deadline loomed, ready to close in at any moment. Yet her whole body trembled now, her throat closing up, and her grief threatening to slam down over her. So much loss hung over her head, a pendulum swinging ever lower towards her: the loss of all the friendships that she had built – the literal loss of those friends killed on that road, and the equally literal loss of the persons those friends (dead and alive) had become but would now never be. Then there was the pain and the fear, knowing that someone had wanted her dead (the Prescotts), and the loss of Chloe once more, because that voice, that voice had been more than a delusion, hadn't it? Because if it weren't, if that Chloe had been all in Max's head, then where was that voice now?
Max waited but Imaginary Chloe did not speak. She did not allay Max's fears, and she did not encourage her to keep going. She was nowhere to be found now, her voice absent and replaced rather with the manic ravings of Nathan Prescott.
"It's cool, Nathan. Don't stress… You're okay, bro… Just count to three."
And with that voice came another tension. Max's breathing hitched, and her heart raced. What in the literal hell? She was in true shock therapy, every trigger and every nerve exposed at once – the flash of that camera threatening to steal her into the past, Nathan's very present voice sending her into a panic attack, the death of her friends, literal and temporal, sending her in a grief spiral, and Chloe's voice ripped away, replaced with that sociopath's own voice, the loss hurling months of depression back at her, slamming all that pain onto her at once.
"Don't be scared," Nathan said, and no matter how much Max tried to suppress the surging anxieties and panic and grief swirling within her, she couldn't.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't be the woman she needed to be. She couldn't stand up to this, to him, to time and death and the universe. She was just a teenager. She was barely eighteen years old. She was supposed to be worrying about boys ( girls! ) and tests and college admissions; not psychotic photography teachers and their unhinged mentees.
Max slid to her knees, as that manic voice continued its rant, the speaker leaning unseen against the sink caught in the middle of his psychotic pep talk.
"You own this school…"
It was too much. So, so much.
"If I wanted, I could blow it up…"
Why should she be the one to make this right? Why was it all on her?
"You're the Boss…"
It was so unfair. This wasn't how the world was supposed to work.
The door opened once more.
"So what do you want?" Nathan asked, and Max's heart leapt, its pace quickening even more if that were possible, and she could feel a new tension rising within her as her stomach seemed to empty and twist.
"I hoped you checked the perimeter, as my step ass would say."
Chloe. Chloe was here now. She wasn't the Chloe Max had spent that week with; not the Chloe over which Max had grieved for two months, nor even the Chloe that had been there for her on the roadside as her world had collapsed around her, but it was still Chloe.
"Now, let's talk bidness –" she said, and that voice was mere feet away. Nothing more than a single empty stall separated Max from her best friend, from the woman she loved. So yeah, life was unfair, and the world was looking to her to make this horrible situation right, and it was too much; but she could do it.
She had to.
Max eased her messenger bag from her shoulder, slipping out her journal with one hand while lowering herself to peer under the janitor's cart.
This tactic worked the first time. No sense playing with the classics.
"I got nothing for you." Nathan's voice took on a determination that attempted to mask his earlier panic. Yet Max knew that panic was still there, just beneath the surface. Soon it would erupt.
She set aside her journal and pen (I'll be needing those), then reached under the cart and pulled out the hammer hiding beneath. She needed to be ready.
"Wrong," Chloe said. "You got hella cash."
Max grabbed her journal, tucked the hammer under one arm, and leaned up by the fire alarm. She couldn't hit it, yet. Too soon. She needed every second she had. She flipped her journal open to the first blank page and began writing.
"That's my family, not me," Nathan said, as if Chloe would ever believe that line.
"Oh boo hoo, poor little rich kid. I know you been pumpin' drugs n shit to kids around here. I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them. Man, I can see the headlines now."
"Leave them out of this, bitch." That manic edge had returned to Nathan's voice. Chloe was pushing him too hard. She had let her temper into the driver's seat and it was leading her nowhere good, and fast.
A little bit longer, Max thought. Just get this message right and wait for the cue. "Nobody would even miss your "punk ass" would they?" If you hit the alarm then, she doesn't have to be shot.
And she couldn't, she couldn't let her be shot. Max could rewind it, of course, but she couldn't bear to hear Chloe die. Not again. She'd just have to hope her message was clear enough in the time given.
"I can tell everybody that Nathan Prescott is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself –" Chloe's words cut off and her anger suddenly subsided. Nathan had pulled out his gun now. Max knew it. She recognized the shift in the conversation, and the soft metallic click of the gun being withdrawn from his waistband.
Max was almost there. She could get this message right, and she could save Chloe; save her both here and on that cliff. If Arcadia Bay was doomed either way, to a storm or bloodshed, then she was saving Chloe.
"You don't know who the fuck I am," Nathan yelled, "or who you're messing around with!" That gun was rising now on the other side of the stalls, over by the sink. Max didn't have to watch to see it. She had seen this moment too many times already.
"Where'd you get that? What are you doing?" Max could hear Chloe's own panic rising. She wished that Chloe didn't have to go through this. She wished that she could have ended this whole confrontation sooner, but she had no guarantee that would work, and she needed to finish this message. If only Max could focus.
"Come on, put that thing down!"
"Don't EVER tell me what to do," Nathan said, slamming his free hand into the wall by Chloe's head. "I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!"
Almost there. Come on, Max.
She scribbled furiously. It was so difficult to focus on getting this message right and making sure she stopped Nathan at the right time; let alone keeping her panic at bay. Her breathing still came too rapid, but neither Chloe nor Nathan could hear it over their own deadly melodrama playing out in escalating shouts.
"You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs – "
"Nobody would ever even miss your "punk ass" would they?"
Ah, and there it was. Max closed her book, and smashed the hammer hard into the fire alarm, then slammed her journal into the bell. The alarm sounded, ringing out through the halls of Blackwell.
"No way…" Nathan started, then Max heard that knee to the groin, and Nathan collapsing to the floor.
"Don't ever touch me again, freak!"
The door opened and shut, and she knew Chloe had made her exit. Gently, Max set the hammer down, and propped her journal back open. Nathan wouldn't check back here. Max's role in his melodrama was over. Now she had a message to finish.
"Another shitty day…" Nathan said, making his own exit.
Max eased herself down into the corner, furiously scribbling her entry of warning, rereading it and adjusting it, trying to get it just right. She only had about fifteen to twenty seconds before David would come busting through that door.
Hey Max, It's me. You. You don't remember the bathroom do you? The fire alarm? David's coming, and he's going to catch you here, and you're going to have to tell him and Wells that you pulled the alarm. You did, only it was you from the future: me.
Remember that vision of the girl getting shot? That was Chloe. Yeah, she's kind of a punk badass now. You saved her life. You hit the alarm as Nathan pulled out the gun.
It's all tied together and even I don't know how, but you can rewind time. Just reach out your arm and pull it back. Strange, huh? No time to go into detail. I have a feeling you'll be trying it out soon enough.
The important bit is that you tell Wells that Nathan had a gun, then you get on out and go about your day. You owe Warren a flash drive, remember? From here you're on your own.
I'm not going to give you any more details, lest you try to change them.
But eventually a time is going to come, and you're going to have to make a choice; and you're going to think you know the right one. But no matter what you do, you save Chloe. Okay?
I've hit the alarm now. Time's running out.
Save Chloe.
If you have you to choose, you choose Chloe.
Every. Time.
Not the Bay, Max. Chloe.
Always Chloe.
Max heard the door open, and then she saw the wall of time closing in. She kept the journal open on her lap, hoping the Max that took her place would see it. She needed her to see it.
"Hello?" David called out, his paranoid voice echoing through the empty bathroom. "Anyone here?"
Max leaned her head back against the empty stall behind her and stared up at the far wall. That's when she noticed the red-inked graffiti scrawled across it:
I hate Victoria Chase!
And Dog, it wasn't fair. In a few minutes, she would hate Victoria Chase. It wouldn't be her Victoria anymore; no the mean girl Queen Bee would be back. Only, of course, when this Max came to, it would be December 19th, and Victoria would likely be dead; killed by Jefferson or by the storm. She would die hated, alone in a bunker and what a fucked up parallel was that? She could let Chloe die, hated and alone in a dirty bathroom, or let Victoria die, hated and alone in a filthy bunker.
No, it just wasn't right, and as the washed out overexposure closed in, Max could feel the tears falling and finally the trauma of everything that had been collapsed over her. She could let it out now. She didn't have to be strong anymore. Finally, finally, she could rest.
And she did.
And she wept.
And the world blurred away to white.
March 17, 2013 - Current Timeline (Photo Jump)
Once more Chloe could hear Rachel's voice in that white-washed world, the light blinding out all else save for Rachel's words calling to her, echoing through the void of time.
"Just pose for the camera, bitch." Rachel laughed, and Chloe felt herself resisting that urge to be there for this girl; this girl that had ruined their relationship, that had cheated on her, and lied to her, she reminded herself. She needed that edge, that anger, just enough to resist that usually irresistible allure.
Keep it together, Price, she thought, mad at how quickly she naturally slipped into forgiveness around this girl; how easily Rach penetrated her defenses and lowered her barriers.
"Fuck that. Keep quiet before step-ass hears," her own voice followed suit.
"I need something to show for Jefferson's class tomorrow."
And of course this photo had to have been for that psychopath's class; because the universe, it hated Chloe Price. Man, did it hate her. Her life was just one big cosmic joke, and one that didn't even have a good punchline — just a bullet to the gut in a dirty bathroom at some elitist prep school that didn't even want her; that rejected and cast her out.
Yeah, thank you, Universe. You can't fucking kill me, but you can make sure the only way to save me is to confront my cheating, dead ex-girlfriend, while she's taking a photograph to turn in to the psychopath that'll murder her in just over a month's time. That last bit's a real kicker: la piece de resistance, merci beaucoup.
And while we're at it, fuck you very much, Universe.
"Hell no. I'm not posing for your pervy teacher," the past Chloe continued, her voice piercing through the washed out white of the jump.
"Come on. Play nice," Rachel lobbed back.
"Here. Best I can do."
A click sounded as the flash went off and the world slowly faded into focus. Chloe was in her room, again, Rachel leaning against her once more, Chloe's middle finger still flying in its venomous salute to that stupid hipster, photography teacher (psychopath).
Beside Chloe, Rachel leaned over her viewfinder, checking out the still of the two of them. "I don't know, Chloe. I think it captures you. Cuts right down to your true self. Hard exterior, but a gooey, soft core."
Rachel Amber was right beside her… again.
Focus, Chloe thought. You've got to play this right. Stay calm and to the script. Yeah… yeah, you've got this.
Rolling her shoulders as she limbered up and prepared herself for the role (see Rach, your damn drama girl theater routine rubbed off on me, didn't it?), Chloe tried to remember that March afternoon now seven months past. She needed to stick to the details as best as she could.
"Fuck that," Chloe said, stumbling into a false bravado and hoping that she matched that past self for whom the words had flowed naturally in the moment. "I'm hella hardcore."
"Hella," Rachel laughed.
And for a moment, Chloe's head tilted, or at least, her mind titled and she could feel a vertigo taking over as the world crashed in, two cymbals clanging together with her head at their center.
The world spun and Rachel seemed to pause there, concern blossoming in her eyes and Chloe could almost hear that tremulous worry in her voice.
"Are you sure you're okay? I know we needed this weekend, but with everything… with you, with the call…"
The call, Chloe wondered, not remembering any calls of such significance that they would earn their own definitive article, that they would become more than a call but The Call with a capital T, capital C. Hell, who even called now, anyway? If you couldn't say it in a text did it bear saying?
Whatever that call may have been, Rachel's words faded and in that same instant Rachel simply continued her laugh and clapped Chloe's shoulder and leaned in for a soft goodbye kiss as if she had never said a thing. And part of Chloe wondered if she had, her own head reeling and pulsing, a headache brewing that she imagined was just a fraction of the trauma that often accompanied Max's jaunts through time.
Chloe hesitated, as her world leveled out and Rachel's lips brushed her own. This was as it was supposed to be. She couldn't afford to mess it up. Rachel needed to leave out that window so that she, so that Chloe, could set things right. She pushed down thoughts of Rachel and Frank, Rachel and Jefferson, Rachel and Nathan, of all that had been or would be, and focused on letting herself return to that moment so long ago: the soft touch of their lips together, the gentle caress of tongues flirting, but never piercing between those lips, just teasing and brushing, and a light nibble, and then they pulled apart, just as they had then.
"See you, tomorrow?" Rachel asked, her eyes still swimming in the allure of the moment passing.
"Yeah. Tomorrow," Chloe said, forgetting her script; lost herself in that moment, in the love that had been and that in that moment still was.
"You sure, you're okay?"
Rachel paused, and Chloe knew that the deviation had been noticed, but it felt recoverable. Even still, she felt that urge rising to yell, to shout, to let out all those feelings of betrayal that lay hidden between them. She didn't though. She couldn't. She buried those feelings - they had already been vented in a previous replay of this day. She did not need to let them out again; not now. She needed to focus on anything else. She needed to return to the script previously drafted.
"Yeah," Chloe said. "Fuck yeah," she added, noticing the doubt in Rachel's eyes. She reached out, and caressed that blonde hair, staring into those hazel eyes so clouded with uncertainty. She brushed her lips once more to Rachel's own, gentle and in passing, a soft peck and no more.
Then she smacked the girl's ass, Rachel jumping at the sudden contact, so in conflict with the soft caress of lips that it broke.
"Now get on back to the homefront before dear district attorney calls out the search party."
"To hell with James," she said, leaning back into Chloe, apparently eager to reengage that embrace.
"Okay," Chloe said, pushing back. "Well then hit Blackwell, but you can't stay here, babe."
God damnit. Of course, Rachel suddenly wanted to stay, because yeah, nothing can ever be easy. Not for Chloe Price, no thank you. Gonna have to take that hard road, please. The one full of pain and tragedy and constant fucking roadblocks and flat tires. There won't be any smooth sailing here, no. Not at all.
"What?" Rachel glanced up, a hint of hurt in her eyes. Why couldn't this girl just be more predictable? Chloe had changed one line of script, one line, and the girl had suddenly leaned in to stay, and now Chloe didn't know how to course correct. It was as if every moment of Rachel's existence flowed forward on a river of whim and whimsy, diverted by the slightest pebble in its path to a new end, a new destination; and of course it would have to be the one least conducive to Chloe's plans.
"Rach, I'd love to just crash, the two of us, but step-douche ain't gonna make that easy."
"American Rust?"
"Maybe," Chloe offered back, though she knew that maybe was actually a no. She had no intention of going to American Rust. Not tonight. She had more important things to which to tend.
"Something's bothering you." Rachel planted one hand to her hip, the other to Chloe's window frame, paused mid-exit.
And yeah, of course something was bothering Chloe. Time was ticking away, the sands draining down the glass, and still Rachel hadn't left like she was supposed to, and every minute that she stayed was one more minute wasted in which messages weren't being recorded and plans laid out for the Chloe that would remain; one more minute gone that could mean the difference between success and failure, life and death. One more minute in which Chloe stayed confronted by the living, breathing, loving visage of her girlfriend whom she had just discovered yesterday, discarded like trash in the very dump to which the girl had just invited her. Her girlfriend for which she had been desperately seeking for six months; her girlfriend that had been cheating on her and lying to her, and who, god damnit, she still loved even so.
Anything else, anything else, anything else, she thought, over and over, attempting to stay on course; to not let her grief or her anger take over and derail this moment.
"The call?" Chloe blurted, before she could stop herself, seizing on the one thought swirling through her head that had nothing to do with that week, that bleak future for which she was attempting to course correct.
"The call?" Rachel paused there in the window, appearing just as puzzled by the question as Chloe was asking it.
"Yeah," Chloe started, realizing she'd gone off script, but also helpless to fully abandon this line of thought. She stared out at the pulsing white-washed cigarette flicker of a sky, and seeing no movement, no impending collapse, she continued forward. "Earlier, you seemed worried about me, and you asked if I was doing okay, if, I don't know, with everything going on this week, with the call, if I guess the weekend had helped, or I was still hung up on it? I didn't quite get the gist."
"Uh… no idea what you're talking about Chloe. I didn't ask about any call."
"Wait, what?"
Chloe winced. What sort of time fuckery was this now? She'd heard her. She'd heard her ask. But she'd also heard Rachel laugh and felt her lean in, and had they really both happened at once? One real, one a hallucination? No. No, too many time shenanigans (there's that word, again) for this to just be a coincidence.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel said. "You're not still high, are you? I'm not leaving you alone with step-ladder if you're high."
"Oh my God! Stop calling him that, already."
"Fine, don't bite my head off."
"Sorry, just… no, no I'm not high. Just a little worn out from the concert I guess. Long weekend and all."
"Okay…" Rachel hesitated there in the window, her wavering gaze a question mark waiting for an answer.
"I'm fine. I'm not high. Just get going. And I'll see about catching you at American Rust, okay?"
"Yeah, sure." Rachel paused, then leaned forward stealing one more peck on Chloe's lips, startling the girl from her puzzled reverie, then rushed out the window. "See you, tonight." With that, she descended from the awning and ran out across the yard, vanishing into the milky whitish-orange of that flickering timefield.
Chloe let out a sigh of relief, almost sliding back against her mattress as the stress of getting Rachel out of her room finally lifted from her shoulders. Almost sliding back, but not. The siren call of that mattress would have to wait. There was still work to be done.
Rushing to her closet, she threw out box after box until she found it: the Box of Max. Gently, she set aside their old drawings, including some scattered panels of The Adventures of Super Max and Dr. Chloenstein. For years those strips had been discarded in this old box, the sight of them making Chloe almost vibrate with anger. Now, after having lived that week with Max, she wished that she had the time to flip through those panels, to relive those childhood moments. She still didn't know exactly why Max had stopped texting, why she had ghosted her in those five years apart, yet she had forgiven her; Chloe knew that whatever Max's reasons (stress, fear, guilt, all of the above), Max had never stopped thinking about her, caring about her (more?).
Leaving the comics aside, Chloe dug deeper into the box, pulling out a mixture of old pirate clothes (not the main outfits; she'd left those in the fort last summer), and Mr. Spyglass, and finally, the remains of their time capsule, and with it, her tape recorder, Max's farewell cassette still inserted. She didn't want to record over that tape, yet she looked back, and Chloe could see that flickering wall of white and orange shuddering outside the window, and she knew that time was limited. She needed to be quick about this.
She pressed play.
"Hey… Chloe… This is Max," Max's voice began, soft and broken, breaking in and out with each pause, like the gentle eddies of the tide. "I guess I just wanted to leave you one more message, because I know this is the absolute worst –"
Chloe couldn't listen. She cut Max off with a tap of the fast forward button, then slowly eased off, allowing the tape to resume.
"– at it! We'll write and talk all the time."
Stop. Max's voice had picked up, that hint of excitement and energy creeping in, mixing with that undercurrent of pain. Chloe could hear the hope burgeoning there, and she knew now that Max had been trying to convince herself of that hopeful future as much as she had been trying to convince Chloe, if not more so. Either way, Chloe couldn't bear to hear that false hope, knowing now to where it had led.
She drew in a shuddering breath. Yeah, that hadn't happened, that wistful daydream of a future where she and Max never lost touch. A few texts came those first couple of years, then silence.
No time to dwell, Price. And she was right, there was no time.
She tapped fast forward, then eased off and hit play once more.
"— if I never – even if we're moving for good…" Yeah this was close enough. She'd let it play to the end, then she'd record her message. There was time, right? There had to be time. Chloe glanced over her shoulder as she let the message play, watching the cigarette-burn filmstrip of a sky through her window.
"We're always together, okay?" that childhood Max continued, the hope in that voice squashed now, buried in the deeper pain of the reality of their parting. "Even when we're apart — "
(like now)
"— We're still Max and Chloe. I will always, always love you." The Max voice paused, yet the anguish and the tears in those words remained, a silent echo, a gentle ripple in their wake. Chloe could still remember lifting up that tape recorder, and hugging it tight to her chest with those last words, then gently rolling to the floor, balling up in a fetal position as Max's voice bid out one final parting volley.
"Goodbye."
Only silence followed. Chloe gave herself a three count, then another three count to be safe, then pressed stop.
That message would be preserved now.
That done, Chloe lingered there, remembering Max's farewell, and how many times she had listened to those words in the first few months after her father's passing (death). She remembered the years to come, and how she had played that message less and less, until shortly after she met Rachel, after everything that came with Damien and James Amber and Rachel's birth mom, after Rachel and her became Rachel and Chloe, she had finally discarded the recorder, and the tape within it, to the exile of her closet.
Letting out a deep sigh, Chloe shuffled backwards until she pressed tight against the end of her mattress, then she pulled the recorder into her lap, staring at it, as if willing herself to continue. She drummed her fingers against the floor and glanced to that shimmering wall of impending time. It had moved closer, but not by much. Was there even a set limit to how long it would last before closing in? What mechanic controlled that ludicrous defiance of physics?
Not the time, Price.
And it wasn't. It was time to get a move on. Max had a plan for Chloe to follow, and Chloe had her own plan to set in motion as well, and time… well allegedly it waited for no one.
Chloe sucked in a deep breath, then, on her exhale, pressed record.
"So here it goes," she started, her voice shaking, not unlike Max in her farewell. Only this shake came not so much from grief, but from fear; of course, Max had been afraid too hadn't she? Afraid of not being there for Chloe, afraid of losing Chloe, afraid of the five years that had come to pass and of the many more years that would have come to pass had not some freak anomaly allowed her to rewind the clock. And wasn't this exactly what Chloe was afraid of? Of losing Max, of not being there for her like she had been for Chloe over the past week? Of leaving Max alone in the years ahead if they failed to stop this storm and save Chloe's own life.
"This is no joke, Chloe," she started again, realizing she had zoned out too long, taking another page from Max's playbook. "This is you. You don't remember a few minutes of Sunday the 17th, do you? That's because you didn't live them. I did. Yeah, trippy right?"
It really was. How do you explain to your past self that your future self overwrote your memory? Or that they would again, possibly erasing you in the process? Just spitting it out might help. Maybe? Fuck it. Here it goes.
"It is. 'Cause, I'm you. You can hear that, right? But I'm future you, and you're past me, and we really don't have a ton of time to get hung up on how this all works and the mechanics of time shenanigans. Aww fuck, there I go again. Look, I know you don't say shit like shenanigans, but that one's Max's fault. She's a bad influence on our vocabulary.
"Neither here nor there, though. Look, here's the deal. You die. I can't say when, because well then maybe you don't and Max doesn't save you and this whole conversation never happens and it becomes a whole paradox and shit. I don't know. Maybe time travel doesn't work like that. Max and I never really had the time to test it out, ironic as that may sound. You see, you die, and Max fucking Caulfield saves you. She rewinds time and she brings you back. And then she spends the next five days saving your life over and over and over again. So yeah, like, maybe forgive her for those five years, now, okay? She's kind of earned it. At least, she will. Give her time. Though, in retrospect, not dying would be good, too, but then I might not ever happen and then I don't come back to make this message… Oh hell. I'm not so sure about this plan anymore. Kind of starting to see those ripples Max was talking about."
Chloe had found her rhythm, and the fear had slaked off, leaving her voice if not confident, at least bold. There was a strength behind, a building conviction that she hoped would stir herself into action. Of course, she had never been the most reliable, not back then, maybe not even now. She meant well, but her temper, well it got the better of her sometimes. Oh well. Nothing to do, but roll the dice.
"Never mind that, though; the ripple thing. That'll come later. Now, now you've got to save Rachel Amber. And I can't give you all the specifics, sorry. See, you and I, us, we have a habit of flying off the handle. No shit, right? Well, those tactics don't do us well in this scenario, so I have to keep some of the details kind of light, lest you, we, us, go all rash and let our temper get the best of ourselves.
"So, first off, Rachel Amber. She disappears on April 22, 2013, just over a month from now. Yeah, I know you can do the math. I don't know why I clarified that part. Anyway, stick with her. Keep her away from Nathan Prescott and from her teacher, Mr. Jefferson, that night.
"No, I'm not saying they're responsible, but they're connected, and from 4/22 on, being around them is a big no-no that could lead to her disappearance. Not sure how you keep her away from them; she'll get angry if you outright tell her to avoid them – trust me, I've tried. Maybe at least keep an eye on her that night, okay? Warn her if you can find a way to do it that doesn't end with the two of you breaking up. I mean, that's your call, but it'll be hard to watch out for her if you're a jilted ex, so yeah, together is better.
"If you can't do that, then get her to leave Arcadia Bay before the 22nd. Buy her a ticket to Los Angeles. Don't know how you do that, but just get her out of town. So yeah, either convince her to avoid Prescott and Jeffer-shit, or get her to leave. I don't envy you, whichever route you choose. But if you get her to leave, you can't go with her. You've got important business still in Arcadia Bay.
"See, there's another girl, Kate Marsh. You don't know her, yet, but she attends Blackwell, goes to Blackwell, whatever. At least she will for the 2013/14 year. Don't know if she started before that. Doesn't matter. On October 8th, 2013, she'll attempt to kill herself. If you don't stop her, she might just succeed. She'll try to jump off the Prescott dormitory's roof sometime between 11 and 11:10 am, so get there before that. You need to save her, because if everything else goes to plan, Max might not be there to do it this time. Long story.
"The short of it is this: the girl loves her father and her younger sisters. You can use that to help persuade her down from the ledge. Don't mention her mother or her aunt or any other family for that matter. The whole lot is a shitshow of religious intolerance. Just best to avoid them. Oh, speaking of… the girl has a favorite bible verse. Yeah, I know, just stick with me here. It's uh, oh God, what was it? Michael, Matthew, Matthew something. Oh fuck, I had a device for this. Matthew November Dad, that's it! So that would be Matthew 11:28. Just remember the pneumonic or write this shit down, but it's Matthew 11:28: Come to me, you weary and burdened. I'll give you rest.
"Something like that. Max said I was close enough, which tells me I was probably pretty far off. Maybe just look this shit up in a Bible or something and get it right. Could you do that?"
Chloe sucked in another deep breath. Max's plan was laid out. Keep Rachel from Nathan and Jefferson from 4/22 on, but don't kill them. Save Kate on October 8th. Glancing out, Chloe noticed that the shimmering wall of time had inched closer, now looming just off from the awning of the roof outside her window. But it wasn't here yet. She let out her held breath in an equally deep exhale. Time to shift gears.
"But here's the real deal," Chloe said, jumping back in. "Max wants us to save Kate and Rachel and call it a day. I'll give her some slack; she's seen a lot of shit. Like deep, dark, we don't even want to imagine it, shit. Even so, Kate only tries to kill herself because she's abducted by the same sick fuckers that abduct and murder Rachel. With Kate, though, we know when and where it happens. She goes to the Vortex Club Party on October 4th. Someone spikes her drink, and then escorts her from the party. Again, I can't mention who. I want to, but I'm afraid we'll do something stupid like murder them and get arrested - or worse, try to and fail and get arrested and then they will still be out and free to do their sick little photo sessions. So here's what you do. Save Rachel. Have Rachel watch out for Kate at the party. If you sent Rachel away, well, see if Trevor or Justin can get you an in, or at least some eyes on Kate. School function, so you're probably not welcome, but maybe you can watch from the parking lot, just in case they slip past Rachel or whoever you end up using as a lookout. Make sure no one takes Kate off school property but you or Rach. Trevor and Justin are also cool if that's the route you go. But Kate, Kate's been drugged. Either take her to the hospital or to her dorm. Her call if she wants that drugging public or not.
"Although fuck, if things go right, maybe she's never drugged. Great. Now here's the kicker. I'll be back in the driver's seat on the 11th of October, so just keep her safe 'til then, okay? I honestly don't know what happens after that, but if things with Max are any indication, I'll likely forget everything between now and then, which means you'll forget it, too. Things are going to be confusing, so maybe don't be doing anything crazy on the afternoon of the 11th, okay? I don't want to come to behind the wheel or at some random concert or some shit. Got it? Stick with our house or American Rust, or something. Something familiar.
"Now here's the last bit. If you or Rach or anyone see the fucker that spikes Kate's drink on the 4th, then you'll know one of the players behind Rachel and Kate's deaths. They have an accomplice – older, a mentor. Once Kate's safe, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to find out who they're working with, who wants them to abduct these girls. They've done it before. Rachel and Kate aren't their first victims, and if you don't do something, they won't be their last. You beat the ever living shit out of the fucker that drugs Kate, you get a name, and you put that bastard in the ground.
"Yeah, yeah. I know I told you not to do anything rash, like kill anyone, but someone has to stop those fuckers. Or you could tell David, I guess. Step-douche actually suspects these two fuckers, but he also suspects half of Arcadia Bay, and I don't know how you get him to believe you. Oh wait… no, I have a new idea.
"Yeah, I'm rambling here, and oh shit…" Chloe could see the cigarette reel sky flickering and closing in, almost to her window now. "Okay, so yeah, time's short."
Chloe grabbed a pen from her desk, slapped a post-it on her recorder (and oh, doesn't that bring back memories), and quickly scribbled a note across the yellow surface.
Chloe,
Play me! New message after her farewell.
Chloe
As she scribbled out the message, she continued her plan, her voice gaining in speed, fighting to stay ahead of the closing wall of time. "Look, fuck all that shit about killing. Find out who drugged Kate. Tell David. Tell him that they have a bunker under the barn, the one where Frank sold drugs to the fucker that drugged Kate. No, still not giving you names, because they can't go down until after the 4th. Too many ripples. It's a whole thing. Ask Max about it later. And if you think you know who it is, well fuck you. Hold off until after the 4th okay. After you save Kate. If she decides to go to the hospital there'll be a record of her being drugged. That might help you convince step-douche. Anyway, get him to go in, or make a tip to Arcadia PD. There are binders in that bunker. Binders of dozens of victims, at least. You do that, you get him to go in there and get that evidence, maybe we can save Rachel and Kate and…
"No. I shouldn't say any more." The wall was closing in, the light already bursting into her room, snapping towards her. "Well, time's up, anyway. Good luck, me."
Chloe clicked stop, then set the recorder down on her desk and fell backwards onto her mattress. Sinking into it, she let her shoulders relax, only then realizing the tension that had built up within her. Damn, that was too much pressure, she thought. Way too much pressure. Zero stars.
Then the white-orange of that timefield fell upon her. The world faded out, shifting into the overexposure of that nothingness between time, and she knew that at any moment now she'd be back in the present, the new present and maybe, just maybe, everything would finally be okay.
Huh, she thought, trying to picture what an okay world would be like with Max in it. With Max and Rachel. Well, that was going to be confusing. She might have to figure some shit out, like why she kept staring at Max all week… why she dared her to kiss her… why she couldn't tell her about that kiss with Rachel… why her gut hurt…
Wait, what? Why my gut hurts?
And it did hurt. Oh God, it hurt. Chloe slapped her hand to her stomach, wincing as the pain rolled through her.
What? What the fuck is this?
Why did her stomach hurt so much? She glanced down through the overexposed white of the timefield, only that field flickered, white to black to grey and back again, and the world around her began to take shape…but she couldn't quite make it out. It was all blurry, but there was something wet under her hand. She pulled it back, and for a moment color returned to her world.
All Chloe saw was red.
Why the fuck am I bleeding, she thought, and then the pain flared, and the world flickered and dimmed, and everything became nothing. She'd been shot, she realized, and then even her thoughts dimmed and were no more.
October 11, 2013 - Current Timeline
One moment, Max felt the chill of the bitter winds whipping through the lighthouse debris, mixing with the cutting cold of her drenched clothes that clung to her form like a second skin, and she huddled closer to Chloe for what warmth she could manage, as they stared into that photo. The next moment, Chloe was gone. The wind, however, and the pelting rain, remained. The rain had slackened, a light drizzle, no more, and the wind too had lessened, yet they were not gone. Max stood in the midst of a large crowd, people swarming past her and pushing against her, but she didn't have time to make sense of the situation. She only knew that she was outside in a light rain, she was on her feet, and that people were everywhere.
Then she knew nothing but pain.
Max collapsed amidst the swarming crowd, falling to her hands and knees, the asphalt cutting into her wet skin. The asphalt. She was on a road? In a parking lot? It didn't make sense.
Her head screamed, and the world tilted and swirled about her. She tried to focus on a stationary point, a fixed object amongst the surrounding chaos, yet she could find nothing stable onto which to latch. Everything spun and shifted, and her stomach lurched, and once more she vomited up the limited contents of her stomach. She heaved, and she spat, and she vomited some more, but the world kept spinning. No matter how much of her she pushed out, how much bile and saliva and half-digested food she spat forth, the world had no patience for her.
That familiar warm trickle of blood began from her nose, and her head pulsed. This one was different. This jump (skip?) was more severe. Of course, she was no longer at the lighthouse. The tornado was no longer bearing down and Chloe, where was Chloe? So much had changed. Was that it? The more severe the changes, the worse the time nausea (sequential stutters… yeah I liked that one better; thanks, Chloe). She tried to hold to that thought, that tangent stealing in, and the memory of Chloe trying to make her smile through the pain of the moment, but she couldn't hold it. The world was spinning too much; and once more she collapsed, this time rolling to her side, her shoulder and her head banging into that pavement and into the puddle of muck that she had vomited forth.
Well this just keeps getting better, she thought, as she lay there wincing her eyes shut and trying to will the world into stilling.
That's when the first pain kicked into her back. It was followed rapidly by another as a foot came down on her hand. Then another and another on her leg, her own foot, her stomach. She was being trampled. Those footfalls came down hard and sure, and they came down everywhere, and Max curled herself into a ball, shielding her head and trying to disappear beneath that panicked crowd. She knew she should stand, that she should fight herself up from underneath that swarming sea of panic, but she couldn't. She couldn't fight off the nausea and the vertigo, nor the pounding in her head. There was no standing. There was nothing but curling here and letting the feet trample down.
There was nothing but the chaos and the pain.
Always the pain.
"Back up!"
"Max, where's Max?"
"Is that our bus?"
She could hear the shouting nearby, but she couldn't make out any particular voice. There were too many. Some young, some old. Some panicked, some angry. It was a free-for-all cage match of screaming and shoving, and trampling, and Max curled up tighter, the pavement scratching on her bare arms, the muck tangling in her hair, and foot after foot crashing down upon her. She felt a familiar snap, this time in her leg, and she knew it had broken. She'd felt that pain too many times, but it never hurt any less. She screamed.
"Max? Is that her?"
"Ow! Quit shoving!"
"Give her room!"
"Someone get a doctor!"
"Coming through!"
"Stop shouting, bitch!"
"Backup, backup!"
Then, the crowd parted, and blinking through the tears Max could see her savior above her. It was Mrs. Grant. She stood between Max and the crowd, a bulwark against the coming wave, forcing them back and around, parting the sea. As she stood there in the parking lot (it is a parking lot, isn't it?), she waved frantically, gesturing someone unseen their way. She was shouting something, too, but a familiar keening rang in Max's ears, and the world around her muted. Another familiar face appeared, and a hand reached down, resting on her shoulder.
Max unfurled ever so slightly, looking up into Dana's worried eyes. She was saying something, but Max couldn't tell what. And why was the girl still spinning?
Suddenly the bile was rising once more, and Dana's hand pushed on her shoulder. Why was she pushing? And why couldn't Max breathe? Suddenly that hand pushed harder and Max could resist no more. She rolled on to her side, her leg screaming with the movement, and her airway cleared as she vomited up another round of bile onto the pavement beside her.
The keening lessened and she could hear Dana's voice.
"You'll be okay, Max. You'll be okay."
Then Kate was there, too kneeling beside Dana, and glancing about frantically. And why did she have Alice's cage with her? Oh well, doesn't matter. Max glanced up at the bunny, huddled into the far corner of the cage, nibbling on its hay, and she smiled.
"Hi, Alice," she managed to mutter, while Dana and Kate spoke in hushed tones above her.
"Do you know who she hangs out with?" Dana asked.
Max blinked. You. I hang out with you, she thought.
"Rachel."
"Yeah, but who else?"
Rachel. I hang out with Rachel. Huh. Good job, Chloe. Max smiled through the hurt. Chloe did it. Chloe saved Rachel. Then her smile faltered. Chloe saved Rachel, and yet what was happening? What new chaos had they set into motion? But she knew. She knew what was happening. She may not have known the specifics, but she knew the source.
"Um… I used to see her with that blue-haired girl."
"Chloe?"
"Yeah, I think so. I was… I was pretty out of it, when I met her.
"Of course," Dana said, patting Kate's shoulder and pulling her in for a brief hug.
Oh fuck. Chloe. God, Max needed to see her.
"Chloe?" she asked.
Both faces turned down to her own, parting from their shared embrace, and Max reached up grabbing Dana's arm and tugging at her sleeve to secure her attention.
"Where is she?" she asked. "Where's Chloe?"
Both faces paled.
"Doesn't she know?" Kate hushed and pulled back.
"Know what?" What don't I know? Of course, though, she knew; didn't she? She knew what they meant just as much as she knew why the students of Blackwell were swarming through this parking lot.
"Mrs. Grant?" Dana rose to her feet, tugging urgently at Mrs. Grant as she continued waving at some unseen figure. Max knew what they were talking about. They were talking about her. They were talking about what she didn't remember. She knew it nonetheless, but she needed to hear it.
"Kate, Kate, just tell me."
The girl clutched at her crucifix as she set Alice's cage down on the asphalt beside her. Her eyes cast about into the crowd, as if searching for anyone else to share this news. Someone better to be there for Max. And why wouldn't she be? She and Dana had made it clear that they weren't her friends. Not in this timeline. No, here Max had been Rachel's friend: Rachel's and Chloe's friend. Knowing Chloe, Max's time had likely been monopolized. They must have connected early on, which meant she hadn't made many friends of her fellow students.
But Rachel was alive, and Kate was alive, so something had gone right. Just… just not the most important bit.
"Please," Max said.
"You really don't remember?" Kate couldn't look her in the eyes, staring instead just off from Max. Max understood though. It couldn't be easy being confronted with this.
"No," Max said. "It's fuzzy. I think I know, but I need to hear it."
Kate swallowed, still clutching her crucifix; still searching for a way out.
"Please, Kate."
Something in Max's voice must have broken through, whether it was the desperation or her pain, or some distant echo of the friendship that had once existed between the two in another time and another universe, because at last, Kate caved.
"Chloe's dead, Max. Nathan shot her."
And with those words, Max's world collapsed. Chloe was dead. Her Chloe was gone again. It wasn't fair. She couldn't keep doing this. She couldn't keep losing her. She couldn't.
She just couldn't.
Max wept as Kate sat awkwardly nearby, uncertain how to console the strange girl collapsed on the pavement; the girl that should have been her friend, but wasn't.
End Part 1
