She floats there, in the sea of pitch black. Weightless, untethered. It is perhaps the only time she feels as though she is nothing—removed from the solidness of reality.
Max opens her eyes. Blue color glows from irises, burning brightly against the heavy backdrop. Shadows curl around where the blue haze sweeps, and paints the picture surrounding her.
It is overcast, and the light from the sun has been thoroughly curtailed. It is never nighttime, nor is it ever bright and clear in this desolate place, this purgatory here on the lighthouse cliff. Max likes to imagine the town is still alive and well, out there past the haze of impenetrable fog surrounding this cliff. She's never been able to check. Every time she ventures down the path and into the murky haze, she ends up coming back up to the cliff. She's long since given up on trying.
There was the wood bench, with its metal frame. The lighthouse too, its structure a husk of its former self. Half the tower was missing, probably lost to the frigid waters below. Over yonder, she can see the map of the town in its casemate, the one where Chloe had graffitied their treasure map upon it.
Chloe.
Her head hurts. She raises a hand to pinch her troubled brow.
"…what a day, hmm?"
"Fuck off," Max growled instinctually, "I'm not in the mood."
"Come now," the newcomer assuaged, approaching from behind where Max stood, and walking past her, "I know that it is not easy on you. Changing time, it can be stressful, especially if your physical form is not meant to be crossing the boundaries of the fourth realm. You ought to be careful, chrononaut."
Max said nothing. She observed this person—this entity, as she reminds herself—twirl absently on a lock of their short brown hair, done up in the same chin-length bob-cut she has. The entity wears her same light grey jacket, and her jane doe t-shirt and blue jeans and converse sneakers. It wears her face, and smiles and frowns in the same manner she does. It even shies away whenever Max raises her voice in anger, and clasps its arm much like she does whenever caught in an awkward silence.
A spitting image, if one did not take the time to look. The only visible differences between Max and this charming doppelganger were their eyes, and the tri-bullet necklace that Max wore around her neck. And while Max's eyes shone a powerful blue, burning against the dimness of grey overcast, the entity had eyes of gold, sparkling when the light touched them.
Max is tired. She treads past the curious looks of her counterpart, and eases herself onto the bench, sighing heavily as she does so.
"…you should not feel bad."
Max grumbles, "How would you know how I feel?"
"I can see it," it gestures to the burning hatred in Caulfield's blue eyes, "Terror grips your heart. You fear there is no end, despite your best efforts. A terrible fate awaits you."
"And why is it that there's no end to this?" Max pointedly retorts, ignoring the entity's predictions. Let it think that it's wrong, at least for now.
"Well, it is only fair for you to point out the reason for my being in the same manner as I point out yours," it smiles, "Although, you seem to already know the answer to that question."
"Unfortunately," Max turns away, and closes her eyes. Her headache is getting worse, but not in the manner that she wishes for. It is not the throbbing of blood coursing her veins, but the nagging of an itch, just out of reach.
"…will you try again?"
"Leave me alone."
"But being alone is fatal to your kind, I've seen it," it chirps, and the itch in Max's head grows, "When Man is left to solitude, he turns to madness. Delusions, self-hatred, self-harm and eventually suicide—to leave you alone would be wrong of me. I owe you my existence, after all."
This was true. Ever since that fateful moment, where the rain had hidden her tears, and she gave her final promise to honor Chloe's final choice, she's found no one but herself to blame for being stuck with this perpetual guest.
Realizing she was not going to be given a chance to rest, and with the itch in her head becoming unbearable, Max set her sour gaze back onto the doppelganger. It was smiling, a happy glint shone in its golden orbs. It was carefree, and without remorse. It was taunting her. It had to be taunting her. The very thought of it crushed any lingering notions of restraint.
"…will you try agai—?"
Her right hand comes up, and she pulls. The classroom's warm tones stretch seamlessly over the dreary grey, and Max lunges at the entity. The utility knife that was once in her messenger bag was already clenched tightly in her hand, and she brought it down as she lunged, timing it just right—
The entity blinked out of existence, and Max's target was now clearly before her. She intentionally paused time for a couple seconds longer to account for the distance between her position at her desk relative to where he sat, to ensure she got to see the shock on his face. That was her second favorite part, after all.
Her most favorite part was hearing him scream for his life, and third was digging her fingers into the cuts she makes in his throat, feeling his muscles spasm and his warm blood coat her digits as he enters into a state of shock. It's a shame that she can only do this for so long, before David gets over the sight of it and demands her to raise her hands. It confuses her, because she knows he doesn't like seeing her handiwork, and yet he compels her to give him a perfect view of it. If she didn't know any better, it would seem like Madsen wants to gross himself out.
But it's fine. She can simply rewind, after all.
When she's feeling particularly troubled like she is now, she'll lock the entrance to the classroom and ensure that David can't interrupt. Then, she starts with the bastard's ankles, and then his knees. She makes it slow, and painful. She likes to twist his arms in unnatural angles, since taking the knife to them would make him bleed out too quickly. The pops of the joints remind her of the joys of playing with bubble-wrap. Hearing him beg for mercy scratches the itch in her head, makes her feel in control.
She can't get enough of that feeling, when she stands over his shivering form. She likes it most when he glimpses up at her, the terror in his eyes speaking more than any words could have. The way his pupils dilate tells her that he knows why she's broken his bones and spilled his blood.
It can be hard to ignore the terrible looks her classmates give her, hearing their sobs ring in her ears, but she's learned to tune them out. The thrill of the process, the rush of adrenaline and the burning anger in her heart give her all the motivation she needs. It doesn't matter how far she goes—it will never be known. These people with their names and faces, they are infinite and meaningless to her now. Whenever she looks at them, usually after she's had her way with the monster, she can never see any details. Colors of gold and brown and black hair, red and pink mouths contorted with shock, they all blur into a lifeless mosaic.
Max doesn't know if they are real anymore. She doesn't necessarily care.
She pulls, the classroom and its occupants snap into a black void, which slowly returns to the landscape of grey. She sits down on the bench, and sighs. She wipes the smear of blood from one of her freckled cheeks.
"…will you try again?"
Max silently observes the crimson ichor staining her fingers.
"…who knows, maybe this time you'll get it right. That last attempt did not go so well, considering you murdered him outright, but maybe if you try again, you'll have better luck."
"…why do I have this?" Caulfield shakes her arm, and the blood is flicked off, "why must I have these powers?"
"I do not know what you are truly asking, chrononaut."
"Max."
It tilts its head, "Pardon?"
"My name is Max."
"It is more proper to refer to you with a constant term, such as chrononaut. Max is a temporary name, for a temporary person. One who does not have the capabilities to transcend their presence in the third realm."
"Is that why you like being called Maxine, then?" Max wondered aloud, "Because you believe yourself to be temporary?"
"I am temporary when you finally decide to give up your attempts to change time," Maxine replied, "I do not exist outside of you, and the Butterfly. If you were to cease your attempts, then I would cease to exist. Temporary."
"That doesn't explain why I have these powers."
"You are right. It does not."
"Then why?" Max rasped.
"Would you like me to give a similar answer, or give you the same one I used last time?" Max groaned. It was not because of Maxine's words, but the tone with which it delivered them; it was genuinely concerned about whether the answer could be reiterated differently from the last fifteen times she previously asked.
Max rested on the bench. Though the itch was gone, her head was still in pain. The aftereffects of the rewind were creeping up, and would not leave her for a few hours.
"…forgive me, chrononaut, for not knowing your purpose. However, if you are curious, I do know what the answer is to my purpose."
"Go for it," Max deadpanned. She could not care less at the moment. Let the damn thing rant about itself for all she cared.
"I exist because of your promise to honor the Butterfly's last wish," Maxine was cordial, and spoke highly of such a memory, "For this is the greatest feat to friendships, that one might honor the final wishes of their friends…"
Maxine pauses. It catches the slight sniffle, and the trembling in Max's lips.
"…and loved ones," it resumes, "for death is sacred to you mortal beings. I've seen it: it is because you are doomed to die that makes you all the more special. Every waking moment, every second that passes in the third realm cannot be taken back, these moments are not fleeting and insignificant like they are here. Man will be alive once, then never again."
Max imagines the feeling of Chloe's hands taking hers, clasping them together, whispering, begging for her to make the promise—
"The Butterfly understood this, and herein lies the unspoken power of their request. This selfless promise made between you and the Butterfly, that which I must ensure is fulfilled."
Max couldn't help herself. She bit, "You know I can't do that. I cannot let it be that way."
"How do you plan to change that?" it asked. Again, it was not taunting, but curious. It made Max feel as though she was being belittled, like an all-knowing parent was subtly discouraging her childish behavior. She despised it.
"I'm going to manipulate time, since that's all I've got left to do," and she rose from her slump on the bench, "And I'm gonna make sure that when I save Chloe and the town, I'll give you the most heartfelt, the most sincerest fuck you that I've ever given in my life, and you will see that I was right to manipulate time all along."
"Very interesting," her voice chirped back at her. Max winced at the identical inflection, and shook her paranoia away.
Sometimes, when she was under the weather, she would spend multiple timelines simply beating the monster to death to make sure she doesn't turn those violent tendencies on herself. She's not had that happen, but it's gotten close. It gets really bad when she cannot tell if she's the one speaking or if it's the entity. She swears that it enjoys doing that to her, as a form of cheap entertainment to get her riled up. Not that she could ask for another person's opinion on whether it's true.
Maxine was smiling innocently at her. Even now, Max could not parcellate when the façade, if any, would drop and she would get a real look at what this thing really was. All she's known of it is that it liked to be called Maxine, and that it enjoys mimicking her mannerisms.
Max turns her head down, and returns to her thoughts. Right now, it's a jumble of all kinds of things, the twang of guitar strings and the taste of blood running down her nose and the smell of chamomile tea and ice-blue eyes smiling at her from underneath locks of blue hair—
Stop, Max. Focus.
"…will you try again, chrononaut?"
Fuck.
Maxine is tied to her physical presence in timelines. Max doesn't know that for certain, but she can sense the entity lurking over her shoulder, watching her manipulate variables, eavesdropping on the words she chooses and the reactions she incites to get what she needs. A silent judge, counting every single infraction against the human moral code that it probably knows more intimately than Max does. When it finally delivers its judgement, it's always the same: nullify Max's efforts, ensure the outcomes never deviate, or deviate so horribly that it's impossible to salvage the timeline.
But to separate Maxine from her has not been clear to tell. For all she knows, it might be an impossibility. But she has to try, somehow. Someway.
"…have you decided to give up?"
Timelines. She had to make sure that she could manipulate a timeline and not have her actions be undone. Not every variable was necessary, but both her and Maxine knew which ones mattered the most. She needed something external, something outside of herself to gain that chance of ditching Maxine, and having the time to do what needs to be done. But what, and how?
"…I would not blame you if you decided to give up. I know that I am not the best form of company," Maxine assures, "But surely, there ought to be an end to this. I know that you mortals are bound by physical limitations, no matter who you are and where you find yourselves. Eventually, the weight will become too much to bear."
It would have to be someone. Someone else needs to get Maxine's attention, a person significant enough to be worth the trouble but still not close enough to be expected. Thousands of conversations rush through her head, multiple voices jumbled into a chorus of syllables. Her head was hurting again.
"All the trouble you find yourself in now would be washed away. There would be residual trauma, as you can imagine. You mortals do not take well to sustained levels of stress, but you would still have a life to live as you wish. All you would have to do, is let go of the past."
It would require her to doom a timeline. Any timeline that Maxine enters always becomes a doomed one. Most times, Max tries tweaking certain variables to make it seem like the timeline would correct itself naturally, but the entity takes no chances. Sometimes, changes in the timeline make it go completely off the rails, and people die in ways that Max doesn't expect them to. Ideally, she wouldn't have to change much to get the outcome she's looking for, but then again, Maxine doesn't need to do much either to doom the timeline. Whoever she picks to play as decoy, they will no-doubt be the first to suffer at the hands of Maxine's corrective measures, since their change in behavior will ripple towards unpredictable outcomes.
"A part of me wishes that you would find a solution, if only so that you would not suffer so much. It is not a good thing, to endure hardships that are needless. Many mortals would call that a waste of time and energy, if I remember correctly. It would not do, to suffer like that."
Something clicks in Max's head. A plan, dangerous and without certainty, begins to take hold. It is as ambitious as it is costly. She knows that she is sentencing someone to death by going through with this plan. But the possibility of it working, the chance of it bearing any success, was enough to send her into a fit of laughter, forced and wispy cackles echoing into nothing. She was not a gambler, but always would she bet money on her ideas when it came down to it.
"What is it, chrononaut?"
"…I'm going to try again."