Chapter VI: Behind the Curtains

AN:

Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!

Second to last chapter now. I had a few different ideas for the ending for this one, and it was surprisingly hard to choose. Some clues to it set up in this chapter, hence why I had to make that decision now.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.

Those never get easier, why do they never get easier? The psychics on TV never make visions look this fucking rough. Then I looked over to Nathan, who looks pale and white and- oh fuck. "You're alright, dude. It wasn't real, just a memory of a gunshot of a dude who's been dead for years. You're fine."

"I Know I'm Fine!" He yelled back, hissing, and yeah I really should've seen that coming. Dude was not at all comfortable with admitting shit like weakness and needing help.

"Good." I said simply, and the look he gave me for that was even more sad. What can I say, after his willingness to risk himself to look after Max, the kid had grown on me.

Speaking of- "So, Maxie, how did you find todays Matinee Viewing of the Fucked Up History of Mark Jefferson?"

She blushed, and- oh my fucking god she was Nina. My own cheeks lit up and I shut my mouth with a fucking clack. I couldn't quite look at anyone for a long while. "Okay, lets go!"

"Yep!"

We were back in another catwalk room - it had been updated to be more modern and new, I could see the sets changing to be less fashion catwalk and more grunge-emo music video. Cameras flashed and models appeared on the stages, all dark eyeshadow and denim, and something in me rocked and if I wasn't sure already I'd be certain then.

Nina was always there, sometimes in the foreground and sometimes off to the sides, and she changed sometimes. She started out like she'd looked, then a different outfit, a different hair-colour, a different hair-cut. By the final show, she looked more like a punk rock girl than the elegant ballerina look she'd started out with.

Honestly, kinda cool.

Max suddenly tapped my shoulder. "The door out is on the stage, Chloe."

Huh. So it was. "Guess we're headed backstage then."

I vaulted up onto the stage and pushed through the crowd of models - touching them felt weird, like they were covered in some sort of plastic wrap? - and headed straight (heh) for the door. Hands clamped down onto both of my shoulders and I looked back to see two big, burly bouncers. One had a little nametag reading 'Security', the other had a little nametag reading 'Warden'.

Both of them growled something I couldn't really understand and tried to pull me back. I punched one of them - it didn't take. That same plastic-wrap feeling hit me, and I realised - they're photographs.

Then Max hurled her tiny-self into one of their sides, followed by Nathan, and the two of them knocked him off me - which was enough for me to slip out of the grab of the other guy and back up. I made sure to back up towards the door.

Nathan got punched by Security and pushed back towards me - Max was quick enough to avoid Warden, scurrying back to my other side. We all backed towards the door as Security and Warden advanced on us.

Fuck it. "Run!"

We shoved our way into the backstage area and locked the door behind us, leaving Security and Warden banging on the doors.

We were in the Green Room. It wasn't literally green, that was just what they called these backstage bits where the musicians or whatever waited to go on. Max and me had watched a documentary on it.

Hanging on the back wall was a giant picture of Nina. Looking at her, she almost seemed like her old self, before Jefferson. But then we looked closer. There were holes in her skin and a dead sheen to her eyes.

It was like a hologram. The image changed if you looked at it from a different angle. Fucking weird, and fucking gross.

And then, of course, there was a camera flash.

It wasn't a full vision that time, just an image. Nina, covered in tattoos and grunge, a needle in her arm, shuddering as the plunger went in.

There was another flash and I sat up at a funeral, an image of Nina at the front. There were very few people there. Jefferson sat a few rows back, watching the coffin descend into the ground. Someone sat near him and sighed. I (Jefferson) looked over. It was a short man, lightly balding with a well-maintained beard, honestly looked kind of like he should be sat with a fishing rod in Old Lady Meyers' garden.

"Such a shame."

Jefferson muttered some vague agreement.

"Another beautiful soul chewed up and spat out by the big city modelling scene." He shook his head again. "It makes me want to move back home again."

"Where is home?"

The man waved a hand. "Little coastal town in Virginia. You wouldn't have heard of it. But everyone needs to see a place like that at least once. It's a quieter, simpler life, you know?"

"More pure." Jefferson said simply, voice different.

"Yeah!" The man seemed pleased Jefferson had picked up on it. "There's a purity you don't get in the big city - too much mess, too much noise." He looked Jefferson over, met my eye. "You know, you don't look so good either, friend. Maybe you should try getting out of the city for a while."

I imagined Jefferson was probably thinking of all the bodies he'd left in his wake, or maybe about his precious art, or maybe he just wanted good weather. Fucked if I know. "Maybe you're right." And the two men went quiet and watched the rest of the funeral in silence before leaving.

He got back in his car and drove away, and the journey was accompanied by a montage of audio calls and teaching moments, his prattling, pointless, prickish voice talking about photography terms that'd sounded so cute and baffling in Max's voice and now only sounded menacing and off and chatting like a gadfly with teachers and students and pretty young models, while he sat in different classrooms and lecture halls and private rooms. Max had mentioned him going on a teaching tour, I think? Maybe this was that. Or a weird artistic representation of that. Fucked if I know.

He pulled up outside a big building, heading up to his apartment. The space was still empty and shiny and modern and fucking ugly. He sighed, picked up the paper from his carpet and walked in, shutting the door behind him. A few moments with a fancy machine later, and he was having coffee while reading the paper.

I was immensely fucking surprised to see the date on the paper was about six months ago.

The fuck? I'd been thinking all of this happened years ago, but apparently not? Max had never mentioned a date for any of the stuff she knew about this sick bastard. After a few minutes of quietly sipping his coffee, his phone rang. He pulled it out and answered. "Yes?"

A few moments of babbling from the person on the other end of the line, before: "Yes, Mr Chase. I'll be more than delighted to work with your daughter. The spread you sent - she has great potential."

He rolled his eyes.

The man on the other end of the line, Mr Chase, apparently, thanked Jefferson for his time and help and made a bunch of promises about his daughter that no father could ever keep. Was this a posh people thing?

With another obsequious, praising prattle of thanks for Chase's bullshit, Jefferson said goodbye and hung up. He let the mobile drop to the table with a thud.

He sighed, scowled. His hand came up and he rubbed at his temple in irritation. "Idiot." He muttered. His face creased as something occurred to him, and he walked over to a pile of papers. A quick search pulled out a letter. He sat back with it, letting me read it.

It was an invitation. Blackwell Academy, greeting and admiring their most prodigious graduate, asking (and a little bit begging) for him to come and teach. Jefferson scoffed at it, but he still added it to a drawer of identical letters.

Then he went to look at the work for Mr Chase. I recognised the girl in the photos immediately - I'd seen her portrait over the doorway in the gallery: Victoria Chase. He sighed again. "If they weren't paying me so much..."

His eyes moved back towards the drawer with the letters. Jefferson had always had an ego. That much was clear from all of these peeks into his fucked up life. He went back, pulled out the latest letter, then went to his desk. He put pen to paper: 'I am engaged to a project for the next few months, but I would be glad to discuss my return to teaching at such a prestigious academy. I have been looking to return home, and I believe we have much to offer each other.'

He continued to write, and then the vision ended with another violent flash.

Max and I both looked at each other. "Jefferson coming to Blackwell soon? Fuck that." Max nodded in agreement. "I thought this all happened years ago, anyway?"

"Most of it did. I was pretty sure Nina had died in 2005, but maybe I was wrong? Or maybe something about this place is smooshing events together. Wilson definitely died in 1998."

"Fuck it." I shrugged. "Jefferson's still a shitfuck, no matter when this happened. And we cannot let a murderous shitfuck like him come to Blackwell! I'm supposed to start there next year! What if he murders me!"

At everyone's look, I amended: "And what if he kills anyone else, I guess."

Even Nathan agreed. "We have to stop him."

"But fucking how? If he's gotten away with killing this many people, who the fuck is gonna believe us?"

"Maybe there'll be something else in the gallery we can use? And we don't know when he'll see that girl, Victoria. Maybe we can still save her!"

Nathan shook his head. "No. You saw the picture in the real gallery, right? She's dead. There's no saving her. Just getting justice, by taking care of Jefferson."

We all nodded, and one of those narratively thematic understandings passed between us. We knew what he'd do, and we knew what we'd do to stop him. What we had to do. "Let's get moving. Sooner we get outta here, sooner we can kick an old hipster weirdo murder's ass."

Neither Max nor Nathan had a response for that. So, on we trotted. Leaving the Green Room lead us to a familiar corridor and we turned into the next wide-open space, and found ourselves right back where we started, before that message drew us down here into the nightmare.