A/N - I return, as promised. The story resumes. Upload schedule still inconsistent, but there'll be an update to that sometime in the future. Let us begin again. - MB
Max breathes. In, then out. In, then out. Slow, steady. She counts the seconds with every inhale and exhale. She rubs her thumb against her middle finger in slow, methodical circles. She places more and more pressure, flesh squishing and molding, until it cannot hold any longer—
Max snaps her fingers. Nothing happens. She sighs, and resumes her train of thought.
Maxine is off to the tesseract dimension-place. Apparently, that comment about solicitors was describing her specifically, but she couldn't pinpoint if that really was the case. Would the entity lie to her about that, or was it true to its word? She had not felt the subtle sting of deceit, not since it took her on that little tortuous excursion. Neither could she ever claim that it lied to her, since she had learned something new, like it had promised. Too many unknowns, too many uncertainties.
Damn that rotten creature, soulless and immutable! She feels the drumming of her heart in her chest, and the hatred burning in her eyes. Though she stares at nothing, she imagines tearing Maxine apart, limb from limb, blood spilling from gouged-out eyes and from the cuts of her blade. How she wished to take her fist and crush the skull of that doppelganger wearing her skin, smiling with her teeth and speaking with her tongue, twisting her words and thoughts in her head for some sick pleasure—
The itch for blood is mounting. Hands clench into fists. She huffs away the anger one breath at a time.
In, then out. In, then out.
This time should mean peace and quiet. Time to ruminate. Time to plan. Max sighs, and snaps her fingers once more.
She now knows that Maxine can't be physically present with her every time she rewinds. The realization came once she noticed the reaction of her power with the entity as they traveled to and from the tesseract. A physical touch was necessary for the entity to make these travels across space-time, or at least to certain places that demanded more energy. She would have to refine this idea with more observation, but at least now, she knew what she was looking for.
However, that didn't explain the times when the entity simply left of its own accord. Times when it wasn't pestering her to rewind once again, or when it wasn't acting the guest to conversations she has with herself. How could she explain that? Was it something to do with the sapping of her power?
Her leg bounced as she thought about it. It stopped when she came up with an answer.
Perhaps, Maxine was in the same situation that Max was in. There had to be a moment where they rested and recovered from using their time abilities, otherwise they risked suffering from attrition. Nosebleeds and headaches would be the least of her problems if she dared to go beyond her limits, she knew this well. But for this entity, who did not bleed and suffer in the same manner as her, this attrition manifested in some other way—and was remedied through other means. Max looks down at her hand, the one which Maxine took hold of to carry them out of the tesseract.
This answer could explain why Maxine was very touchy-touchy with her all the time. Max hardly noticed those moments when the entity would place a placating hand upon her shoulder, or poke her when it wanted her attention, or even the rare occasion where it would embrace her after she encountered a rough timeline, where the memories became too much to bear. Whilst she had believed it to be a simple matter of preference, Max could see now that these were perfect opportunities for her adversary to steal some of her power, if it wanted to. Like a parasite, it leeched off of her when she least expected it, stealing her ability to travel and by extension, any chance she had to save the timeline. That had to be the answer, right?
Did Maxine need to be clasping her hand to initiate a transfer of power? Must it be the hand, or could it be the contact itself?
Did these technicalities matter if the end result was the same; that she was doomed to fail, but not in the way she had first assumed?
Anger burned under her skin. She was molten-hot, charred with resentment. Shadows cast over her bright blue eyes, her frown was menacing in the dim-grey ambience.
That little parasite was going to pay for its devilish work. She would give in to the pleasure of wrath, she would drown in its bittersweet embrace just to have the chance to rip that thing's mask off once and for all. That whatever nightmarish form it may take, she would meet it with spiteful vengeance. It will have a taste of her indomitable human spirit and find itself begging for her mercy. Oh, how she would love to just let go, just one more time…
Focus. Control yourself.
A snap of the fingers. In, and out. In, and out. In, and out—
The itch is unbearable. She gnashes her teeth, the urge to kill overtaking her thoughts. She knows she can't stop the feeling this time around, but she tries anyways.
Max, focus. Now is not the time—
The oppressive red lighting encompasses the black chair she's bound to. The duct tape scratches her wrists.
It's not real. Don't give in.
The flash of the camera makes her flinch, her eyes instantly brimming with tears.
don'tgiveindon'tgiveindon'tgivein—
Always take the shot, Max, the monster's slick voice snickers in her ear.
Shut up.
She pulls. She doesn't have a clear sight of the classroom, but instinct guides her forwards. She wields the precious seconds the monster would need to react, and she doesn't intend to let him have a chance.
He knows, after all. He has known ever since he first laid eyes upon her.
A flurry of movement and pressure comes as she collides with him, shoving him from his seat on the table and onto the ground beyond it. She pounces on top of him, and goes to work. The itch recedes steadily as he tries to scream, choking on the blood seeping from the holes in his throat.
Blood, sliding down her hands. A broken pair of glasses laid by her blood-speckled chucks. The monster is looking up at her, the terror fading with every gasp of breath. She left the knife in his throat this time.
His mouth doesn't move, but his voice carries forward as an invasive memory—
How many times will you deny me, my muse; how long will it take for you to see?
"Shut up," she claws the seconds back, the blade dislodging itself from his flesh and floating back into her hand, only to be slammed back down.
Your hands are dirty, Max. Dirtier than mine.
"Shut up."
She rewinds. She drives the blade into his throat. His vocal cords are sliced open.
Am I really so terrible, when compared to you?
"Shut up."
She does it again. She buries her hand into the wound, choking him of all sound.
If only your beloved Chloe could see you now.
"Shut the fuck up!"
And again. And again. And again—
"SHUT UP, SHUT UP—SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
She's crying at this point. Memories come bursting from the dark recesses in her head, singing their tragic melodies. Platitudes and compliments and words of gratification, they condemn her as a monster of her own right. She is accused of no longer being Max—and she has no answer to give in her defense.
She pulls back, retching on the terror in her lungs. Her knees give out, and she clutches her head, covering her ears in a desperate attempt to block the noise. It does nothing.
"It's still me, it's still me, I swear! Make it stop, make it stop—!"
She's curled up on the damp cold ground, shaking like a leaf. Sobbing. She lays there. The shudders give way to rocking, then stillness. The sobbing eventually fades, but she remains curled up like a corpse. Tearing herself apart. Rotting away from the inside.
Her eyes are closed. She longs for the thing she cannot have, and imagines the faint smell of cigarette smoke and lavender shampoo. The softness of their hand as they caress her own. How their fingers intertwine, how the warmth of the sun reflects in her beautiful ice-blue eyes.
Chloe.
The image smiles softly. Silent words are imparted unto her. Max is not good at reading lips, but her mind supplies her a translation.
Don't forget me, as I have not forgotten you, Max. Don't forget your promise.
Never, she replies in her mind.
"Never," she repeats with her heart.
It takes a moment for Max to gather herself, but eventually she pulls herself from the dirt, and stands back up.
There is a method she uses to inspect the timeline, once all is said and done. Her right hand reverses time, and her left hand pushes time forwards—at least in a very particular manner. It happened the first time she'd grown impatient over the outcome of a timeline, one that she was so certain was a success. She had thrown out her left arm instead of her right in frustration, and beheld the moment when her power had cast her forwards into the timeline's future, and she could discern with omnipotent sight the outcome of her works.
She had also tried it after Maxine had stepped in to correct the timeline, long after she had rewound back to purgatory. It required her to lock onto a specific detail that she recalled, something that was unique to each particular instance. It was getting hard to discern details, but she's found that the numbers she allocates to each timeline help with making out which-was-which.
Timeline twenty-nine; She focuses all her effort to save Kate, but it costs her the chance to reunite with Chloe once the latter comes to false conclusions about where Max's priorities lie. She spends the whole time trying to rekindle her friendship, searching for the missing bluenette; and with Kate by her side, they reach the Dark Room. Only Max comes out alive. The storm arrives thereafter, and sweeps over a thousand souls under its turbulent waves.
Again.
Timeline fifty-three; She appeals to David that Prescott was the one to take Chloe's life once she pulls the fire alarm and steps out the bathroom. Enraged, the security guard quits his job the day after, and it is not until Thursday night that Max finds out what he was intending to do. The Prescott residence in Pan Estates burns to the ground, at right about the same time Max and Kate attend the End of the World party to warn Victoria about the imminent danger she's in. The monster, having used Nathan as his scapegoat, lures them to its den, and the three girls are never seen in the subsequent storm. Hundreds perish.
Again.
Timeline seventy-four; All is normal until Max encourages herself to help Warren beat the shit out of Nathan in the hallway, to the point where he confesses. The cops are called, the whole can of worms is blown open. Arkadia is swept by a storm. Over a thousand dead.
Again, with a huff of annoyance.
Timeline one hundred thirty; she immediately tips off Chloe and herself about the existence of the Dark Room under the Prescott barn, and does so by using the back of the butterfly polaroid to jot down the coordinates and three-digit code to the blast-door. Arkadia is swept by a storm. Over seven hundred lost.
And again, her teeth clenched in anger.
Timeline three hundred eighty-two; she tips off Chloe by using her journal, and then sacrifices herself in the bathroom. Arkadia is saved. Chloe commits suicide the following weeks thereafter.
And again, with tears brimming in her eyes.
Timeline five hundred fifty-three; she rewinds back to April, in an attempt to warn Chloe about Rachel's imminent disappearance. Chloe disappears a month afterwards. Arkadia is swept by a storm. The next thirty attempts to rewind this far back end in abysmal failure. Max cuts her losses before the despair can get to her, and pushes forwards.
There has to be a way through. There has to be.
Timeline seven hundred forty-eight; she encourages herself to open up to Madsen when she first meets him at Chloe's house, in the hopes that his suspicions would be enough to guide him to the monster's den. They are, but not until Kate throws herself off the dorm building, having been told one-too-many times that she was not good enough for this world. Arkadia is swept by a storm soon after.
Some road not yet traveled, some path that has yet to be found.
Timeline nine hundred seventy-one; she slips a paper of coordinates and the three-digit lock code into David Madsen's pant pocket as he carries her out of the bathroom, just before succumbing to the gunshot wound in her stomach. Heavy rainfall begins Thursday evening, and bleeds into Friday morning, right when David and what few honest policemen attempt to raid the Dark Room. They're far too late to save the monster's latest victim, her cashmere sweater stained with blood, the cut across her throat still oozing.
How does one know when luck finds them, here in this game of chance?
Timeline one-thousand, two hundred ninety-five—
She shudders, the stinging memory of that attempt is still too painful to recall; and when she thinks of that timeline and its particular traits, she scoffs in bitter amusement. The irony of her situation is not lost on her in the slightest. She tries another one.
Timeline one thousand three-hundred ten; Max confides with Juliet and passes the journal onto the reporter, hoping there's something the girl can do once Max lays down her life for Chloe in the bathroom. The message passes throughout the student population in a day, and many flee with their families at the sight of a low front approaching from the Pacific Ocean. Arkadia is swept by a storm—only two hundred perish.
How far must I go, to find that perfect outcome?
She pushes her mind forwards, into the future of the timeline she had just rewound from. Timeline one thousand three hundred thirty-nine; her journal ends up in the hands of Warren, Juliet, and Dana as they follow the doe to her resting place. A promise is made for Chloe to seek a friendship in Kate, no matter how daunting of a challenge it becomes. And though Nathan takes her life once again, he gives a chance for others to live in her place, and confesses the same day in an interrogation room. The monster puts a bullet through his own head once the police arrive, the evidence having been doused in gasoline and set alight. Rain pours, but the town stands. It's the closest she'd gotten in all her attempts, and she knows that Maxine will not let her have a chance to celebrate.
So close. So far away.
She's not quite sure how and to what end this secondary function may suit her in the coming tussle with the entity, but it has saved her the trouble of knowing if she's on the right path or not. Now, it's truly a matter of luck, and whether her plan can be made into the perfect ruse. She has all the time in the world.
Her doubts ask her: Do you deserve to live in such a perfect outcome?
She thinks of Chloe, and Kate, and Warren and everybody else. Her own image never comes to mind, only the faces of friends and family, of innocent strangers sheltered in this small place they call home. All the memories that which lie here, in quiet streets and gentle slopes and cold gusts of wind. How the great trees could whisper amongst each other the stories that were shared under the protection of their branches.
And she replies to these doubts: No, but they do. I will make sure of it, even to my last breath.
She recalls timeline one thousand, three-hundred thirty-seven, and bids her messenger tread slow and steady to their inevitable destination.