Chapter Text
You don't want to know what's about to happen to her. Blood trickled down your nose, her eyes pleading and begging and just so sad—you can't let it end like this. Can't let it end with her dead, with anyone dead—
Rewind. Pause. Rewind.
(And you wonder, if only briefly, what it would have been like if the events that led up to this choice had never happened, if you’d never stumbled upon Chloe and Nathan in that bathroom, if you’d never came to back to Arcadia, if you’d kept in contact with Chloe—there was so many things you could have done, so many different futures you could have taken.)
You have to choose, but it doesn't have to be about this.
Your hair is plastered to your forehead and you're soaked to the absolute bone. Tears stream down your face, mixing with blood and rain. The hurricane or her.
Choose. Something whispers, and the voice isn’t like something that you’d ever heard before—it sounds like a girl, someone your age, a ghost of someone who didn’t exist anymore—that people had forgotten.
Time freezes, and you almost reach out and take her hand, almost grab her by her stupid bullet necklace and kiss her firm on the lips. The photo is in your shaky hands, you already know what to do as you rip it to pieces.
She cries out. She moves, a surge forward that makes you flinch back on instinct, and you can’t help but watch as she cradles the ripped butterfly picture in her pale hands—stained with mud and rain and—(blood blood blood.)
She will always be worth the risk.
"See you soon." You say to her gripping your bag, "I will see you soon—"
Your name on her lips is the opposite of a prayer, sinful and wicked in ways you cannot quite understand. (And it is as though you worship her, as though this power you had was gifted to you, bestowed upon your soul with the intention of interfering with her, with loving her—worshiping, praying to, holding higher then she deserved.) You pull a photo out of your bag, any photo—as long as it's before the butterfly picture. You hope that you'll make it back, hope that rewinding doesn't react to you like it has been.
Out of your bag tumbles a picture of a doe, one you can't quite recognize through your blurry, tear stained, vision.
(When had you taken a picture of a doe?)
The pain is like nothing you've experienced before. Bone breaking and vein flaying—rewinding to this point in time is like journeying through a pack of bloodthirsty wolves and lions together, all content with the rip and tear of your flesh, the coppery smell of your blood.
You fall to your knees, it's something painful, something unexpected.
You grip at your throat, your teeth clenching as you muffle your cries of agony.
The blood falls freely from your nose, and now slowly stains your hair as it starts to drip from your ears. Rewinding almost killed you. You close your eyes, and hear the warbled sound of voices and screams. Opening them, reveals only darkness. Acutely aware of the fact that you were floating, you wondered if that had been it—if in trying to save everyone you had inadvertently sacrificed yourself. It's a daunting realization, a thought that burrows it's way into your mind, tears like rivers beginning to flow down pale freckled cheeks.
Somehow, you find yourself happy. If you had managed to save everyone, it doesn't matter what happens to you, to little Maxine Caulfield.
(To that little girl, the people pleaser, the one who couldn’t keep her nose out of everyone else’s fucking business—)
You call out, yelling to anyone who may be near you. You can’t hear yourself scream.
It’s so Dark, there’s absolutely No Light. Tinged with blue, you think, it’s an otherworldly dark because it’s tinged with blue—
(You don’t remember where you read that, that in order for black and white to seem more than what they were people would give them a blue hue, to make them seem out of place—as though they were so black [ or white ] that human eyes were never meant to comprehend their entirety. As though humans were never meant to see—)
It's just as you've begun to accept that you will spend eternity in this void, lack of any real light or sound, when it happens.
A doe, walking on nothing, moving toward you. It looks realer than it has before, more corporal than your previous encounters with the odd animal. It comes close to you, fur tinged with pink, and opens its mouth. The sound that escapes from it is bone chilling, a desperate plea and warning, swirled together in pure terror and agony.
You want to help. You want to help. You want to help.
You Want To Help.
(A summary of your life, of everything that surrounds you, that desperate burning and wanting to just fix things for the people around you—even for the people who didn’t deserve it.)
Maxine Caulfield Wants To Help.
(Isn't that how you got caught up in this mess in the first place?)
"Hello?" A girl's voice, a croak more than anything else. "Who the fuck are you?" The room warms as she begins to panic. “Where the fuck did you come from?!”
A glance upwards. Rachel Amber.
(How are you here? How are you here with her? How did that happen? This isn’t what you had meant to do—)
Even worse somehow, the dark room.
(It isn’t tinged with Blue. There is nothing there that hints at the otherworldly, nothing that whispers words of godliness. And you are thankful for that, because that means that the man who had created this space, this area of sickness and bitterness the [loss of innocence]. It means that he was vile and evil and deserved something that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Deserved to spend an eternity in the void, on the edge of life and beginning but having it pulled away from him over and over and over and over and over—)
Rachel is crying, the type of crying that means she’s angry.
(You had been standing there, staring.)
You don't have the Time to dwell on how you managed to make this happen.
"How long—" you cough out, moving forwards and up from the floor, you have to get her out of here, "—how long have you?" It's easy to cut yourself off as you rip the rope (or was it duct tape? You couldn’t tell you just ripped it off of her away) from her fragile looking wrists.
You bend down, freeing her legs from their prison. She kicks forward, startling you, she tries to push you down, to run away—and with sick retaliation you find she thinks she cannot trust you in her freedom.
(Why doesn’t she trust you, why doesn’t she trust you, why doesn’t she trust—)
Rachel lands on top of you, her bony elbows jabbing their way against your ribs. She's too weak to hold you down.
"Christ—!" You hiss, "I'm trying to help!"
It is with those words that she freezes, goes boneless on top of you. You roll her off, picking her up to her feet, leaning her on your body. "Come on come on—" You help her forward, finding the staircase and half dragging her body out of the barn.
You carefully lay her on the base of a tree. "Listen okay—Listen to me! I have to go back inside! Wait here, okay? Promise me that you'll wait here."
She stares at you, eyes a little in awe but a lot life-less. This isn't the girl you've seen in the pictures, her face is the same, but it's like someone else is wearing her skin, someone dead.
(It’s like someone’s skinned Rachel Amber alive and put on what was left of her, something that doesn’t quite fit right—like her face is pulled a little to pulled tight, her mouth a little too sharp, her nose stretched the wrong anger and her skin pinched and saggy in some places. Like someone wearing a perfectly tailored suit meant for someone else.)
"Don't leave me—" her voice is soft, "please God don't leave me—"
(God?)
(Ah, was that what you were now?)
(That doesn’t make any sense.)
You feel something in your head flicker, feel the pull of the teenager that lays in the dirt in front of you, beaten and broken.
You nearly gag when you realize the state of her clothing.
(Jefferson must have—)
Your movements are gentle as you very carefully place a hand to her cheek, making sure your eyes meet. "Rachel listen," your voice is softer than before, and her eyes tear up slightly, "I will be back, okay? I promise, I swear."
She released a sound, a noise like she was trying to fight a whimper in a sea of raging sorrow, and nodded. (But it looked so fake, so performed, such a wrong expression on a face like hers.)
You will always despise the twist in your gut when you think of the man that did all this. You rush towards one of the desks, grabbing the bag (the one where Rachel's body ended up in a different place a different time and all you could think of was the stranger that had Chloe weeping and pounding at the dirt in the unfathomable moment when she realised she'd never see her again—)
Grit teeth and heart pounding you fill the bag with every red binder you find, with each girl found flowers bloom in your teeth as you grind them down—
How poetic.
(There Are Bloody Red Petals In The GAPS Of Your TEETH.)
(They taste kinda gross.)
You grab the camera, disentangling it from the tripod with recklessness framing every rushed movement.
(You briefly consider smashing the wretched thing.)
You heft the tripod into your arms and smash one of the computer monitors instead.
A nonchalant shove and the camera is in the bag you want Mark Jefferson to wake up in, clawing at the cloth until dirt fills his mouth and throat, until he realizes that he will end—
This whole time travel thing could really make a person more violent.
The most likely scenario in this situation would normally be quite unfathomable. Rachel Amber sits in a wheelbarrow you push, careful to avoid all bumps and the knotted roots you can. A huff of your breath, a groan from deep inside your chest. You do not complain, you're wheeling her back for a reason, something noble and kind. An act of goodwill that you can make good on without using your powers is a good thing. The push and pull of your muscles is a soothing balm for the cotton filled feeling of your mouth and ears, your head pounds, and the desire for peace and quiet is suddenly overwhelming. You just wish that Rachel felt the same.
She keeps looking at you, like the second she turns away you'll be brandishing a needle or burst into a holy flame.
"You aren't Chloe." She says, in such a way that makes it sound like she's just realizing this phenomenon. "So why are you helping me?" She asks it like nobody else would see a girl struggling in the grasp of a madman and chooses to turn up their noses at her binds and bruises, turning their cheek and the smell of blood and bodily fluids.
Then again, not everybody has.
You watch your fingers, rubbed red at the rough wooden handles your hands clamp onto. Your hair is still plastered to your forehead, covering your eyes and dripping onto the dirt below your shoes. It must be quite the sight, one girl bruised and battered the other soaked and bleeding.
(You wonder what someone would think if they stumbled across the both of you in such a state. You wonder if they would blink in astonishment as two ghosts walked past, the drowned soul of a girl desperate for choice and the beaten body of a girl desperate for change.)
"It's—" you start, trying to speak past the lump in your throat.
(Saving Rachel Amber Was Incredibly Selfish Of You).
"It's just what I wanted to do." You're satisfied with that answer, because it's a big part of the truth. You want to save everyone you can, you want to save Chloe. Rachel Amber is an outlier that can do what you can't. Unfortunately, she didn't seem too happy with what you had to say.
"There's always a motive." She says turning from you and crossing her arms. You watch the back of her head, caked in the mud on your arms where you wrapped them around her.
"Yes." You say, thinking of Chloe's cynicism. "But is it a bad one? That question—" you cough a little, "—that's the question you should have asked." You smile, if she was like you, she could ask without any prompting. It's not a nice thought, but it makes you want to laugh anyway.
"Is it?" Rachel asks quietly, then repeats, "Is it?"
(Is your motive a bad one? You just don’t want people to hurt, you don’t want Rachel—who is alive and breathing and bleeding—to end up in that bag, in that hole in the ground with the touch of that man burned into her brittle bird bones forever.)
"To some people, maybe." You think of the Chloe in the future, the one scared and alone because you have to be dramatic and rip up the only thing that saved her character. But then you think of the Chloe in this timeline, the one putting up posters and working tirelessly to save one girl. "But not to the ones that matter, at least in this time."
"You're not from here." Rachel says suddenly.
(She sees you. She knows you.)
(You saved her. You don’t know her.)
"I was born here, raised." You reply automatically, noticing the edge of the forest. "I know my way around, if that's what you're worried about."
"That is not what I meant.” Her voice is a flame from her mouth, escaping like white hot dragon fire, like venom from the most poisonous being on the planet. “And I have a feeling you know it."
“I have feelings too.” You reply wistfully. “Like right now, I’m feeling pretty hungry, I can really go for a waffle—a good one, like with cut up strawberries and powdered sugar, maybe whipped cream if I’m feeling a little bad.”
"I know what you're doing." She whispers like it's a secret.
"Do you now?" You hum, stopping by a large tree for a break. You're only yards away from one of the main roads, but something tells you to stop.
"You're getting my mind off of him." Rachel chastised, like you were a child trying to make their mother feel better, a comparison that makes you cringe.
"Maybe so." You shrug. "Maybe no."
(God That Rhyme Was So Lame—)
You pause, seeing one of the main roads. "Wanna take a break?" You stop pushing the wheelbarrow already stopping before she can answer the question.
Rachel eyes you. Eyes the girl who saved her life, a girl whose name she doesn't know, and whose features are so familiar—It's hope that keeps you from panicking, hope that wraps itself around you, keeping the girl that is Max Caulfield intact.
"How did you find me?" Rachel asks.
"I didn't mean to." You say honestly, "I was walking a path, and I guess you could say I stumbled." It was similar to the truth. You had meant to go back to Seattle, meant to call Chloe and tell her where Rachel was, or at least where her body was.
"Into a barn where you just so happened to find a shitty survival bunker?" Rachel snarled, gesturing to her body, "Where you just so happened to come across me, tortured and raped by an asshole—"
"Rachel." Your voice is soft. You don't mean to be vague or negative, you just want to help her.
She goes silent. "How do you know my name?"
"I saw a missing person's poster." You reply. (It’s the truth, that’s how you learned your name at first, but it had been impersonal until you’d heard about her, until Chloe had breathed life into those meaningless letters on that piece of paper full of emotion you didn’t understand.)
"Bullshit, nobody ever actually reads those." Her words make your skin crawl. Had she been so ruined she could not believe in the kindness of strangers?
No. That wasn't it, was it? No. You realize. It is because she doesn't know what to make of you, because she's so used to reading people, and for some reason she cannot read you.
(She can’t see you. She doesn’t know you.)
(You saved her, right? You don’t know her, don’t you?)
It's a sobering thought. "I do." You say. Rachel goes quiet, she cannot tell whether or not you're telling the truth. "I read them."
"I—" Rachel stops herself. "I don't believe you."
You stare at her, eyes unflinching. "You don't have to."
Rachel scoffs, "Aren't you supposed to be better than this?" Aren't you supposed to be making sure I'm okay? Aren't you supposed to make me feel better after all this? Aren't you supposed to be a better hero?
Your stomach drops. "Better than what?" You know what she means, but you ignore it. "I found you. I'm taking you to Chloe, she'll sing your praises, tell you that you matter, promise to butcher Mark Jefferson and Nathan Prescott, promise to hurt the ones who hurt you." You smile a little, because Chloe would do everything you said, she may not know you anymore, but you do know her.
"What about you?" Rachel whispers, watching as you slump tiredly against an old tree. "Is that all you're going to do?"
You smile. "Maybe so." You look at her. "Maybe no."
(God That Rhyme Is So Fucking Lame, Why Are You Still Saying It—)
It's funny to you, when she gets frustrated. That should be a red flag for you, should be some sort of warning about the path you're going down. But you are tired, and you just want to take Rachel back to her home.
"What's your name?" She asks.
The question startles you so much you fall over.
"I don't know anymore." It isn't the truth, not really, but a part of you feels that the 'not knowing' is such an integral part of you that you cannot find yourself saying anything else. "That was a lie." You tell Rachel, "I don't want to say it, so I'll say I don't know." You say this so that the other girl knows how to read you. It's a small sacrifice compared to all the others, and it gives Rachel a way to find some peace of mind.
You stand up, and something jolts in your gut. This is a good thing, you remind yourself, saving her was a good thing.
"Are you alright?" Rachel asks.
"No." You reply, brushing the dirt off your pants. "Yes." You tilt your head. "It depends on how you see things, I guess." You start to push the wheelbarrow, and somehow you know, know that everything will turn out alright. But first, you look down at Rachel (shivering and brave-faced) first you have to do something good.
And so you move forward.
(In Time?)
(No.)
(In Life.)