Chapter Text
Prologue
R.
Routine. You're not scared. You're ready.
You can hear the electricity humming, buzzing beneath your feet, from the ground, up and up and up through wire and metal and cages.
Vibrations, your core, your fingertips— Do they sense it too? Doesn't look like it.
They're just standing there, still and mechanical, as you wait.
Routine. These guys can't feel it, tingling, sparking. They can't feel it coursing through them like blood.
It's only you.
Czzzzzt— The lightbulb hisses and pops, and you're thrown into darkness.
A head turns, a glance in your direction. "The fuck was that?"
Routine. "How would I know?" you answer smoothly, voice echoing.
Your smile is what betrays you, as always.
Low rumbling, like movement, like thunder— "Bullshit," the other voice shouts back, footsteps soon following.
"Didn't think she was one of the electric ones," another guy says, then laughs, so confident. "Gonna have to get gas lighting."
Routine. Soon. Soon. Soon. You feel it, closer, coming.
"I don't think you need to worry about that, dude," you call out, taking a step backwards.
You can almost see it, taste it, the electricity, the smoke, time itself-- It's liberation. You're so close.
"Well, you won't either," the first voice snaps. "Not your concern. We all know who's in charge here."
Routine. You do know. You know exactly who's in charge.
The body stalks around in front of the bars and stares at you, eyes cold and beady. "I can tell you, if we spend any more cash on useless shit you guys keep breaking, Mr. Pres-"
Explosions—
Broken.
Freedom.
...finally.
Chapter 1
M.
Something supernatural is going on in Arcadia Bay. It doesn't take a genius to work that out.
The missing people? That can be explained sort of reasonably. Sometimes people just… go missing. The increasing crime rate? It’s a little odd, sure, since it’s a small town and all—but it’s nothing too wacky. Statistical deviations shouldn’t be so frightening. The stories of the guys in black and yellow suits, knocking on doors and snatching people off the streets? Yeah, okay. That’s strange. You’ll admit that.
But they're just stories. Stories that Warren tells you, of all people.
He thinks it’s some top secret military thing.
"Like, Area 51 shit, but in Arcadia Bay, ‘cause haven’t you noticed this town’s freaky?" you think he said, while proceeding to shove a chunk of muffin in his mouth.
So you’ve noticed it’s freaky. But you grew up here, you’re back for your photography program, you haven’t written that essay that’s due tomorrow, you owe Kate a lunch date and you still have to make one very important very late phone call to someone who’ll probably hang up as soon as you say anything along the lines of ‘hello, this is a voice from your past’.
Everything is relative.
"We’re teenagers, Warren. Not Mulder and Scully. And stop stealing my breakfast."
You have more important things to feel anxious about. You can afford to leave hypothetical, Men In Black-esque, government mysteries for better-equipped people to solve.
That doesn’t stop him from sending you a ton of emails trying to connect the dots, though. It’s happening in Seattle, too, apparently. 'I’m no conspiracy guy, but-' he says, sending five thousand conspiracy links from the darkest pits of the internet.
You’ve been way too tired to reply recently. And it's probably as a result of staying up until two in the morning researching 1800s photography. Or was it 1900s? Shit.
It just doesn’t go in. You read the words over and over and over until you can practically recite them without looking, but your attention always drifts. You start comparing yourself with the professionals, then the hopelessness sinks in, and God, this was so not your vision of what Blackwell would be like.
The naïve little voice in the back of your head whispers, "I wanted to take photos, too," and you swat the thought away like it’s a pest.
It’s true; the vast amount of theory and paper work is a little disappointing... but that’s just what you asked for when you decided you wanted to study photography. You’re grown up now, you can handle this.
The voice is still there of course, just quieter, nagging. You still want to take your own photos.
The idea of searching Arcadia Bay; wandering and exploring with your camera’s eye, looking for shots, is exciting. Kind of nostalgic. Makes you feel like a little kid again.
And you’re dying to show Mr. Jefferson some of your work. Sure, there’s a chance he’ll hate it, since his style contrasts completely with yours and you’re just an amateur but… but he’s your teacher, so he won’t be a dick. Right?
That’s usually when you realize you’ve forgotten what you were meant to be studying in the first place, and hence the endless cycle of memorization, distraction and self-doubt begins again.
So, yeah, you’ve been really tired lately.
So tired that when the sound of your own name pierces the air in chem class, you jolt, eyes snapping open.
You look around for a moment, bewildered, like a deer in the headlights. And fuck. You were totally just drifting in and out of consciousness. But fortunately (or not), there’s suddenly the familiarity of Teenage Boy Smell: that distinct desperation mixed with Axe body spray. You notice Warren’s leaning in close and whispering to you.
“Phosphorus chloride,” you parrot back, staring at Ms. Grant. She blinks twice before looking up from her notes, eyeing you with a raised brow.
“Good, Max,” she says. “Good.”
You exhale, rubbing your eyes with your palms, pick up your pen and write the words PHOSPHORUS CHLORIDE on the paper in front of you. Underline it. Circle it. Rub your eyes again. You can feel a headache coming on.
That was one near fucking miss.
You steal a glance at Warren. He gives you a coy, I-just-saved-your-life smile. You shake your head. He’s so gonna grill you later for this.
When the bell rings, it just makes your headache worse. And when Warren pokes you in the ribs and asks what class you have next, you're positive your head is going to split open.
"Photography," you say, and the groan that escapes with it isn't intended. He frowns immediately, but you just nod at his confused expression and mutter, "I know, I know, it's my favorite, blah blah blah. Just not in the mood for it today, I guess."
"Oh," he replies, looking thoughtful.
"Headache," you explain, grabbing your things off of your desk. He watches you as you toss your belongings haphazardly into your satchel. When you notice he's still staring, you shoot him a pointed What? face to mirror his own. He lifts his hands up in innocence.
"Jeez!" he says, widening his eyes. "You need to get some sleep, Max."
You sigh. "I know."
"Sorry," you add, when he doesn't say anything back. "And thanks. For back there. Phosphorus... chlorine thing."
"It's cool," he says, his expression going back to normal. "Just looking out for my fellow special agent, y'know?"
You chuckle, shaking your head. "By the way, you have to stop blowing up my inbox with that crap. If I wanted to hear about exciting news, I'd ask Juliet from my dorm."
Warren grins as you exit the classroom, suddenly more animated, "No, no, you see—"
You snort, but listen anyway.
"Juliet, she's a journalist. She's got good gossip, and she's got the skill to frame it any way she wants. But this, is the search for the truth. We're talking government cover-ups, we're talking mysteries, we're talking aliens—"
"We're talking class. In five minutes, Warren."
"Ugh," Warren groans, stopping in front of his locker. "You're boring."
"Headache, remember? Can't process."
"Whatever. I bet you it's the aliens," he says, deadly serious, pointing to your head.
You roll your eyes. "Of course."
When you say goodbye and head towards Mr. Jefferson's class, you can hear Warren say something along the lines of 'Try not to fall asleep this time! '.
You scrunch up your nose at him, trying to express the message that that was not in the slightest bit funny. But when class starts and you sit at your desk - after trying to avoid direct eye contact with Victoria, taking halfhearted notes, and giving Kate the occasional knowing smile - you find your eyes are closed.
Which is annoying, because you didn't notice closing them.
So you open them again. And sure enough, you're still awake, in class, as usual.
But then it happens again. Blackness. Your head nodding forwards without your consent.
You shake yourself out of it.
Jesus, Max, what is wrong with you? You weren't... you weren't going to fall asleep again... you have to...
You hear the crash of something on your desk hitting the ground, and your eyes snap open again. So clumsy—
But, wait. It's still dark.
You... you just opened your eyes, but—
Then there's another crash, and this time it's much louder, deafening. Your body lurches, shocked into movement, and holy shit.
Lightning. Across the sky. The sky. The dark, wide sky, frothing with storm clouds above your head. You're suddenly aware of your surroundings, eyes adjusting to the dark, and the noise is so fucking loud. The hissing of rain, the rumbling of thunder, the wind, piercing.
And then the other senses return to you too, of course. It's real. It's real; the taste of something metallic in your mouth, the smell of the dirt smeared over your face, the feeling of soaked clothes clinging to your skin. It's disgusting but it's real. You push yourself up off of the ground and look around, try to get your bearings.
You stumble a little when you rise to your feet, blinking the rain out of your eyes. Trees tower and sway above you, dizzying.
This looks like a forest. The forest. The forest that neighbors the path to the lighthouse. Jeez, you haven't been there in... in years...
You can almost remember the trek from your childhood, so you turn around, lifting your arm up to protect your eyes from the downpour. You'll be safe if you can make it there. You hope. Jesus, how the hell did this even—
"Fuck!"
You gasp when lightning strikes something that sounds far too nearby. It cracks like a whip, then you hear more crashing — probably a tree collapsing. You have to keep going.
Lightning hits again. You keep pushing, keep moving, despite the wind picking up and the electricity in the air — and it strikes again, and again, and again— the storm is intensifying, you're certain of that. But then when you reach the clearing, you finally see.
The lighthouse, glowing red.
The lightning, burning red.
It's like walking in on some satanic ritual, seeing the red lightning repeatedly strike the lighthouse like that. You're frozen stock-still, terrified.
That's when the ground starts shaking, and with another strike, the beacon explodes. Red-stained glass shatters and flies through the air, and you're screaming now—you would try and jump backwards if you could, but you're in the air before you know it.
The force of the explosion knocks you off of your feet and out cold.