Chapter Text
Max Hatter didn’t consider himself a good person. To be a good person is to be selfless, to put others before yourself and consider how your actions could impact them. To be a good person is to be honest and not fool your way out of situations using trickery and lies.
If there was one thing Max had learned in his life, it was that the people who put others before themselves were usually the first ones to go. The ones who were brutally honest were the ones to get attacked, to be hated for their integrity. They were the ones to be loathed, to be envied for the sheer beauty in their character. How could one be so pure? How could one have such a disarming personality but be loved by all?
How could one rather give up their own survival than hurt another?
The way he saw it, there was a very minute selection of the population that was good. So if there were so few individuals with these perfect traits, how come he had to end up with so many of them parading around him for the past twenty-four hours with their disgusting niceties??
Night had quickly fallen in the enchanted forest, bathing the brilliant foliage with her inky void. A kaleidoscope of bioluminescent reds, blues, pinks, and purples painted the woods in a vibrancy that Max had become all too accustomed too.
Night was always something Max looked forward to whenever he strayed far from Wonderland. Not that he despised the pretty colors that decided to show their faces in the absence of the sun, but it was nice to find respite from light for just a moment. To stand in the darkness and breathe it all in—the tranquil quiet as the birds tucked their chicks away for the night, the silence only accompanied by his own steady breathing as the flowers wilted at his feet in the silver light of the moon.
The snap of a twig stole Max’s attention away from his thoughts and back to his surroundings. So far he had been using his feet to guide him through the magical forest, putting faith in the muscle memory that he had developed over years in this terrain to put him on the right path. He sent a glance around him at the heavy dark. Perhaps that wasn’t the brightest idea.
The whisper of a soft tail against a bush brought his attention back to the very thing that had broken him from his internal monologue. There, bathed in celestial light from the moon shining overhead, stood a mare. She stared at him through her doleful eyes, blinking slowly with her long, white lashes. Her tail swished once more but her hooves stayed rooted to the spot, her horn glinting against the moonlight, and Max had half the mind to back away from the powerful creature.
Max had scarcely seen a unicorn in his time living in Wonderland. He knew they frequented the forests and enjoyed the lavish palate that the magical foliage had to offer, but he had only ever laid eyes upon such an animal once.
God, she was everything the books made them out to be. A silky mane draped over her neck, pearly white fur adorned with sparkles standing out amidst her dark surroundings. Her long, imposing spiral horn stood proud, jutting out of her forehead, and even from where he was some couple yards away from her, Max could practically feel the magic radiating off of her.
She was the most gorgeous thing Max had ever seen in his life.
She stared at him, unblinkingly, for a few moments more, and Max met her steady gaze with his own. He had the faintest recollection of unicorns being capable of the spoken tongue, but this mare chose to retain her silence. Despite the absence of words, Max felt a question was hanging in the air between them.
No, it was more than that. A grievance, perhaps?
He didn’t blink nor look away. Neither did she.
Eventually, after moments of this prolonged silence, her eyes drooped and something in her expression turned almost… sad. Regretful. She turned and left, her tail disappearing behind a large purple oak tree. Max just stood there for a second, gaze unmoving from the spot the mare had vanished from.
Then, he too turned away and continued on his trek to find his home. To right his wrong.
–
Max brushed away a large, low hanging leaf and stepped out from behind the thick cover of trees. There, surrounded by a dense, eerie fog, lay his father’s home. Max had long ago forsaken the place, too haunted by the shouts and manic spurs of violence that echoed through the halls. Memories of what used to be were still etched in the floors; intermingled droplets of tears and blood stained the carpets despite being long ago scrubbed away with raw hands and buckets of soap; broken glass littered the floor despite the mosaics painting the windows being freshly repaired.
The house was a twisted beauty within itself. Huge top hats sat in replacement of a standard roof. A clock shone bright in the window of the second floor, illuminating the earthy cobblestone path to the building. Vines crept up the side of the house, intertwining within the bricks, and the branches of trees dipped down to shed their blood-red leaves onto the tiled top hats. A stick was driven into the dirt at the front of the house, a wooden 2d painting of a top hat glued onto its top.
Max brushed past it, his boots echoing against the stone path, ringing out into the still night. Even the crickets had stopped their chatter to watch as he walked closer and closer to his certain death. The woodland creatures held their collective breaths in anticipation. Max did so too as his chilled fingers curled around the doorknob, the feeling of the wood much too familiar in his grasp.
He wrenched the door open without wasting another second.
He stepped inside, swinging the door shut in his wake. His eyes swept across the room in one go, pausing on the stand to his right adorned with a multitude of colorful hats. He took a couple more steps into the space, hoping against hope that it was truly vacant and his father had decided to reside elsewhere. The wall to his left ticked in a cacophony of clocks. A cuckoo bird popped out of its home and sang its repetitive melody that Max had heard one too many times in his life.
A grand desk stood in the center of the room, a giant glass window at its back. Right front and center of the desk was exactly what Max was looking for. Made out of gold, it had a swirling center with clocks surrounding the perimeter. Still ticking. Always ticking.
A constant reminder that his time on this earth was fleeting.
A constant reminder that all it took was one particularly harsh manic burst from his father and his heart could stop beating.
He had found it. He had found his father’s Oraculum. Now all he had to do was bring it back to the White Rabbit’s hobbit hole to the others and prove he was trustworthy. That he was nothing like his father and never will be.
The classic nurture versus nature conundrum.
The voice in his head startled Max for a moment, nearly making him knock a wax seal off of a stack of books piled high atop the desk. He had forgotten about the dreadful voice that plagued him so. It had appeared when he moved to Wonderland when he was 6, after the barrier of the Isle of the Lost was dismantled. He had managed to vanquish it for a while when he escaped Wonderland to find refuge in Auradon. Now he was back. And so was it.
Well, in your case, you drew the short end of the stick for both arguments, no?
He rubbed his temple with a half-gloved hand, an all-too familiar headache already building at the sharp words.
On one hand, madness does tend to run in the family.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in deeply through his nose and out his mouth. He had forgotten all of his old techniques to rid himself of the voice, had forgotten how awful it was to have another living rent free inside of his brain.
On the other, well, let’s admit it, you weren’t raised like royalty. Raised by a madman, became a madman. Nobody would question it, everyone’s expecting it. Why not give them what they want?
He snapped open his eyes, slamming both hands down on the desk in a brief moment of clouded judgement. Pencils spilled over the side of the surface, clattering to the hard floor in an array of yellow.
That’s more like it.
“Go away,” Max managed to snarl out through grit teeth, ducking his head low and squeezing his eyes shut once more.
The voice said nothing more. Just like that, it was gone. Max opened his eyes, gaze slowly shifting to the pencils strewn out upon the floor. He straightened himself, dropped his hands from the desk, and refocused his vision on the Oraculum.
“Nobody likes a madman.”
Max blinked, unsure whether or not he was still hallucinating, then turned, the dread of what he’d find coiling in his stomach.
There, perched upon the slim windowsill, stood none other than Chessy, the enigmatic magical cat that only seemed to appear when he needed her least. Her purple and orange fur gleamed against the blue light reflecting off of the paned window, her glowing tail ghosting the glass behind her as it flicked back and forth.
“What?” she grinned, disappearing in a glitter of smoke. Her voice was behind him this time. “Cat got your tongue?”
He whipped around, the bottom end of his tailcoat flying in his wake. She leisurely picked her way across his father’s prized instrument, golden eyes fixed on him. He slowly shook his head as he took a step back, arm outstretched to steady himself.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice slightly strangled amidst his growing panic at the familiar face. It only brought back memories of his father’s harsh words, the absence of any at all, the screams that nobody cared to hear in such a remote forest.
Chessy shrugged, settling herself down right on top of the Oraculum. “What do you propose I want?”
“Enough of these games. Go back to your master.” Max refused to humor her. It would get him nowhere.
That seemed to get a rise out of her, but just barely. She refused to let it show, but he could tell by the intense swish of her tail and the flattening of her ears that he had really gotten to her. He knew Chessy had her pride, so that was exactly what he was going to exploit.
He hated how that was his automatic response to a conflict.
“I have no master,” she shot back immediately, already composed from the initial blow. “Where’s yours?”
He froze. No—No, he refused to let her take over his mind. Not again.
“Get off.” He gestured towards the Oraculum with an annoyed flick of his hand, brows raised at the magic cat.
“This old thing?” Chessy asked, feigning surprise. “What do you want it for?”
He hesitated, something the cat surely picked up on. “I’m gonna save somebody.”
Chessy cocked her head, whiskers twitching. “A madman trying to save somebody. How… ironic.”
Max balled his hands into fists and resisted the urge to slam them back down upon the table once more. “I’m not mad.”
“Oh, Max. We’re all mad here.” The cat paused, sending a glance around as if somebody were listening in. “Well, most of us, at least. Not those pretty folk from outside of Wonderland. No, they don’t have voices in their heads, do they?”
“I don’t have—”
“Ah, careful now, you don’t want to start telling lies now, do you?” Chessy purred, unblinking gaze now fixed on Max. The way she stared reminded Max of the unicorn he had encountered within the last hour. There was something terribly different between the two, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps he was going mad.
Max turned away from Chessy, unable to look at her irritating face any longer.
“They wouldn’t understand,” Chessy continued and Max could hear her walking through the discarded screws and other such things littering the desk. The ticking of the clocks seemed to increase as she spoke. “They haven’t encountered the reality of this place.”
Max shook his head but said nothing. Knew there was no way to argue against the words of a Cheshire Cat.
“Reality is an odd thing, is it not? It’s molded by our past mistakes, our past remedies, our past actions.”
“What’re you getting at?” Max spit out, unable to listen to the musings of this godawful cat much longer.
Get out.
…What?
GET OUT—
“What if I told you your father was right all these years?”
The voice fell silent once more. Max turned to face Chessy.
“What are you talking about?”
Chessy just grinned. Ear to ear—a Cheshire grin. “It’s not your fault you’re mad. Your reality is different from theirs. You and that Red girl.” Chessy disappeared from the desk, reappearing on the mantle in a puff of glitter. “But there’s something different there, separating you and her. Isn’t there?”
Max just stared. What was she getting at?
“She knows the truth. Why don’t you?”
In a blink, Chessy was gone, leaving Max in the wake of her conniving words and double meanings.
She knows the truth? What was that supposed to mean? Max turned to face the Oraculum, gently brushing the top of the spiral with a fingertip.
Would he see the truth in there? Would he finally figure out why his life was a living hell if he looked into the spiraling images of the past?
No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. This device destroyed his father, turned him into nothing more than a—
A madman.
Max would do anything it took to prevent himself from turning into something as terrible as his father.
His fingers curled around the cool, metal of the device and he was about to support it with his other hand when—
“Max! What a nice surprise!”
No.
I told you.
No. He refused to believe it. Not when he was so close. Not when he was minutes away from proving he wasn’t like his father.
“Have you decided to finally come home for the holidays?”
At the sound of a step drawing closer, Max let go of the Oraculum and whirled around to face his father.
It was truly him. Not a hallucination, not a dream—no. It was him.
Max took a step back, hating how suddenly shaky his legs were. He bumped into the desk, rattling the contents it held on its surface. There was nowhere to run unless he pivoted to the left and hightailed it out of the door. But in all honesty, Max never had a chance from the start. Coming back to Wonderland had been a brash decision, something he knew would be detrimental to himself, but he had to. He had to prove that he wasn’t his father by saving the queen and putting an end to the Mad Hatter’s vicious ways.
His father had eyes everywhere. It didn’t matter how far Max ran, it didn’t matter if he made it out of this house unscathed—his father would always be a step ahead. He would always be controlling Max’s every move, would always have something dangling over him and Max would have no choice but to comply.
Why did he think it was such a grand idea to come back to this wretched place??
The Mad Hatter cocked his head to the side like a parakeet, raising his brows in mock surprise. “No? Pray tell, why have you returned then?”
Max opened his mouth but no words issued from his lips. His vocal chords seemed to tangle in his throat, choking him of any bravado he had left.
“Wait!” His dad held out a hand, briefly shutting his eyes and placing that same gloved hand over them. “Don’t tell me… you’ve come to help your friends! Am I right?”
Max swallowed. His throat was dry.
“I am right!” The Mad Hatter clasped his hands together, a wide smile blooming on his face. “But that’s not the only reason you’ve come back to dear old dad, is it?”
“Why’re you here?” Max managed to say, barely able to keep his voice above a whisper.
“Why am I here? No, dear son, that’s not the question you should be asking! Why are you here?”
“...What?”
His father spread his hands, spinning in a wide arc. “In Wonderland! In this place of beauty and madness!”
“To stop—”
The Mad Hatter froze, dropping his arms back down to his sides. “To… what now?” That all too familiar dangerous glaze appeared in his eyes. Max could practically feel the cut of his rings on his face once more.
Max shook his head and began to slowly inch his way towards the gap between the desk and the wall of ticking clocks. He held one hand out in front of himself as if to ward his father away, the other ghosting the table at his back. “Why’d you do it?”
His father raised a brow. “That’s not a very reasonable question. Why’d I do it? Why’d I go mad after all those years? You tell me, Max. Your friends that you love so dearly should know.”
Again with that friend thing. Just like Chessy said, Red knew something. She knew the truth.
“Red?” Max asked, nearly unable to hear his own voice above the symphony of clocks.
“Among… another,” his father answered, eyes looking past Max as if they were glued to the Oraculum.
“How does she know? What did she do?”
His dad gestured to the Oraculum without tearing his gaze from it. “It’ll tell you all you need to know, my dear son.”
Max had nearly reached the edge of the desk by then. Just a few more inches and he could bolt out of there.
“That wasn’t my initial question,” Max deflected, the urge to look into the instrument that ruined his father growing by the second. “I asked why you did it. Why you kidnapped the queen.”
“Oh? To find my stopwatch, of course. She’s hiding it from me, her and her wretched daughter.”
For some odd reason, the insult on Red caused a strange flash of anger to prickle beneath his skin. “Enough with that watch, that’s the reason we were stuck on the Isle in the first place!”
“The watch wasn’t the thing that got us stuck in the Isle, but it did ruin our lives! It caused our happy family to crumble to ruin!”
Max paused at that, narrowing his gaze at his father. “Ruined our lives?”
“We were so happy, Max!” his father took another step forward, eyes finally lifted from the Oraculum and to his son’s face. “You weren’t a thief, I was well respected. I loved you!”
A sharp breath caused his throat to constrict, caused acid to burn holes through his trachea, caused his lungs to collapse inside of his chest. “Loved…?” he whispered, voice raw and utterly defeated. He hated it.
His dad nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! We can have all of that back!” He shot a hand out as if attempting to grab Max’s wrist. Max darted to the side, just barely evading the touch. He found himself in the space between the desk and the wall, the door to his back and his father in front. Indecision tore at his heart, two ideas grappling fiercely with each other while his body stood frozen. He had it—he had an out! All he had to do was get to the door and sprint like hell to get back to the White Rabbit’s home!
His father said he had loved him.
He loved him.
Past tense.
He could get that back. He could get it all back in an instant if he managed to find that stopwatch. Red knew about it, all he had to do was find out a way to get Red to open up and—
No. No, he had to prove he wasn’t his father.
Max stared at the Oraculum, then shifted his gaze to his dad, then the door.
“I want to see,” he finally decided, curling his hands into tight balls at his sides. “I want the truth.”
An absolutely delighted grin lit his father’s face. “And see you shall, my dear boy!” This time he succeeded in grabbing Max’s wrist. His fingers were cold, his grip all too familiar and much too tight.
He yanked Max in front of his prized invention. He leaned down slightly, breath brushing the edge of Max’s ear. He resisted the urge to flinch away. “She stole our lives. Now we’ll steal hers.”
The Oraculum sputtered to life, the clocks surrounding the perimeter lighting up one by one. The middle began to spin in a hypnotic fashion, and an array of colorful images began to dance behind the two golden eyeholes.
His father, hair short and eyes disarmingly calm, gaze set upon a rougher looking Red; his own father had never looked at him that way. The queen, attire different and voice shrill, ordering somebody’s head to be severed. Red and Chloe, a stopwatch gripped tight in Red’s hand, a burst of light and suddenly they were somewhere else—
Max tore his eyes from the spiraling images. Now was his chance.
He grabbed hold of the Oraculum, lifting the heavy device with both hands and sprinted around the desk, hoping against hope that he had taken his father by surprise and he would make it out of the door before he came to his senses.
Max never was a very lucky individual.
He slammed into a solid wall of metal, the Oraculum taking most of the impact, and tumbled backwards onto the ground. His father’s prized instrument crashed to the floor next to him, the delicate pieces snapping off of the outer edges, the glass in the clocks shattering into nothing. He stared at the invention before moving his gaze upward to the suite of armor standing in his way, blocking the door from his reach.
A gloved hand rested gently on his shoulder. Gently.
Max shot up, his father’s touch suddenly hot iron to his skin, and attempted to duck beneath the soldier's arm and twist open the doorknob.
The suit of armor caught his left forearm in a crushing grip—literally. It squeezed its metal fingers around his flesh until Max began to scream, his other hand desperately trying to pry the fingers off of his arm. He could feel the bones crunch beneath the pressure, the hot blood flow down his arm and stain his coat. Could feel every agonizing second of it, of his arm twisting beneath the ironclad grip—
It let go. He dropped to the ground like a stone, hot tears suddenly flooding his eyes and dripping down his face. He cradled his ruined arm to his chest, blood dripping from his fingertips and onto the solid floor below into a muddle of scarlet. His chest was painfully tight, his lungs burning as he fought to provide them with oxygen but to no apparent avail. His heart felt it was going to leap out from the faux protection of his brittle ribs. He could feel every beat in his injured arm as the blood began to flow even more viciously.
“Oh, Max,” his father said, voice almost soothing.
Max felt sick. He leaned the shoulder of his good arm against the wall to his right, still holding his broken forearm tight to himself.
“I thought you’d learned what happens when you disobey me.” The Mad Hatter strolled past Max, and Max couldn’t fight the urge to physically recoil from the man. He shrunk as far as he could into the wall, suddenly feeling like he was six years old again and still on the Isle of the Lost. At least his friendly neighbors could hear him scream there. One time somebody even came to help.
It didn’t turn out very well for them in the end.
He distinctly remembered the red all over the wooden floor as his father repeatedly bashed the man’s head in with a steel pipe, a grin stretching his face ear to ear. He remembered tears filling his adolescent, childlike eyes—just as they did now—and him begging his father to stop.
That only caused him to turn the bloodstained impromptu weapon upon his own son. It was only one strike, but Max would remember it as if it was ten. Tears streaming down his face as he clutched his badly bruised arm, the huffs of breath as his father wiped the sweat from his brow. Maddox Hatter had turned to Max with speckles of red painting his face in a twisted reflection of himself.
Max was terrified he would see that version of his father if he lifted his eyes, so he refused. He kept his head ducked low, the brim of his hat concealing the majority of his face. His father paused in front of him, his boots freshly polished and his coat just barely brushing the ground. He plucked Max’s hat from his head, and in doing so, taking any bravery that Max had left. Without the shield atop his head Max felt utterly naked. Exposed.
“Now,” his father said, crouching down, reaching out a hand. Max turned away from it but there was nowhere to run. The Mad Hatter lifted Max’s chin with his index and middle finger, forcing the boy to face him with his thumb.
Max could feel himself trembling like a leaf beneath his father’s hold. God, how he hated being weak. His father had taught him that showing any kind of weakness would get him—or the people around him—killed.
Now all those lessons had gone out the window. His heart was filled to the brim with undisguisable terror, his shaking body a testament to the emotion. His father was sure to notice within seconds—what would he do? Would he finally give in and kill him?
“You broke my precious Oraculum.” His father’s voice was… soft. Disgusting. For some reason, Max found himself even more frightened by the unusual tone. His father tilted his head to the side, examining his son’s face. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Max shakily inhaled, staring up at the villain that all of Wonderland feared so. Was he going to die?
“I said,” his father growled, his grip tightening painfully so on Max’s face. “What are you going to do about it!?” His words crescendoed to a shout, and he let go of Max’s face, striking it with the back of his hand. Max’s head was whipped to the side, but he said nothing, the fingers of his good hand reaching up to find fresh blood welling on his cheekbone.
The Mad Hatter sighed, standing up and brushing off his pants. Max didn’t move his eyes from where they were fixed upon the blood flecked floor, but without his hat, he could see his father pacing back and forth in his peripherals.
“You see, Max, I think you’ve forgotten how to survive in this world,” he began, voice taking on a distressed tone. “Kill or be killed, isn’t that what I taught you?”
Max said nothing.
His father continued, apparently not fazed by his lack of response. “I think your little friends have blinded you. If they’re out of the picture, you can be a good son again, right?”
At this Max raised his blurry gaze, breaths more sporadic now. Be a good son again…? No—wait.
“They aren’t my friends,” he murmured, unsure of the verity of his own statement. Were they his friends? Well, he liked to hang out with the other VKs, but did he ever form real connections with any of them? And then there was Luis—
He didn’t like to think about Luis anymore.
The Mad Hatter cocked his head to the side, which, again, reminded Max much of a confused bird. Perhaps a pigeon this time. Or something more deadly. Maybe a raven?
“Aren’t your friends?” he pigeoned (ha). “Why have you traveled back here with them, then, if not to visit your father? Why have you put your own life into their hands so recklessly?”
“I just needed them to get back,” Max spit out, suppressing a wince as his arm gave a particularly nasty bite of pain. “I was going to ditch them when I—”
“When you what?”
Max met his father’s eyes completely this time, now sure he was going to be killed. “When I’ve defeated you.”
The Mad Hatter stared at Max for a moment, his face blank. Then something resembling a snort left his lips. Then another, then another, until he was doubled over with laughter. Tears rolled from his eyes as he cackled, clutching his stomach as if he was the one that was hurt.
“You, defeat me?” he asked, still gaffawing. “That was your master plan? You kill me with… what, exactly? A sad look? You couldn’t stop me from killing one man, what makes you think you can stop me from killing a queen?”
“You plan to kill her?” Max asked, unsure why he was surprised about the proclamation.
“Right after her dreadful daughter!” he confirmed, twirling Max’s hat in his hands.
“Stay away from her,” Max bit out, shocking himself with the finality in his words.
“I thought you had no friends,” his dad asked, raising his brows. “Or, perhaps, your time in Auradon has made you weaker than I thought. Who knows you’re here?”
“Nobody!” Max exclaimed, quickly attempting to patch up his mistake. “I came alone.”
“So what are you doing, trying to steal my Oraculum?”
“I was going to destroy it.” Max came up with the lie on the spot, but he knew his father was keenly aware of when he was lying.
“Oh? What happened to saving somebody?”
Max froze. “Y—You heard that?”
The Mad Hatter put a finger to his lips, looking past Max to the window at his back. “Eyes and ears everywhere, my boy.”
Max shook his head, attempting to clear the fluff that seemed to be stuffed into his brain. “What do you want?”
“I want you to get me that stopwatch.” His father knelt down beside him, placing a comforting hand on his left shoulder.
“If I don’t?”
The Mad Hatter grinned that horrible smile that Max was far too accustomed with. “I hope you don’t. I’ll start with the tall, strong one.”
Max sharply inhaled, staring up at his father’s twisted face. “I’ll do it.”
“Atta boy.” His father placed Max’s hat back on his head and straightened up. “Remember, Max; Just because I’m mad, doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
With that, his father flicked a playing card high into the air as far as the ceiling would allow, and disappeared with a flourish and a puff of smoke. Max was left alone, trembling on the floor of his old home, fresh blood piling atop the layer of old.