Author Notes:

Letters from tomorrow rises from the dead once more. Appropriate for a release just after Easter, I guess. Thanks to everyone who left a review or comment. It's difficult to fully describe how seeing them can lift your spirits.

The heavy front door to Blackwell academy's main building sprung open just as Max Caulfield was reaching for its handle. She found herself having to take evasive action, flattening herself against the banister of the stone staircase that led up to the door just in time to avoid a stampede of roughly a dozen students exploding from it. Max had absolutely no idea who any of them were: she barely knew most of the people in her dorm, let alone the wider school population. They, however, seemed to know who she was, and a shout of "check out doom-sayer Max" went out as she gingerly peeled herself away from the banister. Reassessing her surroundings made her feel decidedly uneasy: she became acutely aware that a whole mess of eyes were now watching her. The mob that had nearly ran her over as though she were invisible had suddenly stopped and were impatiently regarding her. Probably holding the entirely unreasonable expectation that she'd have something both profound and endlessly amusing to convey. Why did people always expect that?

"Um, hey." She replied. "Weird dream right? I've got no idea what I'd do if it all came true."

An awkward pause seemed to stretch out forever. Then finally one of the students shouted "two moons motherfuckers! Woooo!" This was followed up with another of them pronouncing "cashmere on tap!"

"Don't forget the rogue eclipse. I hear that's scientifically impossible and could never happen." Max added as they turned to resume their rapid and erratic journey away from the school building, apparently in the rough direction of the parking lot. Watching the group leave, Max wondered if perhaps she'd been a little too on the nose with that last comment, especially given what was about to happen. But on seeing several of them spontaneously break out into air guitar while the remainder raised their hands to issue the sign of the devil, she decided she'd probably matched her delivery to the level of subtlety they were accustomed.

Well that was random, Max thought. Still, she supposed it meant at least a few people had taken notice of the mock-bullying event she'd engineered with Victoria on social media, even if they had associated it with that silly "Maximum Victory" video Courtney had released yesterday. Somehow it didn't quite feel enough though. For their plan to work, almost the entire town needed to become aware of her prediction ahead of Friday. And not just a mob of intellectually questionable school students. She needed the attention of the more "eminent" people. The older people. The kind that still read printed newspapers and watched the television for news; the kind who in general treated social media with confusion and contempt and would definitely not be following the posts of a couple of teenage girls. More strange though, was that she found herself not really caring at that moment in time, instead feeling that somehow everything was going to just turn out perfectly. Perhaps having escaped death from at least three separate sources had left her feeling a little invincible. Perhaps the knowledge that her future-self had some master plan that would somehow make everything work out was emboldening her. Or perhaps she was riding a high from having felt Chloe shiver against her lips. She glanced in the direction of the front gate, where Chloe's old pickup truck was parked. Chloe had discarded her jacket, and the corded muscles in her arms were making their presence obvious as she unloaded several large cinder blocks from the mess in the back of her truck, wedging them behind each wheel as a safety precaution before moving in to inspect the vehicle's underside. Biting her lip, Max conceded to herself that, yes, it was probably Chloe that had her in a good mood.

There was only one thing threatening to ruin her momentary sense of elation: a lingering concern for the welfare of Kate Marsh, that had began in earnest yesterday when she'd noticed that Kate, normally the patron saint of hope, soft animals, and pretty much everything good, was scribbling a hangman's noose beside her optics notes. She'd subsequently gotten a fair idea of what Kate had gone through, and just the thought of it had her torn between wanting to cuddle Kate in an everlasting embrace while softly reassuring her that everything was going to be fine, and 'dealing with' her tormentors; perhaps using her power to simultaneously extract every one of their fingernails before handing them over to the authorities. Then she reflected that there was no reason why she couldn't do both.

Some small part of her seemed to raise a slight objection. Asking whether, from a cold, intellectual standpoint, she was focusing too much of her concern on one person here. After all, Max actually had forewarning that the entire town was in jeopardy, while it wasn't even clear that something was going to happen with Kate. Her future-self, seemingly obsessed with preventing tragedy, had definitely not volunteered any warning or mentioned a strategy to help Kate. Perhaps she felt so strongly in this instance simply because she'd actually witnessed Kate's suffering first hand: the portrait of cold misery that was Kate's face that morning, and the quaking voice which had explained how she'd been drugged. Compared with that, most of the townspeople were somehow unreal. More silent cardboard cut-outs than actual people to her. Perhaps she was encountering one of those "a single death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic" scenarios everyone attributed to Stalin, apparently falsely. Evan Harris, the resident contrarian of the photography class had taken great pleasure in explaining Stalin never actually said that.

Then something else occurred to Max. A subtle point, but infinitely more important than accidentally misquoting a lunatic dictator. She recalled how Kate had been a shining beacon when Max first walked into photography class, a genuinely kind, welcoming person amongst a sea of unknown and seemingly unfriendly glares, her first real friend at Blackwell. With that friendship came an important unsaid agreement to look out for one another. She had no such agreement with the random denizens of the town, so was actually obliged to place Kate's welfare above a group of strangers.

Wowser, introspective much? Max thought, as she made a second attempt at the doors. Normally she had to sit down and relax for a moment before her mind became inundated with thoughts like that, though maybe having to squash her posterior against the banister qualified.

There was a noticeable change in the air as Max stepped inside Blackwell Academy's main building: it was warmer, with an absence of the gentle sting of chilled wind gusts brushing her cheeks. Stuffy in other words, and perhaps appropriate in an institution dedicated to structured learning. That slight nervousness she'd been feeling about Kate seemed to grow as she cast her eyes around. Kate was nowhere to be found among the sparse crowd of students sifting through hallways, idly gossiping or retrieving items from their lockers. Max checked the time: this was when they were supposed to meet. Kate should have been waiting right outside Jefferson's class. But she wasn't. A horrible, and thought came to mind. What if something had happened, if Kate decided she couldn't take it any more. What if she followed in Rachel's footsteps, and was never seen again?

That thought spurred Max into action. Taking her phone in hand, her fingers danced across the touch screen, typing out what she hoped would be taken as a friendly text inquiring about Kate's whereabouts. She sent it, and immediately felt better. Then after a minute with no gentle whir from a 'message received' vibration, she began to feel worse. She sent another. Then a third. Then a fourth. She nearly dropped her phone midway through typing a fifth message, unprepared for the vibration that accompanied receipt of reply.

Max: Hi Kate. I'm in Blackwell's main building. Where are you?

Max: Just tell me when you arrive.

Max: I'd really like to meet up before class.

Max: And maybe we could arrange to have tea after school, like we used to?

Kate: Sorry Max, the bus broke down and they had to call another one out. You don't need to blow up my phone with silly texts though. Do you know how annoying that is?

Actually Max did. She experienced it every day thanks to Warren, but she thought it politic not to reply as such. And now her minor panic attack had inflicted that same suffering on the one person who absolutely didn't deserve or need it, more straw for the (already rather laden) camel's back. Wonderful. Max really didn't know what to make of Kate's response either; Kate never got snippy. Perhaps all of her efforts were making things worse. Perhaps she should back off a little. God, why didn't her future-self just tell her what to do, instead of leaving her on the verge of ripping her hair out from having to second-guess everything?

Still, it was good to know that Kate was just running extra late, that nothing bad had happened to her. It also left Max with a handful of extra time, though what she could do with it beyond standing gormless in the hallway wasn't immediately apparent. She glanced around, and her eyes immediately met someone else's gaze. Max fought the urge to flinch, she hated it when this happened: an instant's eye-contact and somehow the other party always assumed that you'd been gawking at them for ages and they'd only just noticed it. Fortunately, the person she'd made eye contact with, Taylor Christensen, seemed not to have taken offence.

Taylor sat to the side of a table that was covered, top, front and sides, in vortex club posters. They were emblazoned with spiral motifs that were rendered in stark monochrome, announcing the upcoming "end of the world party". It could almost be considered prophetic, especially with the spiral vortex club logo being eerily similar to a tornado. They seemed to be off by a day though: the "end of the world" party was scheduled for Thursday, and the actual end of the world (or at least the town) for Friday. Behind the table, of course, was Victoria Chase. She was hard at work, directing that formidable glare at a stack of paperwork. Against all expectations, the papers did not spontaneously combust in response.

And then something happened that was completely at odds with the casual contempt Taylor had given Max in their last photography class: she actually waved her over, smiling broadly, if a little slyly. Max watched for a moment as Taylor proceeded to turn to Victoria and say something; she wasn't close enough to hear what. For an instant Victoria seemed about to jump to her feet, perhaps frustrated by an interruption to her stupid vortex club preparations, though in a feat of apparent restraint she restricted herself to a sharp pained glare. Seeing that, Max wondered if she should leave them be, give Victoria some alone time with her vortex club friend, doing whatever stupid stuff the Vortex Club actually did. Taylor's face seemed so insistent though, that Max felt obliged to head over.

"Um, hey." Max said in trademark awkward fashion, breaking a veil of unnatural silence that seemed to have smothered the Vortex club desk in front of her as she approached. Two "um, hey's" in a row? She really needed a better greeting. She pondered how Victoria would go about it. Probably just walk up and begin a tirade about someone or something that had annoyed her, without really acknowledging the other person at all. At that moment Max realised Victoria's ability to take offence at just about anything might actually be a blessing to her, in that it provided an inexhaustible supply of conversation openers. Speaking of Victoria, she was right there, directly opposite Max at her desk; as always she looked both beautiful and beautifully frustrated, a hue of slight redness across her pale cheeks and her thin eyebrows pinched with annoyance; a slight jingle rang out as her solid gold bangles gently brushed one another as she made herself busy with the mess of paperwork in front of her.

Obviously feeling completely decimated at having this secretarial job dumped on her. Max concluded. Why else would she suddenly be in this state?

Taylor sat over to one side on a spare chair beyond the shroud the poster-covered desk provided. At that moment she seemed a perfect contrast to Victoria: leaning back, completely relaxed. Her long trademark legs were on full display, drawing glances from virtually everyone walking past. Max watched as Taylor's hand idly played with her long golden locks, and threw the odd wink at some of those who took more than just a cursory glance at her, if she kind-of liked the look of them.

The whole situation gave Max a moment's pause. She had almost forgotten how intimidating she'd found it in the past, having to confront Victoria and her posse simultaneously. Being outnumbered by people she felt were so much more elegant, fashionable, confident and attractive than herself. And with the potential and propensity to be rather nasty. Yesterday there'd been a perfect storm of circumstances leaving Victoria mostly isolated from her sycophantic entourage. That had probably gone a long way toward emboldening Max, putting their interactions on far more even footing. Finding out she had superpowers, having the surprisingly muscular Captain Chloe on her side, and discovering a common enemy in the Prescotts probably didn't hurt matters either.

Taking what she hoped wasn't too noticeable a deep breath, Max tried to calm herself. She still had her superpowers and she and Victoria had come a hella long way in what was actually a very short time. They seemed to kind-of like each other now. Maybe. Besides, the Prescotts were still trying to discreetly kill them, which meant Victoria was hardly likely to completely revert to her old ways. Weird she could turn that last point into a positive. Taylor would probably just follow Victoria's lead, like she always did, which meant she really wasn't an issue as long as Victoria behaved. In any case, Taylor actually seemed rather nice after Max found herself all but press-ganged into the Vortex Club, if still a little condescending about her lack of fashion sense.

"Hi Max. Victoria's been talking non-stop about you." Taylor replied, her words slathered with implication. Max's face flushed. That couldn't be right. Could it? She doubted there was that much to talk about. Except for her powers, which she was sure Victoria wouldn't ever mention. She noticed Victoria drop her pen, turn and give Taylor a frightfully icy glare that immediately silenced her. The bright gold sparkle of that pen (at least solid 18 carat, no doubt), drew Max's attention. She watched it fall, then roll slowly across the wooden desk with a gentle rumble. Her eyes followed it until it finally came to a halt, colliding with the side of Victoria's binder.

Max felt a strange sensation. Uncertainty. Almost a feeling of danger. In that instant, she was captivated by this seemingly innocuous bright-red folder, absent-mindedly reaching out to touch the hard spine where Victoria's name was emblazoned, as if trying to recall a dream or nightmare long forgotten.

"Yes Max, it's a school-issue administration binder. Most of the paperwork done in the school gets filed away in them." Victoria huffed, chiding herself at hitting a new low: feeling jealousy toward a piece of stationary. The thought of being bested by some stupid red folder seemed to cause something to snap in the back of her head, and she felt driven to take action. What was it Taylor had suggested? Try being yourself. The words echoed in her head. Fine. That was exactly what she would do.

She took a deep breath, causing her enviable bust to tease its outline through her exquisite cashmere sweater. She hoped that would distract Max from noticing her ugly, thick wrists, and the slight tremble running through them.

She rose to her feet, looming over Max, then leaned forward toward her, hands resting on the desk aggressively. She'd need support with how Max could make her feel.

She planted a hard, smouldering leer into the blue abyss of Max's eyes, and tried not to get hopelessly lost in their infinite depths.

Then she sniffed derisively, in that way all French waiters did.

"Unbelievable! Chloe gets you alone for less than five minutes and she's already completely corrupted you?!"

She practically spat the words at Max, possessed with such venom that they were met with shock. Shock from Max, from Taylor, and from the half-dozen other students passing by that were caught within their effective blast-radius, all of whom wisely decided to quickly make themselves scarce.

There was an extended moment of silence between the three of them. At that point Taylor remembered exactly who she'd advised to "be herself," and felt that, in hindsight, it might not have been the best suggestion. Meanwhile, Max stood in stunned disbelief. OK, she'd had her first real kiss, on a dare no less (though a ridiculously transparent one). That hardly counted as being 'completely corrupted', did it? And how did Victoria even know about that?

"You reek of cigarette smoke." Victoria clarified, in an appropriately smoky tone.

Oh, right, the cigarette. Was it really that noticeable?

"Honestly Max. There's a reason Chloe got that firm, dumb ass of hers expelled."

Suddenly set with a strange desire for a tub of popcorn, Taylor watched as Victoria shot out an arm toward Max. There was an uncertain touch, then a far more decisive snatch at Max's left arm, and Max quickly found herself being dragged toward a set of small rooms set to the side of the hallway. Used as a mixture of offices for 'lesser' staff, areas for students to take make-up tests and remedial tuition, they were usually vacant and tended to be poorly secured. Taylor continued to watch in fascination. Victoria, as a rule, didn't like casual contact, or at least that had been the case prior to whatever spell Max had worked on her. Now she was initiating it, leading Max off somewhere quiet, hand in hand. Taylor wondered if perhaps she could take some credit for this. After all, she had suggested Victoria drag Max off somewhere quiet yesterday and 'do whatever she needed to do'. And honestly, the smoke was barely noticeable, though Victoria always seemed oddly observant to scents. On several occasions she'd been able to mock her rivals by naming the perfume they'd been wearing, as well as its (apparently too low) recommended retail price with a single sniff.

"Taylor, fetch the kit. We need to take care of this fast."

"Jawohl, Frau Kommandant." Taylor replied, rising more sedately than Victoria had, and clicking the heels of her boots together in mock salute. She didn't immediately leave on her errand though. The interactions of Max and Victoria were strangely captivating, like watching someone who was engrossed in reading a romance novel while simultaneously driving at speed without a seatbelt on demonstrate why doing so was probably a bad idea.

"What do you think will happen if Wells or some teacher smells tobacco smoke on you?" Victoria scolded. She kept her back facing the doors, a hand behind her checking their locks as inconspicuously as possible. She smiled as she felt one of them rotate fully in her hand. As expected, someone hadn't locked up.

"You're lecturing me on being a good girl?" Max shot back defensively. She was already worried because of Kate, with no clue how best to help her; being yelled at, accosted, seized and dragged off did nothing to relieve that. The use of cliché Hollywood German in response to a request for something with a slightly sinister title, and the rather uncomplimentary description of her current aroma weren't helping matters either. "Didn't you try to cheat on your homework this morning?"

"I'm lecturing you on how to be a smart girl, Max. Something I feel more than qualified for." Victoria answered, suddenly quietly; a whisper in that perfect voice that was equally condescending and intoxicating. She compensated for the low volume by stepping close to Max, delighting in invading her space and making her crane her head up, luxuriating in the mild hostility it provoked. More than ever, she seemed to be exuding that quintessential Victoria: imperious and entitled, asserting that she was simply the smartest, prettiest and generally best person in existence. It carried an implicit challenge to "do something about it" if you thought otherwise. In Taylor's experience, no one could stand up to that. Not directly.

Except Max did, staring her down with an unflinching answer of "I think I just might." The sight, the imagined power arcing between them left Taylor a little breathless; watching the pair slip into the side-office together left her with two distinct impressions: firstly, Victoria really had nothing to worry about with respect to securing Max's attention. Secondly, that she should either stop dawdling and get 'the kit' very quickly, or alternatively very slowly, lest she walk in on Max catching a fainting Victoria in her arms yet again, or worse doing something that might actually make her faint.

The door to the office swung shut, and Max took in her surroundings. The room she'd been herded into was small and spartan, lit by a single underpowered ceiling light that seemed to be on its last legs, flickering slightly. Probably not Mr Jefferson's office then, or another star member of the staff. The room's sparse furnishing consisted of a single long desk of simple design, little more than a table really, and a single accompanying rather plain chair of the kind they usually forced students to sit on, not one of those nice rotating office chairs they afforded to teachers. A plastic basket sat on the desk, filled with a diverse collection of brick-a-brack: a glossy teen fashion magazine, what looked like a few photos, and more than a few items of women's clothing, a couple of which looked rather intimate. The desk held no computer, or other modern office equipment. Just a pad of paper with a scrawl of barely legible notes. Darkness seemed to ooze from the walls, stalking and surrounding them, prevented from swallowing them entirely only thanks to the desperate efforts of that solitary light. And in that murk of darkness, dozens of the school's standard-issue red folders sat, almost completely packing bookcases that lined three of the room's four walls. Once again they seemed to draw Max's attention, just for a moment. She squinted, and managed to make out the creative title "Maintenance Records" followed by a series of ascending numbers on each one, written neatly in marker down their spines. Max tried, unsuccessfully, to understand her sudden fascination with bits of school stationery. Like Victoria said, those folders were standard issue for most of the school's staff, used everywhere from the swim team's records to the photography classroom. As she'd just learned, even the vortex club secretary had one.

"So what are we actually doing in here?" She asked Victoria, who seemed completely disinterested in her surroundings, beyond using the table to park her heavy camera bag.

"I'd say we're making you presentable, but that's impossible without a serious makeover. Restoring you to some semblance of your usual bouquet of generic soap and boundless naiveté is the best we can hope for." Victoria said. She reached over to Max, took the front of her hoodie in hand along the open zipper, and gently ran her fingers along it. She almost expected to find a label reading 'fashion retardant'. Still, it felt nice in her hands. Warm and soft. Kind and familiar.

"Normally the girl's potty would have been the go-to place, but I don't care to go back there anytime soon."

Max shared that sentiment. It was the rest room block in this building where all the trouble with Nathan had began. Where they'd seen Chloe shot. She wasn't in a hurry to relive that, in fact Max had actually been considering whether it was feasible to rush across to the gymnasium toilets if she felt a call of nature.

"Now take this tacky thing off. It reeks of smoke and K-Mart."

Ouch. Max gingerly rolled her shoulders, causing her 'tacky' hoodie to fall from them. It was quickly snatched by Victoria, who held it pinched between a finger and thumb as though it were some obscene item with which contact had to be minimised, then laid it out on the table. Max couldn't help but feel a little defensive about the whole act. It wasn't her fault she didn't have platinum credit cards to go buy the latest designer fashion and jewellery. Also the sudden cold caused by the loss of that jersey seemed to be getting to her. Why else would her arms break out in tiny goosebumps with Victoria towering over her, all angry and glaring and being her usual obscenely elegant self? Neither feeling was helped when Victoria took a step toward her, first gingerly pressing a fingertip to Max's shoulder, perhaps worried Max might be suffering from that weird electrical discharge phenomenon again. Feeling nothing electric, at least in the literal sense, she strengthened her grasp, lowered her face to Max's shirt and began to inhale through her nose.

At that moment the door swung open. Taylor Christensen had returned with 'the kit', which in spite of the slightly sinister name, turned out to be a pack of dryer sheets, a can of aerosol deodorant, and a half-used pack of chewing gum. She stared blankly, having caught Victoria and Max in yet another easily misinterpretable position. They returned the favour, eyes wide like a pair of deer caught in the headlights, which Taylor felt somehow appropriate.

"I'm trying to decide whether Max should lose the shirt too." Victoria finally stammered.

"Obviously," Taylor said, and the soft thud of the "the kit" being placed on the table next to Victoria's camera bag briefly eclipsed the grinding of Victoria's teeth. "Don't worry Max. Cigarette smoke is something Victoria is totally used to dealing with. You wouldn't believe how often she freaks out and needs a fix of tobacco, or something a little more relaxing." She winked, and quickly pivoted toward the exit, hoping to get there before Victoria regained enough of her senses to flay her alive. "Well, I'd better go. Dana promised to model for me and Hayden. Don't worry though, it's obvious Victoria's got you totally well in hand."

"Wait. I meant whether her shirt smells of smoke!" Victoria shouted, as Taylor slipped out the door. "And it's 'Hayden and I'. Say the other person's name first. Fuck."

Her words fell on deliberately deaf ears, and were quickly silenced by the click of Taylor closing the door behind her.

"Idiot slut probably thought I was about to throw myself at you." Victoria scoffed, reluctantly detaching herself from Max, taking a drying sheet in hand, and gently stroking it against the exterior of the hoodie. Max didn't comment. She was still rather shocked, and imagined this was the point at which they were supposed to both laugh at the absurdity of the idea. Something that, for some reason neither of them seemed to be doing.

"It pisses me off all the more because some part of me might not be entirely opposed to that. Victoria said, digging her fingers into the fabric. "You, and your idiotic brilliant friend." She decided the garment must have been no stranger to dryer sheets, or maybe fabric softener. The ugly thing just felt so perfect in her hands.

What? Max's brain managed, before every thought she'd had to date seemed to disappear, drowned out by a white noise of panic and confusion. She'd initially thought Victoria angry, the way she'd puffed herself up like a porcupine then dragging her off. Instead she just came out of nowhere and dropped a proposition like that with no warning whatsoever?

No warning whatsoever? A little voice inside Max's head seemed to ask, before exploding with incongruity. Holy shit, are you cereal? Have you not paid attention to a single thing that's happened. She's rushed you into the top echelon of her precious vortex club, she's jumped into bed with you, she's literally paraded herself in front of you in her kinky underwear, and told you she'd only do that for people she deemed 'worthy'. She cradled your head in her fucking lap on the way here. What could it all possibly mean, dumbass?

"I had this thought." Victoria began, luring Max away from this internal self-torment and back into reality with a voice suddenly so soft, so sweet, that the words felt like golden syrup drizzled on her tongue. "Us, in San Francisco. Doesn't that sound wonderful: the three of us alone together, a state away from this bullshit hick-town. Staying in a luxurious hotel, our every whim catered for. Just imagine what we could get up to."

"W-Why would we all be in San Francisco?" Max asked, addressing the only part of that her brain was capable of dealing with right then. Sure, Chloe had been insinuating things in a not exactly subtle manner, teasing out glimpses of possibilities. It was still kind-of difficult to tell how much of it was just a big joke, and how much of it she was pretending was a joke. Victoria didn't seem to have that problem. Pushed past a critical point, she just went all out and flung literally everything in your face. Perhaps this shouldn't have been surprising, it was exactly the same behaviour they'd witnessed after Victoria had been 'convinced' to dress up in Chloe's clothes. Once Victoria Maribeth Chase decided to do something, she fully committed with no scope for retreat whatsoever.

"Well, I'd have won the everyday heroes competition obviously," Victoria said in an almost shocked tone, clearly finding the answer self-evident. "You two would be there to support and cheer me. I'd take care of the plane tickets of course; two extra domestic seats are practically chicken-feed."

Obviously. This was Victoria's fantasy, after all. Still, Max supposed it was nice that their presence was worth the price of two airline tickets. There was something of a presumption in her fantasy though, one that really couldn't be allowed to go unchallenged, even in Max's virtually stupefied state.

"What if I win the competition?" Max asked.

Victoria immediately pouted, though her expression seemed so over the top that it might have been a playful attempt at humour.

"You're asking me if I'd still pay for the plane tickets just to go along as your lowly supporter, show my face just to say 'yes I entered, but that girl in the thrift store-sourced jeans and tee-shirt over there utterly destroyed me? And she did it with a selfie. Isn't that novel?'" Victoria asked.

Max gulped. That did seem a little too much to ask. It was essentially treating Victoria as some combination of her personal ATM machine and cheerleader, and it was completely unfair to even hope that-

"Because I would." Victoria said suddenly, her words cutting through Max's chain of thought like a guillotine. "I would." She repeated, almost to reaffirm the idea to herself as much as Max, "but I'd be so fucking humiliated." A slight red clouding her cheeks, she quickly looked away, and made herself busy stroking that dryer sheet down Max's hoodie. "I'm sure you and muscles would eventually think of something to help me get over it. Somehow. Anyway, why aren't you helping me with this?"

Max stared blankly. "I didn't know what you were-"

"You stroke the sheet across the outside of the jacket Max. It's hardly advanced chemistry homework."

"Why dryer sheets though?"

"They'll imbue the scent of fresh washing," Victoria explained. "Failing that, you can hose yourself down with a thick coating of deodorant, but unless you can convince everyone you've been practising your sprints all lunchtime, they'll be able to guess what sort of scent you're trying to mask. And hurry up and chew the gum. I don't want smoke on your breath."

Marvelling at how Victoria seemed to have distilled getting away with smoking on campus down to a science, Max carefully peeled the paper wrapper back from the roll of chewing gum, and slipped a piece between her lips. She felt oddly self conscious: In the small room, the sound of her jaw slowly working the gum over was amplified as it echoed off the walls. It seemed to be drawing Victoria's attention too. There was a noticeable pause every so often and the slight jingle of her gold bangles as she stopped sliding the sheet across Max's hoodie, looking up to shoot furtive glances; the sly smirk that was working it's way across her face announced she had a barb on the tip of her tongue, waiting to sting.

"Just say it." Max sighed.

"What? The great Max Caulfield, presumptive winner of the everyday heroes competition, is inviting comment on her loud, desperate mastication, inches from me?"

Max started to roll her eyes, but Victoria hadn't finished speaking.

"To be honest..." Victoria began, before pausing. Her face uncertain for just a moment, reflecting a rather intense debate going on inside her. Whether she should actually go through with saying it, how far she should push. She recalled a piece of graffiti she'd seen on Chloe's bedroom wall. I'd rather have a life full of oh wells than a life full of what-ifs. Perhaps it was time someone actually gave that phrase more than simple lip-service. Discretely digging a fingernail into her thumb for courage, she completed her original thought. "To be honest, I'm feeling oh-so-slightly jealous of the gum."

"What, you want me to eat you?" Max asked, confused. Then her mind caught up with her mouth, that internal voice seemed to chant 'dumbass' over and over, and a heat flared in her cheeks. Clearly, all that chewing had loosened her jaw figuratively as well as literally. Victoria found herself initially afflicted in much the same way, though a self-satisfied smile inched its way onto her face as she considered how things had played out. She inched herself closer to Max, emboldened.

"One thing at a time." A perfectly smooth voice whispered in Max's ear, making that searing heat in her cheeks so much worse. Wowser. She really hadn't registered Victoria getting quite that close. A slight exhale of cool air across the back of Max's neck, prickling the hairs on it, the scent of French perfume and the slight press of a warm body against her back all confirmed that she had.

Victoria let out a melodious hum and her hand abandoned her drying sheet, instead reaching for Max's right arm. There was a gentle, experimental touch at first, then the sustained kiss of her fingertips slipping down Max's arm, light as a feather, that sent a shock down her spine. Max heard a soft, shallow inhale from the lips that were inches from her ear, as Victoria's hand came to rest atop Max's. She spread her fingers and let Victoria's slip between them, then impulsively pulled them tight against Victoria's, not wanting to let her slip away.

This really wasn't at all how Max had imagined things with Victoria. Not that she'd really imagined 'things' with Victoria, at least not all that much. But on the (somewhat) rare occasion during which she might have, she'd always pictured a rough struggle of epic proportions, where mutual anger and frustration boiled over before sublimating to desperate need, where fitting Victoria with one of those gag things with the plastic ball was just as much an act of self preservation as the satisfaction of a kink she may or may not have harboured.

This? This wasn't like that at all. Instead it felt so incredibly gentle, softly intoxicating with a near-overwhelming urge to just go limp and melt in Victoria's embrace. There was terror, but it lay in what might happen next, where this all might lead, and the speed she seemed to be travelling at. Something told Max that she didn't need to say a word, just crane her neck slightly around and she'd find Victoria's lips first pressed against her own. Losing herself in that moment would have been so, so easy. She tried to think of Chloe, that she'd made certain commitments to her. Commitments she'd only just sealed in a rather aggressive fashion. Instead she remembered her teasing the idea of them all together at every opportunity. What was the latest one? "My vehicle's better than Victoria's because it accommodates three, wink wink." Just how serious was Chloe when she said things like that. How much of it was a joke? Words of someone who'd been isolated from her peers and desperate for friendly interaction. And how much of it wasn't?

Max needed to stop. Or failing that, slow things down. At least until she had those answers, knew for sure this was what everyone else involved wanted, and just as importantly, what she wanted. Her body hesitated to obey, her lips grazing Victoria's: they were soft like velvet and begging to be tasted. Then there were the noise Victoria made: something mid-way between a soft groan and a desperate sigh; a sound that bordered on obscene in response to the slightest touch. It left a need to probe further, find out what other noises Victoria might make, if she brushed something other than her lips. OK, that was definitely it. Max needed an excuse fast. Something to bring Victoria, and herself, and everything else under control. And then she remembered something, someone she suddenly felt rather ashamed of momentarily losing sight of amidst being trapped in an ill-lit room by Victoria, who seemed hell-bent on using the opportunity to demonstrate her own state of desperation.

Kate.

Gently placing her hands on Victoria's shoulders, she restored some semblance of space between them. Victoria regarded her remarkably impassively, mostly because she couldn't quite process and accept that she'd just been shot-down.

"I need to go check if Kate's all right." Max blurted out apologetically.

Victoria rolled her eyes and reluctantly backed away. "Of course you do Max," she replied. "You do love to save us helpless blondes." A brave attempt was made to make the observation seem humorous, though there was a definite bitter sting in her voice she couldn't quite mask. She mused that her face probably seemed rather peculiar at that moment; she was trying desperately to smile while wanting to do the exact opposite, her various facial muscles engaging one another in a tug of war. Fortunately the substance of the observation seemed to distract Max from the manner it was presented.

Helpless blondes? Max thought, thrown for a loop by the observation. It was true Victoria was a blonde, and she'd saved her a couple of times. She supposed Chloe used to be a blonde too (though less platinum and more of a glazed strawberry variety), at least before her horrific incident with a vat of ace chemical's hair dye, and she'd saved her as well. Now she was rushing off to save Kate, who was once again blonde. There did seem to be a pattern forming. Still, she liked to think she'd save everyone, regardless of hair colour or any other qualifier. This was all just a strange coincidence, that would probably end up broken soon enough.

"I'll see you in class." Max said, as she stumbled toward the door and the world of light beyond it, leaving Victoria alone and in a dark place.

Victoria slumped backward and sat on the hard wooden desk that lay behind her. She blinked as her eyes struggled to adjust to the torrent of light that streamed into the room through the door Max had just opened, watching Max step through the portal and slowly fade from view, as the door began to swing closed, groans gently echoing from its oil-deficient hinges.

Well that went Fucking perfectly. She thought, feeling like she'd been kicked in the teeth, and trying (not entirely successfully) to will her eyes not to tear up. But of course she felt miserable: she'd expressed her true feelings, suggested something hopelessly embarrassing that could ruin her, and Max had responded by literally fleeing the scene. More than that, she felt like kicking herself for her own stupidity, after all Max had been voicing concern for Kate's well-being all fucking morning. Great choice of timing there, Tori. Her mind spat at her. She tried telling herself that in some ways, the fact things had actually played out at all, that she'd gotten so close, was comforting. If Max was really opposed to the situation, she could have used her power to travel back in time and let her down gently. Instead she chose to let things stand as they were. That had to mean something, hadn't it?

Of course, there was a certain poetic justice in the situation that Victoria couldn't help but bitterly appreciate. She'd originated the bullying of Kate Marsh, founder and sole member of "the true love waits" club; now she was the one being forced to wait as Max ran off just to make sure Kate was all right. If I'd just been slightly nicer, she thought, shuffling in a forlorn attempt to find comfort sitting on that scruffy wooden table. Her hands grasped its edge, feeling the contrast between the relatively smooth varnished finish and the rough scars students had engraved into it. Evidently the table had once been in a classroom, before being demoted to whatever the hell this room was. And naturally, one of the engravings just had to read "Rachel Amber was here". Victoria found herself impulsively scooting along the desk, shifting as far from that pronouncement as was possible. She sighed and tried to relax, letting her hands slip backward as her body slumped further; it was only graffiti, not something living, not someone that could hurt her again.

Something touched Victoria's right hand, making her almost leap from the desk in surprise. It was different to the hard scratched wood it had become accustomed to traversing over: it felt soft, nice to hold, and probably extremely unfashionable. Oh, that's right, Max had rushed off so quickly, she must have forgotten about her horribly tacky hoodie. Victoria took the garment in hand, raised it to her nose, and took a brief sniff of the outside. It smelt perfectly fresh, no lingering scent of smoke whatsoever. She supposed that meant she could get a job in some peasant laundromat, if the art world kept rejecting her submissions. Then, after a moment's hesitation she buried her face inside the hoodie and inhaled deeply. Repeatedly. It smelt perfectly Max, she could vividly see herself burying her face in every inch of that slight body as the fabric brushed her nose. God, I'm trash, she thought; fantasy providing her some small consolation after her failure in reality. Fortunately, no one was around to see how pathetic she was; the door had all but swung shut, the tiniest crack of light remaining that would be extinguished any second with the click of the bolt returning to its receiver.

Only there was no click. Victoria looked up, nose still buried in Max's jersey, and felt her face grow cold in shock. A large hand, clad in latex gloves, was reaching around the edge of the door and slowly pulling it open. The white of an eye appeared at the crack, watching her. Victoria sprang to her feet, lowering the hoodie from her face, but still holding it, clutching at it like a child with a security blanket. There was no chance of escape, she was surrounded on three sides by those stupid red folders, with this figure blocking the fourth. She watched as the door swung open, and a tall, imposing figure came into view. Its face was caked with grease and an ill-trimmed beard, and it was carrying its trusty mop and bucket.

"Hello there sweet young lady." It called out in a soft, awkward and off-key voice.

"Oh my god! Why do I keep running into you?" Victoria asked, her fingers digging into the hoodie for support. Once again, she was face to face with Samuel the school caretaker, real life analogue to Frankenstein's assistant Igor.

"This is Samuel's office. But Samuel's confused as to why he found you in it now. There are sensitive records here. They need to be kept safe, or poor Samuel might end up in serious trouble. His master gets so scary when angry."

"I guess my weak feminine self was overwhelmed by the toils of existence and I needed a moment." Victoria tried to say sarcastically. Her sniffley cracked voice and watery eyes made it difficult to completely sell as such. "And I need to collect the new keys to my room." She added, remembering that she did actually have a legitimate reason for being here, as she wiped her eyes with a finger. She glared, shocked and dismayed, as she noticed the black smudge of runny mascara sticking to it. She wasn't supposed to be like this. She was Victoria Chase, Queen of the school! Royalty didn't cry. "Why do you have a basket full of women's clothes and magazines!?" She demanded, trying to go on the offensive, or at least shift the focus of the conversation.

"Oh, Samuel's responsible for collecting lost property." The walking grease stain in front of her giggled, as it slicked forward toward the desk. Toward her. Victoria found herself back-pedalling as if thrown back by some invisible force; probably odour. "I don't think any of it's yours though. Not in your size. Samuel understands the sweet girl's problems though. He has moments too. Not so many now, his new prescription made a big difference."

Fists balled, as Victoria's misery gave way to anger. She really didn't need the filthy resident lunatic of all people sympathising with her situation. And the idea that Samuel had a fair idea of her size, or that he'd apparently examined and handled some poor girl's lost outfit enough to have an idea of who'd be a good fit for it, disgusted her.

"Though if your existence is overwhelming you, perhaps you should seek spiritual enlightenment." Samuel continued obliviously. "One of Samuel's friends did that. They went on a vision quest to find their animal spirit, and talked to it everyday. It helped them deal with a dark moment and accept their place in this world. Samuel tried that a few times too, it really helped him as well. Samuel's therapist was hesitating to give Samuel his new prescription, until he told them he was speaking to an invisible animal. Then he got an even better dose than normal."

Victoria's ears initially pricked at the sudden unprompted mention of spirit animals, then her head fell into her hands at the rest of Samuel's tale, trying to see off another urge to burst into tears. She really was in no mood to handle this kind of stupidity. "I am not taking peote and 'shrooms on a school night," she muttered quietly, apparently having a rather lowest common denominator understanding of "vision quests". Samuel responded with a snorting giggle that sent a shot of yellow mucus out of his left nostril, most of which caught in his beard and moustache. Victoria fought a wave of nausea at the sudden juxtaposition of smile and snot in front of her.

"Not all vision quests involve drugs." Samuel explained while attending the mess caught in his beard with an already well-used tissue. "Many just involve isolation, fasting, and meditation. The traditional ceremonies placed their emphasis on a genuine, serious desire of the participant to understand their place in the world. But Samuel likes to think the spirits are occasionally open to a charity case, and might try to enlighten someone in obvious desperate need."

Unknowing to Samuel, he had managed quite the feat: disgusting Victoria even more with his choice of words, than his nasal emissions. The most offensive C-word Victoria Chase knew was charity, and she was quite familiar with offensive language. She didn't think much of the suggestion to run off into the wilderness, fast and meditate for days either; at least taking drugs was convenient. She sighed, trying to pull herself together. The chances Samuel would ever say anything insightful, or useful, seemed ridiculously small; however his seemingly unprompted mention of spirit animals so soon after they'd been stalked by a literal animal spirit was something of a coincidence. And it wasn't like she had something better to do at that moment, not after Max had suddenly rushed off to go be a hero. "I don't suppose it's possible for a person to do something so totally egregious that their spirit animal would try to murder them?" She asked.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Samuel doesn't think so." Samuel replied with sudden haste, his grotesque smile fading as he grew strangely unnerved, and he took a corner of the desk in hand to steady himself. "No." He said again, as if trying to convince himself as much as Victoria. "Samuel always tries his best to be a good person, but even if he didn't, history has many powerful, bad, bad people. Political and industry leaders who have caused great suffering. None of them have been bumped off by a spirit. How could a school custodian or sweet little school girl do worse than them?"

Well that's reassuring. Victoria thought. So if the lunatic's words are worth anything, a dubious proposition to begin with, then the spirit must consider them literally worse than Hitler. Why would it do that? Sure, Victoria had been a bitch to Kate (and a non-trivial fraction of the remainder of the school). She was hardly alone in that. Pretty much every school had someone like her. Chloe had probably put a great deal of strain on her parents, perhaps some of the people she'd beaten up hadn't really deserved it. Oh, and she frequently attempted to fleece money from people who frankly wouldn't notice it missing. Nothing to convene a war crimes trial about. That left Max. Who'd been nothing but a kind and righteous force of good. Who shamed her without even trying. Who just wanted to save everyone.

"So anyway," Victoria said, deciding that at that moment, she wanted little other than to be somewhere else. "About that dorm key?"

The shutter clicks of a photography session in progress faintly echoed down the corridor as Max approached Jefferson's classroom. Max barely noticed them, her mind a maelstrom of confused thoughts, centred around one question: how had her love-life gone from completely non-existent to scandalous in under 24 hours? Her finger absent-mindedly found its way to her lips, and she felt the tickle of slight contact as it traced their outline. She couldn't quite believe they were the same lips that had all but drank Chloe behind the school gym, and had Victoria all but beg to do the same, moments ago.

Max sighed. She really hadn't handled Victoria well. Almost giving in, then legging it, and using her legitimate concerns for Kate as a crutch, an excuse to escape a confronting situation. She'd gotten good at that over the years, avoiding interactions with other people. She'd avoided Chloe for so long that her future-self seemed to have stepped in to correct the situation, travelling back in time and posting her the odd letter just to make it seem like she wasn't so horrible. Max's present self had actually been tempted to do something similar here: turn back time and handle things more gently, explain in a cooler, more collected fashion that she just needed to get her feelings and Chloe's on the same page before they embarked on whatever the three of them might become. She wondered for a moment why she hadn't, when she'd been so ready to use those powers to cement a desirable outcome with Chloe not so long before. There'd just been a surge of overwhelming desire in that instant, and a frustration at how things were playing out. She hadn't felt that with Victoria. Did that mean she had stronger feelings for Chloe? Or was she just honouring Victoria's staunch objection to the use of the power for flippant purposes, especially if it wiped away some of her memories in the process; something Chloe didn't seem to have as much of a problem with. Maybe her subconscious was in favour of using her powers to accelerate the progress of relationships, but was opposed to using her powers to retard them. No. She couldn't really be that desperate and pathetic, could she?

In any case, perhaps she was being too hard on herself; she'd obviously been completely overwhelmed in the moment. That was understandable, wasn't it? Someone rather new to displaying physical intimacy beyond a hug suddenly gets two people she considers incredibly attractive professing their interest in her one after the other, falling for her like dominoes. Perhaps she just needed a little more time, that was all. Time to work out what she wanted, and to build up the courage to express her desires. And how long is that going to take, Max? That obnoxious inner voice of introspection asked. It only took five years to do something as benign as say hello to Chloe. How long will it take before you find it in yourself to nonchalantly go up to the girl who's dominated your thoughts for said five years, smile and say "go get a larger bed, because I want you, I and a third to share it."

Then there were her other, less self-centric thoughts: the actual worries for Kate's welfare, beyond her utility in delaying a potentially awkward moment. The thoughts that shamed her. She wondered if it wouldn't be sensible for the three of them to put their personal lives on hold until the end of the week. Just, you know, until they'd dealt with a few pressing issues: the evil rich people and the storm and the angry ghost animal. Yes, that would probably be the sensible thing to do. Only Max doubted she could do that, at least completely. Sly thoughts kept slipping into her mind, accompanied by a warmth that seemed to begin in her cheeks but definitely not end there. Thoughts involving either Chloe, or Victoria, or both at once. And if she did manage to banish those thoughts somehow, her mind might start dwelling on other less pleasant parts of recent history; things like walls being painted with bits of brain, all the pain and horror she'd witnessed and undone.

A faint, yet pungent aroma wafted in from the science lab directly opposite Jefferson's class; its effect was like smelling salts, a light slap on the cheek that shocked Max back to reality. Were she competent in Chemistry, the scent would have no doubt been identified as the lingering vapours of an organic solvent, probably used in an experiment conducted a couple of classes ago. However, as that wasn't Max's area of expertise, she internally classified it as a 'weird science smell that reeked like a cross between a gas station pump and a gas station bathroom' and resolved to stay as far away as possible. She did find herself slightly confused as to why the school's main science teaching lab was open and in use in lunch hour. Still, it wasn't like she had any free time left to investigate: class was close to starting and Kate's arrival was imminent. She couldn't risk straying from the vicinity of the photography class. Not if she was going to ensure a late bus was the last bad thing to happened to Kate that day.

A fair portion of the photography class were already in attendance when Max arrived. There were Taylor and Hayden of course, engaged in the photo shoot Taylor had mentioned; the striking and enviably proportioned Dana Ward acting as their model. Max watched Dana strut in the centre of class, momentarily taken by the power and confidence she seemed to exude in each pose; how her features, accentuated by skilled application of eye-shadow and mascara, demanded your attention; the way the silver sequins on her dark shirt dazzled with each camera flash, drawing eyes to her like a magnet. In Max's opinion, she was kind-of incredible, and that was completely ignoring her most prominent and showcased pair of assets. The poses Taylor and Hayden were having her do were by-in-large unimaginative, but she just seemed so at home as the centre of attention.

Could I ever learn to carry myself like that? Max wondered, suddenly feeling a little small. To be able to command that level of public confidence, if not that level of cleavage. It would be so great to be able to reply without freaking out when some random group acknowledges you on the stairway. Or leave on a flirtatious and hopeful note when a certain someone you may have feelings for all but throws themselves at you.

Managing to end her gushing appraisal of Dana, and somehow avoid stealing a glance at Taylor's legs as well, Max felt a tinge of worry as she regarded Hayden for a moment. He was actually like Warren in one respect, Max supposed: they both seemed to like wearing t-shirts over the top of other clothing, though Hayden's somehow seemed less ill-fitting. Actually, Hayden was probably the person Warren wished he was: tall, relaxed, confident, apparently popular with the girls. Plural. Careful Max, you're hardly in a position to judge at present. The real problem was that he might have drugged Kate. Kate's hazy memory of who had passed her the drink, coupled with certain uncomfortable demographic realities regarding the Vortex Club's senior membership seemed to make him a suspect. He definitely had sided against Victoria in the vortex club leadership stouch, choosing to support Nathan's preferred candidate, Courtney. Could that really indicate a loyalty to Nathan? Why else would the normally calm and politically agnostic Hayden suddenly aid in Victoria's removal?

Once again, a problem for later. She thought. For now, Kate was her priority. Only she still hadn't arrived. Aside from Dana and her two photographers, there were two other students present. The first was Evan Harris, a self-described master of the history of photography. He was known for his immaculately curated portfolio (which he steadfastly refused to let anyone see unless they could answer a usually obscure photography question to 'prove their worth'), his generous use of hair gel, and his trademark scarf which he seemed to insist on wearing regardless of the actual temperature. Today it was looped over the top of a blue button-up shirt and khaki jacket. At that moment he was mostly absorbed in reading and taking notes from a photography text, though he seemed to occasionally pause from his study to regard Taylor's photography session, mostly with mild condescension.

The second, clad in an ill-fitting grey sleeveless top and jeans, and wearing several almost awkwardly large crosses suspended on necklaces, was Alyssa Anderson. Max regarded her as she glared toward the window, behind which grey clouds were gathering in the sky. There was something moody and atmospheric about how she was posed: the limited illumination of the classroom lights, the overcast and darkening sky combined to produce dreary muted tones; Alyssa's heavyset body tilted awkwardly, framing one side of the window as she seemed to glare bitterly outward: either through the glass at the gathering clouds outside, or at the glass itself and her own reflection in it. Before Max knew it, she was reaching for her camera. She glanced back at Taylor and Hayden for a moment; both were fully engrossed in taking shots of their model. Like she'd already concluded, Dana was beautiful, but their were millions of shots generically showcasing beauty in circulation; this view of Alyssa felt so much more evocative. A person clearly deep in thought, loathing the world, or herself, or maybe her place in the world. Whatever the case it was definitely full of true emotion. Alyssa didn't even notice the snap and whir of Max's camera, she was so lost in her apparent introspective trance. Though someone else did.

"Max, taking an opportunity on offer, I see." Evan said from his desk, looking up from his textbook with curiosity.

"Perhaps in exchange for letting me observe this little shot in development, you'd care to peruse my portfolio?" He asked, pointing to a binder that sat alongside his textbook. "It's not an offer I extend to many."

'Care to peruse my portfolio?' Max thought. And to think some people criticised the occasional use of 'wowser' and 'hella'. OK, fruity language or not, there had always been a certain mystique around the secret portfolio Evan kept. It was difficult to tell how much of that was baseless hype, since so few people could successfully 'prove themselves' by answering his usually inane questions, however there was a generally held belief that it contained, amongst other things, the product of an incredible photoshoot he'd done with Rachel Amber. With her mysterious disappearance, and radically divergent opinions on her: Chloe waxing lyrical about how incredible she was, and Victoria decrying her as the antichrist, Max felt a need to see her for herself, beyond the one mugshot she'd seen on those missing person posters. She looked at the classroom door. Kate still hadn't arrived, and this was the right place to wait for her, so why not? She walked over to Evan's desk and reached out with her hand, offering the Polaroid she'd taken in trade. Evan took it, but quickly placed his other hand over his portfolio binder, barring Max from accepting it in exchange.

"But first, a test to determine whether you are truly worthy." Evan said quickly. "Who took the famous falling soldier?"

Oh, god, he was doing the stupid quiz thing after all; springing it on her after he'd gotten a good look at her Alyssa shot didn't seem fair, either. Still, Max actually knew the answer to this one; it had been asked in a test Jefferson had assigned them last week.

"Robert Capa." Max said automatically.

Evan frowned and slowly withdrew his portfolio from Max's grasp.

"That might be what the gormless masses have been taught Max, however-"

Max threw her hand up and pulled time back a notch, annoyed with herself and not in the mood to hear the full lecture. Of course Evan wouldn't want the official answer, she'd heard him ranting openly about this to anyone who'd listen last week. Fortunately she remembered the proposed alternate photographer's identity. It was actually someone Max considered an inspiration, and a heroine. One of the first women involved in news photography. It was only a second or two, so she barely felt any discomfort as a cloud of red briefly assailed her view.

"But first, a test to determine whether you are truly worthy." Evan said quickly. "Who took the famous falling soldier?"

"That's actually a more complicated question than it sounds." Max began. "The conventional wisdom attributes it to Robert Capa. But I think I heard from someone that a study published earlier this year argued it had actually been taken by his 'professional partner' Gerda Taro. A lot of her work at that time was officially published under Capa's name."

"A contrarian opinion!" Evan exclaimed, offering his portfolio to her with overt enthusiasm. "Max, you are most assuredly a kindred spirit. Please accept a most respectful nod and the freedom to browse my work."

Max quickly seized the portfolio, just in case Evan decided to ask a follow-up she was less familiar with. As she flipped through the thick pages, it occurred to her that thanks to her powers, she could probably respond to anyone to their satisfaction. Rewinding and trying different answers until they got what they were hoping for. The only question would be whether it was worth the headache, figuratively and literally. In this case she found herself wondering if it had been. Evan's work somehow didn't live up to the hype behind it. It was undeniably immaculate, but cold. Technical and sterile, missing an x-factor. She actually felt a little let down.

And then she flipped the page again. Her jaw dropped in astonishment as life seemed to explode from the next set of shots, thanks not so much to the photographer but the model and the deft manner in which she blended subtle expressions on her face: a slightly raised eyebrow that told you she knew exactly what you were thinking, or the faintest hint of a mischievous smile from the corner of her lip that invited you to try it. Rachel Amber. She was incredible, just like Max had somehow always known, in spite of having never met her. There was a warmth, a casual flirtation, and a touch of humour within every shot. Max had seen Rachel's face on the missing person posters Chloe had been dispersing, of course, but a plain, neutral head shot was totally different to deliberate posing under studio conditions. Rachel just seemed to own the frame utterly; she was at least as at home as the centre of attention as Dana seemed to be, and so much more dynamic. Everything else, the carefully curated backgrounds, the painstakingly chosen lighting, details which must have taken Evan an age to tweak to perfection, somehow became insignificant. Shot after shot, page after page, it was the same untamed magnificence, until Max abruptly reached blank pages. Evan hadn't added anything more to his portfolio after Rachel Amber. That was understandable, she was a hard act to follow. After a moment's consideration, Max turned back a page to Rachel's last photo: her staring straight into the camera, with a smile and a look that saw straight through you. Somehow it seemed sad to end on a blank page.

"How long ago did you take these?" Max asked.

"About seven months." Evan replied. "She disappeared less than a month later."

"What do you think happened to her?" Max asked.

"Nothing good, Max." Evan replied sombrely. He glanced down at Rachel smiling back at them through the photograph, and winced slightly. "Photographing Rachel felt so easy. She almost had a sixth sense of what would look best, and made sure to provide you with that. It was uncanny how real her shots felt. You could almost feel yourself being pulled into the scene you were looking at, even when you knew the scene was fabricated in a studio."
"Sometimes a completely staged event feels more real than reality." Max noted. "The falling soldier is still considered one of the greatest shots in the history of war-photography, and a lot of people are convinced it's a fabrication."

"Careful Max." Evan counselled. There are graduations between completely faked and fully authentic. It is, after all, possible to accidentally capture an evocative shot, which is not entirely representative of reality."

That was certainly true: one theory posited that the "falling soldier" was literally just falling; that rather than having been shot, he'd tripped while negotiating a hill. It seemed that Evan was not just referring to Capa's (or Taro's) most famous work though, but also Max's photo of Alyssa. He returned the Polaroid, while gesturing to the slumped figure at the window. From the angle Max had moved to to conduct her conversation with Evan, she could see Alyssa's face, and rather than glumly contemplating the oncoming storm and her own reflection, she looked genuinely happy: her lips were upturned in a broad warm smile as she read from the screen of a smartphone that she held close, ensuring whatever it was displaying remained private.

"She's met someone online." Evan explained.

Well that was a little surprising. And great. Alyssa always seemed to have such awful luck. She deserved something good for a change. Though it did leave Max feeling a little disappointed, somehow. Thinking she'd caught such an evocative moment on film, only to find out moments later that she'd completely misrepresented reality.

"It's nice to see someone's luck changing. Things have been going bad for too many people recently."

"You are perhaps referring to Alyssa's car accident on the stairs yesterday? Or that horrible video of Kate doing the rounds?" Evan asked, "Perhaps even the one co-starring yourself?"

"Take your pick." Max replied. She had a great many more events she could add to that list, things like having Nathan's crazy family trying to make them disappear, but decided it was best not to mention them. "At least Alyssa doesn't seem to have let her issues get her down."

Evan nodded. "I hope everyone can follow her example, and not let themselves get affected by such obviously talentless hacks. The video directed at you was technically a joke: bizarrely filmed with low angle shots, with the subjects not placed in a point of prominence in the frame, and lapses in resolution consistent with movement simulation by post-process zoom. Whoever filmed it was a rank novice with the camera; as far as I can tell they did little aside from holding it still in roughly the right direction, something even an unattended tripod could accomplish. The editing of it might have made it superficially amusing, but was ridiculously over-the-top."

Well, leave it to Evan to decry a bully due to technical ineptitude. Max herself had noticed some of what he was referring to. The Maximum Victory video did seem to have been shot from fairly high up, looking down on them. She hadn't really noticed the other points he was making though, she was too busy stressing about the content of the video and how it suddenly made her the centre of attention, to pay attention to its technical quality.

"As for Kate's video, it was a crude voyeuristic mess. I won't even dignify it with further comment, other than to express how utterly perplexed I am at you associating with its author."

Right. Max had wondered about this. How many people were going to react negatively to her sudden cozying up to Victoria Chase? She felt it slightly unfair; they hadn't exactly welcomed her when she was alone and awkward, so why should they get any input into who she associated with now? At the same time she realised they had a point: Victoria Chase was, by many measures, a rather nasty person. She was a bit more than just that though, or at least Max thought so. There was a side to her that was nicer, though perhaps not any less potentially volatile, permanently hidden away from most peoples views like the far-side of the moon.

"Jefferson forced me to work with her." Max protested. It was a weak excuse, he definitely hadn't brought them to the brink of locking lips. "And I did get Victoria to take the video down." That was a lot more than anyone else had achieved. "Though someone else just put it back up." She conceded.

"Systemic problems, Max." Evan sighed. "As long as the prevailing environment and value-structure provides opportunity and benefit for someone to act like an ass, someone will inevitably step up and act like an ass. You get one person to step down and behave, and you just create an opening for someone else to replace them and do the exact same thing."

OK, were they still talking about high school bullying, or justification for some sort of quasi-communist revolution?
Any further thoughts on sweeping political reorganisation of the schoolyard were quickly banished, with Max suddenly noticing that a long partial shadow had descended from the front of the class, smothering Evan's open portfolio, and darkening Rachel's last smile. It seemed someone had walked up right behind Max, blocking the portion of light coming from the classroom's front overhead lights. Someone fairly tall then. "Did I hear the name Gerda Taro?" A familiar voice asked. Deep and soft, superficially caring, but with an unmistakable hint of cold superiority and a suggestion of hidden talons. Max went completely rigid. It was Mark Jefferson, he had appeared right behind her. Perhaps she shouldn't have been quite so shocked: this was the man's class after all, so his appearance wasn't unexpected. But not noticing him until he was literally right next to her felt frightfully unsettling. And how long had he been lurking in the background, listening? They mentioned Taro ages ago.

"It's officially listed as Capa on the standardised tests, so while I'd never discourage someone from going above and beyond to further their own knowledge of what is undeniably the greatest subject of study in existence, do me a favour and just tick his name next assessment." He paused for a moment, eyes narrowing infinitesimally as he regarded Evan, in a way that reminded Max of an owl who'd just spotted an oblivious field mouse. "Instead of crossing out all the multiple choice boxes and scribbling your own answer in the margin, including a reference to an academic paper that turned out to be written in Japanese."

Evan just shrugged in response, while Max fought the urge to cover her mouth with her hand. Had he really done that? Wowser. She'd just ticked the box by Capa's name, like a good little robot, and moved on. Then again, she was so reliant on her scholarship that she couldn't even contemplate doing anything that might lower her already shaky academic record. Just for a moment, she fought the urge to wear a petty vindictive smile. She imagined the disbelief Jefferson must have felt, being forced to waste his precious time chasing down a non-regulation answer to what should have been a very simple to mark test, only to finally find it written in a foreign language. OK, it didn't remotely make up for what the bastard did to Kate, but it was a tiny step in the right direction.

"I knew a teacher of your calibre would appreciate the extra effort." Evan answered, his tone smug.

"I see." Jefferson said flatly. "Well perhaps you'll turn out to be a worthy successor to Capa, and follow in the man's footsteps. Max, could I have a word in private?"

He gently indicated the way to his desk. Max meekly followed, for some reason imagining a shepherd kindly leading a young lamb away from its flock, all while slowly sharpening the edge of a drawn blade against a whetstone.

Max stood nervously as Mark Jefferson took a seat behind his desk, regarded Evan again, shot him a reproachful glare, then released a deep sigh. Max, of course, had to remain standing: there was no seat opposite the teacher's desk. It was a standard trick of educators everywhere, she supposed: relaxing in a comfy chair while forcing the pupil to stand, just another way of reminding everyone that there was a certain hierarchy to the classroom. So was making her wait and watch as he regarded another student with disdain, come to think of it. Strange that Mark Jefferson, supposed cool teacher that 'got' the youth of today would partake in that kind of tactic. Then again, she knew that he was about as far from the front he presented as Arcadia Bay was from San Francisco and that everyday heroes competition winner's podium. Which was, oddly enough, the topic of discussion.

"Don't worry Max, you aren't in any trouble. Quite the opposite actually." Jefferson said with a smile. Max strongly disagreed. Was that another of his twisted ironic lines, like his lecture on trapping them in dark corners? Or did he seriously not know his masters the Prescotts had tried to arrange a 'traffic accident' that very morning? Just how closely did they work together anyway?

"This is about your everyday heroes entry." He continued, opening an envelope full of printed photographs. Of course, Max's stuck out like a sore thumb, the only one in Polaroid dimensions. He placed it on the desk in front of her, perfectly aligned so it was square with the desk's edge. "It's good, much more thoughtful and original than the majority of the others." He said, voice kind and supportive in a way that made Max sick, knowing what she knew. "Most of the entries were riddled with cliché: one was even a shot of a fireman rescuing a cat from a tree. Can you believe that?" He smiled again, and Max didn't. That was her backup plan, before she decided to do something more metaphorical and experimental, and also before she realised how much effort would be involved in chasing the Arcadia Bay fire department around.

"In fact, there's only one photo it's in serious contention with. I think you know which one."

Victoria's. Obviously. Max thought. Her suspicions were confirmed when Jefferson withdrew a photo of more standard proportions, and placed it directly alongside hers, edges perfectly aligned with the desk once again.

"So I have a problem." He said, extending two fingers, and pointing one at each shot. "These two photographs are so closely matched in terms of merit, I may have to use the extra-credit work I assigned you as a tiebreaker. Now, I know it's a bit unfair to pressure you with such a tight deadline for its submission, but I really need to book those airline tickets in time for Friday. I don't suppose you've got something already?"

Obscured by the table edge, Max's hand balled into a fist as she composed her thoughts. OK, this is the chance Chloe had talked about. All I need to do is sell the idea I'm really anxious about grades and extra-credit, and Jefferson will probably write-off any unusual behaviour he might notice today, like being reluctant to even make eye-contact with him, as 'academic-related nervousness'.

"I do have one shot." Max said, looking down at the desk. At her humble little Polaroid entry sitting next to Victoria's 'proper' photo. Just looking at them side-by-side, every inadequacy in her shot became apparent. All the ways Victoria's was better. She felt like a fraud, a pretender, and that was entirely the state of mind she wanted, so she looked a little longer, until her eyes threatened to tear up. Only then, her face a portrait of anxiety and confusion, did she risk looking up to answer him. "I'm not sure if it's good enough though. I'm on the literal edge of losing my scholarship. Maybe I should collect a few more shots-"

"Max." Jefferson replied, cutting her off. There was something about her face. A look of self-doubt, so deep it almost came across as terror. He felt his throat go dry. There were multiple reasons Max was his star student. The first, he'd discovered the moment he'd received her application for that Blackwell scholarship. The attached sample of her work was a collection of selfies naturally, and on Polaroid film. The only reason they escaped the trash was because he was too busy laughing at the sheer audacity, thinking that such an amateur format was suitable for a prestigious scholarship application. Then, on a whim, he actually looked at her sample shots. And found he couldn't stop looking at them. They weren't the expected smiles of a vapid twit posing, but an honest view of someone trapped between hope for the future and pain in their past. He was floored: it took a special kind of person to capture their own innocence intermingling with the realities of the world. The sort of person he needed to meet, and find his own chance to preserve for eternity, before the world inevitably ruined them.

He had read the first half of the accompanying application carefully. The reasons given for Max's interest in selfies were so tragic that they simply had to be genuine. It stemmed from what she called her 'social awkwardness': she simply lacked anyone else to act as a model after some tragedy separated her from her 'one best friend'. He didn't bother to read the second half. He was too busy drafting the acceptance letter. Max would be the perfect counterpoint and contrast to his prior subject Rachel Amber. And now, she was in front of him, so meek and uncertain, questioning her own work like any good artist should. It took a great reserve of will power not to reach for his camera then and there. Or extend just a finger and softly stroke her cheek, just to confirm he wasn't hallucinating, just to confirm that something so pure and uncorrupted really was standing across the desk from him, almost within his grasp.
"I have the utmost confidence in your abilities Max, and so should you. Perhaps..." He began in what he hoped would be taken as a gentle tone. He had trouble completing his thought, distracted by the way her lip quaked. How she could barely meet his gaze. She literally seemed on the verge of tears. If Max really was under this much academic pressure, another pathway might exist that would lead her to his private studio, less invasive than a dose of sedatives. Not so different a path to the one he'd used to gain the services of his little helpers, as it happened.

"Perhaps if you were to just hand me a shot, and ask for my opinion on it without any mention of the context of extra-credit or competitions. As a mentor and teacher I'd be obliged to give my honest opinion on it, and you could take that information and do with it whatever you cared to."

He extended his hand, palm up and open expectantly, and enjoyed the moment's hesitation it provoked in Max, the obvious battle between sense of morality and deference to his authority. He wondered for a moment if this would raise or lower himself in her esteem. Would Max Caulfield appreciate his little bending of the rules for her? He imagined most students would, if it meant getting higher grades. Or would her image of him as some virtuous soul be tainted? In the end it really didn't matter; one way or another, she was going to stumble her way in front of his lens at some stage, at which point more than just her opinion of him would end up tainted.

Whatever her thoughts, Max acquiesced in short order, and produced a photo for his inspection. It was such a pleasure to deal with someone who did as they were told, someone who treated you as a figure of reverence, something that seemed to be getting rarer and rarer with the advance of time. Instead he had to deal with the likes of Evan Harris: obnoxious little self-entitled, self-righteous and self-important upstarts who tried to undercut and undermine him at every turn. Or their polar opposites, the Victoria Chase-type: students who continually made laughably transparent attempts at ingratiation, treating him as a vehicle for their own career advancement. Worse still was the ordeal he'd suffered last night, having to dissemble and scrape to his 'patron', that blunt philistine, Sean Prescott. Jefferson had found himself with a lot to answer for, but precious few answers: how someone managed to steal his burner phone's simcard, how someone had been privy to some of their clandestine communications, and how this someone had sent a message perfectly tailored to delay their current plans. Presently, he suspected David Madsen; the school's paranoid security head was always snooping around everywhere, investigating and accusing everyone of being 'up to something'. He knew for a fact it couldn't be any of the students: short of prying the phone off his dead body, something that clearly hadn't happened, the only opportunity to take possession of the phone was a brief moment in the staff room, literally the only place he'd removed his jacket in the company of others. Sean Prescott had gone on to 'strongly suggest' he confirm this theory and/or otherwise identify the thief. Jefferson fought back the urge to sneer, as he had last night when Prescott uttered those words. What did the man take him for, a fool? He already had plans to do just that. Plans he'd set in motion that morning.

Still, the observation had at least partially placated Sean Prescott. You could always tell, because the insufferable lout would shift the conversation onto some other detail he was displeased with. In this case, allowing some "inked-up blue-haired lesbo she-hulk", to quote what Nathan Prescott had told his lawyer from a hospital bed, to pound the said younger Prescott insensate in a beautifully artistic manner. Were these two events that served to undermine him in Sean Prescott's eyes linked? Jefferson wondered. Or were they purely coincidental? He pinched his nose bridge in annoyance, then made a show of making it look like it was the pressure of his glasses that had caused the irritation. He had to keep up appearances for his 'star student', in case she came to the ridiculous conclusion that she was somehow to blame for his mood. Besides, why dwell on the past when you can examine photos in the present? He thought, finally turning his attention to the image in his hand.

He studied the positioning of the figures first. Victoria at one of the focus points in adherence to the rule of thirds. A second figure of similar height but less 'classically feminine' build off further to one side, denoting less importance. A desk was present in shot, text books and notepads on it, immaculately placed on Victoria's side, and strewn more haphazardly on the other girl's, reflecting their personalities. The overall impression was a scene of study, or perhaps finishing an assignment. A small irony for a piece of homework to showcase the completion of another piece of homework, he supposed. Now, on to the expressions.

Jefferson suppressed the urge to let out a snort as he regarded Victoria's face. He'd seen her expression before, of course. He saw it every time she tried to ingratiate herself onto him. That slight hint of boundless desperation concealed behind a veneer of false power, hoping she'd prove herself good enough while knowing full-well she wasn't. Praying that a front of confidence and a streak of vindictiveness would somehow make up for her other shortcomings. That desperation was the only portion of her really worth capturing, the only remaining nerve of innocence that breached her calloused exterior. And of course little Max Caulfield captured it so perfectly. Her vision of the world was so compatible with his own. Still one aspect of it bothered him slightly. The ever-refined Victoria Chase was worshipping what appeared to be the potential next cover model for hipster-girl quarterly. Everything about the other figure desperately screamed "I'm so different! Notice me!" in unpalatably shrill tones: the blue hair, the tattoos, the clothing choice. Now, if the shot reflected his own interactions with Victoria, then did that mean the slovenly desperate-for-attention character was some sort of satire of him?

No. He was confusing Max's proclivities with that obnoxious ball of hair-wax Evan. Max was always earnest to a fault rather than subversive. Still he found his eyes lingering on this second figure. Blue hair, tattoos and on a second viewing a rather strong physique. Now why did that description sound familiar.

"Enlightening, and I'm quite sympathetic to the core subject matter. The shot conveys a story of gratitude in response to help in with one's homework quite successfully. While it may be cruel to directly state as much, I'm sure we can quietly agree that the vulnerability displayed is atypical of Victoria's normal behaviour, so it's on-topic as well. In fact it seems you've managed to find an innocence and sincerity in her that I'm sure we'd all enjoy seeing more of." Jefferson said, opening his desk drawer and laying the photo inside it with all the reverence of a corpse being lowered into a casket. He quickly shut the drawer, and made a show of locking it, before depositing the keys in his jacket. Why had he done that? Jefferson had said this was all just an informal discussion, hadn't he?

"I don't think we need to even consider you submitting something else, it's difficult to imagine this shot being beaten out Max. Unofficially of course." He proceeded to make a grand show of opening his marking ledger, and with it in full view of Max, stroked the characters A and plus by her name with long, overly-flourished pen-strokes.

A+? Max asked herself. Wowser. It was probably the first time in highschool she'd gotten a grade like that. It made her feel strangely warm inside. At least until she remembered the person awarding the grade was probably a sociopath. Then she felt terribly uneasy. After all, what did it say about you if a sociopath 'liked' and 'could relate' to your art?

"One question though." Jefferson asked. "The other model you used in the photo, with the blue hair. Do you mind me asking-"

But at that moment, Max's attention was snatched away by the diminutive figure that had appeared in the classroom doorway. Kate Marsh. Kate was standing bleary eyed, worn down, haunted, but somehow still on her feet. Everything else, Jefferson and the rest of the class, suddenly became completely irrelevant to Max. She just walked off, leaving her teacher mid-sentence, addressing empty space. For now, she knew exactly what she needed to do: stay close to Kate and guard her and somehow everything would be fine. And she couldn't imagine anything that could stop her from doing just that.

The cacophonous boom of an explosion interrupted everything, as it rang out from the science lab opposite Jefferson's photography classroom. There were five seconds of eerie, cold silence, during which Max, Kate, and everyone else in the room just stared toward the doorway and the corridor beyond. Then every student simultaneously made a beeline for the door, and of course headed toward, rather than away from, the source of the blast. By virtue of being closest to the classroom door, Kate and Max got to the science lab first. Inside, they saw the remains of a failed (or perhaps highly successful) experiment strewn across one of the work benches. Their attention was immediately drawn by three things: first was the base of a shattered beaker, apparently the source of the explosion. Second was a rather formidable looking glass jar which sat next to the shattered flask, its lid open. The jar had a label with "Na" printed in bold, sinister writing along with equally sinister warning symbols that probably meant something to someone who studied science. The jar was filled with some sort of oil, under which the lustrous glint of shiny metal pieces could be seen. Finally there was the victim, Warren Graham. He was being ushered from the bench to a nearby sink by Science Teacher Mrs Grant with all possible haste. Warren's face was pale with shock. He didn't seem visibly burned though, and had seemingly escaped injury from the beaker's Pyrex shards as well. All in all, it seemed he'd had a very lucky escape. That was, until Max noticed how his face was wet, splashed with the residue of whatever had exploded, and the way he was blinking furiously, his eyes rapidly going bloodshot. He'd not been wearing safety glasses, a lab coat, or any other protection when the blast happened, and seemed lost in a world of ever growing agony.

Concluding Author Notes:

Seems Max finally has to rescue a non-blonde person, and it's my good friend Warren (well she did rescue those skaters too I guess, but the main skater Justin has dirty blonde hair so maybe the record still stands). In the original game Warren does his chemistry work without safety glasses or a lab coat, and as I've already noted the chemistry he tries is highly dubious. He literally sticks his face over a beaker full of aqueous solution that he's adding alkali metals to. This seemed to have no consequences in the game, so of course it's going to have dire consequences in a satirical retelling of the story.

There was no Chloe this chapter :( She wasn't in the analogous portion of the original game either, and it's pushing belief to have her casually march back onto the school grounds, given she got reported in the girls dorm earlier. Perhaps someone will notice her working on her truck just outside the school. Or perhaps a critical situation might arise that will force her to enter.

Researching how Robert Capa died might give you insight into one of Jefferson's statements.

I wonder what Samuel's doing with all those red folders?