Max gasped and opened her eyes to see the Every Day Heroes exhibition in front of her. It felt like time had propelled her back to the present, but in another timeline this time⌠a time where she had let Chloe die in those grimey Blackwell Academy toilets to save Arcadia Bay. She sacrificed herself, to save everyone. She was a hero, and they had done it.
Max breathed a sigh of relief, her eyes gently closing, letting the sound of nearby chatter soothe her aching, grieving, mind. She felt the weight of time leave her body, floating back into the ether. It was done, it was all finally over. They had stopped the storm, and time had set itself right.
âCome on Max, let's look around the exhibit.â
A chill of terror raced up her spine, as a large, firm hand came to rest on her shoulder.
Her body froze. Her eyes flew open. It looked like the exhibition hall was turning on its side. Her heart hammered so fiercely in her chest, that she could not breathe enough air to power it. It faltered, and so did she, her knees buckling under her.
That voice⌠there was no wayâŚ
âWoah, steady on there Max, are you okay?!â
Now two hands were on her, gripping either shoulder. She burst forward, freeing herself from their hold, and didnât stop till she had navigated her way to some abandoned hallway in the building. There, her legs gave way, and she felt herself collapse to the floor.
It was his voice⌠There was no way⌠hadnât Nathan been arrested for shooting Chloe? Wouldnât he have told them about the true mastermind? He shouldnât be here with her in San Francisco, he should be back in Arcadia Bay, rotting in prison, with his accomplice.
âMax?â His voice came again, and another bolt of terror coursed through her.
His footsteps echoed down the hall, slow and menacing, like a predator sneaking up on its prey. That was exactly what it was. Max was too shell shocked to move, to speak, to think! A small bunny listening to their impending doom stalked closer. She clutched the fabric of her shirt, heaving, trying desperately to stop the frantic beat of her heart.
Those two hands found their way back onto her body, and she cried out. Guttural and strained, not loud enough to call for help. It only made them grip her tighter. Visions of the Dark Room flashed like a roll of film. Her body restrained, drugged, unmoving. Cold metal, surgical whites, shadowy blacks. His hands sculpting her body, moving it into different helpless positions. A flash of light. The sound of a camera shutter. Click click.
âItâs okay Max, just breathe.â His voice dripped toxic honey, sweet and harmless to the unsuspecting, but poisonous nevertheless. He was crouching behind her, close enough for the heat of his breath to fan across her right ear, eliciting another fearful jolt.
âPlease, I just need some space.â She choked out, her throat was hoarse, and she wasnât even sure it was clear enough to be understood, until a few beats later, when his touch retreated, and she heard the click of his knees as he got back to his feet.
âOf course. Iâll be waiting for you in the exhibition hall. But please text me if you need anything, you have my number.â This time, the sound of his footsteps got quieter and quieter until they came to a sudden stop. She felt his eyes on her, watching. He called back out to her, âI hope you know, Max, your lifeâs not on the line. There will always be more opportunities, especially for a student with your talent.â Then, at last, he left.
He was alive, Mark Jefferson was alive. And worse, he was free.
Max doubled over, choking back some vomit that threatened to gush out. Your lifeâs not on the line? What a sick joke, especially now that she knew his many sins. He hadnât killed anyone in this timeline, but he was more than capable of it. He had shot Chloe. Max had even felt the tip of his syringe pierce the skin of her neck, a lethal injection soon to follow were it not for her powers.
She held out a hand, focusing her might into reversing timeâŚ
The storm was gone, her powers were gone, Chloe was gone, and it was all because of him. Mark Jefferson.
She fumbled with the phone in her pocket, tearing it out with enough force to hit the screen against the wall. What had happened between Chloeâs death and now? She googled Blackwell Academy, and immediately her search was flooded with dozens upon dozens of newspaper articles.
Nathan Prescott, Arcadia Bay nepo baby, arrested for shooting defenceless girl in school bathroom: the tip of the iceberg.
Drugging and kidnapping scandal exposed: how a deranged teenager shaped the lives of 19 helpless school girls.
The horrifying underbelly of Blackwell Academy: one student charged with 6 first degree crimes.
Max kept scrolling, but found nothing pertaining to Mr Jefferson, except a quote in one that read: âWhat happened here in Blackwell Academy is sickening. I can only hope Nathan finds the help he needs.â
Her hands gripped her phone with such fierce anger, she thought the small device might snap. Then the thought of being trapped alone in San Francisco with Mr Jefferson without a phone crossed her mind, and her hold weakened. Why hadnât Nathan turned Mr Jefferson in? Loyalty? Some perverted love? Fear?
Her head drooped. She had let Chloe die, her best friend, the⌠the love of her life, and for what? Mark Jefferson was still at large.
Social etiquette and photography be damned! She had seen the corrupting power of art first hand anyway, and she would play no part in Jeffersonâs sick games. She was going home, and not to Arcadia Bay, she meant home home: Seattle. She would never see Mark Jefferson, or Arcadia Bay, ever again!
Desperate for the same escape, her legs found their strength once again. She found her footing, and turned back towards the main hall, afraid for a moment that Mr Jefferson would still be there: watching. He was not.
Afraid that any hesitation might mean the difference between her freedom and prolonged imprisonment, Max sped towards the next hall, where the exit was found. Again, she poked her head out, but this time, vomit crept up her throat when she saw the back of Mr Jefferson. He was laughing, deeply immersed in a conversation with two other adults, both important looking.
She glanced towards the glass exit, then back at him. Their conversation didnât seem close to coming to an end. She could slip out unnoticed.
Now is the time. She stole her courage, and went for it, darting to the exit in the least conspicuous way possible.
She did it! She was outside! The streets were busy with people, the sound of honking cars, and scattered conversations permeated the breeze, which swept Maxâs hair across her face. She pushed the stray hair behind her ears, and looked up and down the street. It was then she realised she had no idea where she was going. She did not know which hotel they were using, which room her belongings were in, she didnât know where the airport was, she doubted she had enough cash on hand to ask a taxi to take her there, let alone get a last minute flight to Seattle with no passport.
She was stranded, and at the mercy of Mr JeffersonâŚ
âMax, there you are.â As though summoned like the devil, he emerged behind her. Again, his hand came back onto her shoulder. She started to wonder why he insisted on putting it there. Is it the most socially acceptable way for him to keep her trapped, to excerpt his control? She felt that any rational person would avoid doing it again, especially after her reaction the last time he did it.
How did he know she was out here anyway? Was he only pretending not to notice her
âItâs good to get some air. Take all the time you need.â He reassured, though Max only felt worse. At least, here amidst the hustle and bustle of people, she knew he couldnât do anything, âThings have been hectic for us all recently, itâs important to take breaks.â
I bet they have been, her thoughts bit back.
âI managed to meet a couple of head hunters, some representing studios, others universities. Iâd love to introduce you to them.â She could hear the smile in his voice, his prolonged hold on her shoulder made her ripple with disgust. This could have been a dream. Had he not turned out to be some deranged freak, this would have been a dream come true to most. Some people might have even followed him back into the hall, despite knowing his crimes, all to get their foot in the door. She was sure Victoria would.
But regardless of his presence here at the contest, she was sure she would never enjoy photography again, not after everything that had happened.
âThereâs no point, thatâs the last picture Iâll ever take.â Her words come out bitter and cold. She was sure she felt his hand tense with surprise at her tone. She didnât dare look back at his face, she wasnât sure if she could stomach it. She continued to look out over the busy street.
âWhyâs that, Miss Caufield?â He probes, his tone giving way to sincere confusion: for once letting the mask slip, just a little.
âLook at what one manâs perverted love of photography did to 19 innocent girls.â She spoke, hoping that her words were striking a cord, that he felt despicable, repugnant, like the deplorable low life he is.
Her body tensed again. She didnât want to, she didnât think she could stomach looking at him, staring into those deceitful eyes, knowing finally what was behind them. But she didnât have much of a choice, he spun her around using the hand he still had resting on her shoulder.
There he was, same as always. Brown cow lick hair, wide brim glasses with while temples. Eyes so dark they looked more like two black wells.
He paused, analysing her face, watching. She was terrified; she knew it was impossible, but it almost felt like he could peer into her mind and see everything. That he would know that she knows.
She does her best to shield her thoughts, hiding them from his prying eyes. It doesnât seem to work very well, his mask is still slipping, his gaze curiously absorbing the visceral fear on her face. She can see the wheels in his head turning.
Get it together Max, donât give it away!
âYes, Mr Jefferson?â She prompts, hoping that will slow the momentum of his thoughts. The name was hard to let through her lips, which trembled under his scrutiny.
âArt doesnât have to be dark. Itâs a shame Nathan used his talent for such evil, but youâre the opposite,â he spoke, as though not calling his own actions evil, âYouâre an auteur. Your interest in photography is for the love of the art, rather than as a means for fame or wealth or power. Thatâs what I have always admired about you.â he continued, but Max could only hear the subtext in his words, âBut every artist needs to seize their chance every now and again, so they can continue to make art for love. So please, come back inside with me.â
She looked at him, stared at him, probably with the same doe eyed expression he adores in his victims. Then she spoke, her voice harsh and jaded, âThe girl Nathan shot was my best friend.â
Mr Jefferson stared back, no discernable emotion obvious on his face. She hoped that inside he was suffering, riddled with regret. Though his next actions told her that was not even remotely the case.
He used his grip on her shoulders to pull her into his chest, encasing his arms around her. She froze, horrified. He was hugging her, reassuring her about a death he caused, âIâm so sorry Max, I know I shouldnât have pushed you to come to San Francisco while youâre still grieving, but I thought it would do you some good to get away, promise.â
He didnât have any remorse, did he? He was only sad Nathan had gotten caught, and exposed the Dark Room. The deaths he caused, the lives he destroyed all in the pursuit of his sick obsession, none of it mattered to him, did it? Not only that but it sounds like in this timeline he had pressured Max to submit a photo for the Everyday Heroes contest and had even dragged her all the way across the country while she was in the depths of her grief. It was then Max noticed the somber black attire she was wearing.
The wind howled with anger, and she bristled with it. If she left now, heâd never stop, maybe moving somewhere else in the world to continue his depraved collection. She couldnât run away, or else Chloe and Rachelâs deaths would have amounted to nothing, and more girls would continue to suffer.
She needed to bring him down.
Chloe would want her to be strong right now⌠she could do this.
Max pushed Mr Jefferson away, probably a little harder than would be considered normal, but his confusion was quick to be hidden again. He smiled, âWe can talk more about this later, but I think we should go inside.â
He held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment, before stealing her resolve and accepting it. Hand in hand with the devil, she went back into the exhibition.
Hello, all two people who read this! I donât know why Iâve taken so long to write something for a fandom thatâs no longer in action. Maybe the TV show will reignite some action.
Anyway, just wanna make it abundantly clear that I genuinely do not approve of this ship but I find the character dynamics really compelling especially when there is a weird romantic tension coming from Mark Jefferson. However, I absolutely hate when Max gives into the darkness and lets herself fall in love with him. If youâre looking for that kind of fanfiction, you will not find it here.
Iâm planning on posting the full series on ao3 once my account invitation comes through. Any more information iâll put in later posts once I know that people actually care about this. ďżź
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