Meet Benjamin Jagerman, a junior at Hatchetfield High, and the most mediocre player on the basketball team.
Not that anyone would ever say it to his face. No one wants to hear a spluttered "You see this jacket? Yeah- uh, it was my BROTHER'S" or "My brother would totally smite you if he was still here" for the thousandth time.
Deep down, he knows that he doesn't have the same iron fist on the school that Max did. After all those years, his brother was still right- people only tolerate him because he's pathetic. A wimp. A wannabe Max, swaggering around like someone a head taller and with twice the sports prowess. No one has the guts to talk about it to his face, but even if he's not at the top of the HFHS food chain, he's certainly not at the bottom. He's safe where he is, from his peers at least.
But not from the eyes that flicker from every shadow, or from the feeling of tentacles writhing under his skin. Or from the snide, sinister, all-too-familiar voice of the Hunter-turned-Messenger that echoes in his dreams.
"You've been avoiding me, f*cknugget."
Ben is a part of my untitled hatchetfield fanfic, where every so many years the lords in black each choose a sort of "champion" and pit them against each other for entertainent. Ben's patron is Wiggly, and Wiggly always sends the ghost of his puppet's relative or friend to be his mouthpiece in these games, to whisper his plans in his puppet's ear. In this case, he had readily available one brutally murdered, emotionally stunted, and furious Max Jagerman. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
But this time, Wiggly knows he's not just playing aginst his brothers. There are other forces at work in this timeline, forces that would put a stop to their games. And he can't have that.
Ben sometimes wonders if in another life, things would have healed. It would have taken time, of course, as trauma always does. But maybe the nightmares would have stayed gone, and he could have moved far away from hatchetfield. He could have found somewhere to start over, somewhere there were no shoes to fill. He could almost imagine it- the fresh air, and the freedom, and the peace.
Obey me... choose me... and I'll let your little Maxie-poo go...
But that wasn't an option. If Max was still alive-ish, if it really was him there every night, writhing in pain, spitting words that flickered with whispery green undertones, then was still hope, in a twisted sort of way. Maybe whatever demon was controlling Max was telling the truth. If Ben really could get his brother back... maybe, for the first time, Max would be proud of him.
And he would do anything to make Max proud. Anything.
But... if you're a rotten little Benjy...
The first time Ben was sent to Holiday's office, he didn't have much to go off of besides a vague feeling of unease Max had given him the night before, and the fact that four other names were called along with his. Turned out, they belonged to a band geek, a stoner, a weirdo, and a cheerleader. Huh. He'd been in worse company before.
Holiday folded her hands on her desk, looking each of the students up and down. Was he imagining it, or did she pause looking at him? Was that concern that flitted across her face? Suspicion? What does she know?
...you're going to choke and f*cking die on the blood of your fwendy-wend.
"This isn't like all the other times. We don't have to choose who lives and dies. We don't have to choose a winner," said Holiday.
But... the only way Max goes free is if I win.
"There's someone I'd like you all to meet," she said, gesturing to the door.
They're going to kill Max. Again.
Choose well, Benjy-wenjy...
The office door creaked open. A sixth student stepped into the room, clearing his throat.
"Liam-?" choked the stoner boy.
