Life is *Stewardship
Life is Stewardship
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Life is *Stewardship
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Title
LIFE IS STEWARDSHIP
by waito_X
What a night to remember!
The high society of the city was dazzled by
the most glamorous and lavish ball of the century,
hosted by none other than the mysterious and snazzy Lady Alva.
It was like stepping back in time to the golden age of elegance and sophistication,
when the Astors ruled the social scene with exclusive parties.
The high society of the city was dazzled by
the most glamorous and lavish ball of the century,
hosted by none other than the mysterious and snazzy Lady Alva.
It was like stepping back in time to the golden age of elegance and sophistication,
when the Astors ruled the social scene with exclusive parties.
But not everyone was there to enjoy the music, the dancing and the champagne.
There was a secret plot unfolding behind the scenes, involving a shy heiress, a cunning maid
and a pair of drunken conspirators. What was their plan? And how did it go wrong?
There was a secret plot unfolding behind the scenes, involving a shy heiress, a cunning maid
and a pair of drunken conspirators. What was their plan? And how did it go wrong?
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Welcome
Someone, masquerading as Maxine Caulfield, is in her neck of the woods trying to piece together a disastrous outcome from ten years ago. Lacking the environmental or even more spectacular time manipulation talents of her peers, all she can do is play the part. Not one of mourning, but rather, one of vengeance, a slight against the fabric of fate.
She knows the lighthouse offers clues, but to what lengths must she go? There are moral and ethical dilemmas, but how does keeping cool make up for what she has lost?
She knows the lighthouse offers clues, but to what lengths must she go? There are moral and ethical dilemmas, but how does keeping cool make up for what she has lost?
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The Setting
Precipice 0
Good evening, Oregonians. This is 87.9 FM, The STYR! with important traffic and weather updates for those listening in. An accident on southbound Interstate Five has been reported, slowing traffic for both access lanes downtown. Drivers are suggested to take an alternate route until further notice. Meanwhile, the forecast for tomorrow is looking sunny and mild, with temperatures ranging in the upper sixties. So, go out there and enjoy the fall colors and scenic views of our beloved Arcadia Bay. Doesn't matter if you are a student or resident, or a tourist just visiting.
There's always something to do around town.
C H A P T E R O N E
Two Whales Diner
Maxine Caulfield, twenty-six year old nature photographer, is sipping a green tea while seated. Sunlight hints upon the damp from the morning's rain (which the radio station neglected to mention that following AM), much of it clinging to the diner's corrugated metal exterior. The seats inside are nearly as wet from all the raincoats and jackets left to dry as people crowd the register.
Without her sunglasses, Max simply parks a free hand on her forehead. The ceiling resembles one found in a brightly lit indoor pool, causing her to wince visibly.
It is bound to be a long day spent entertaining friends and family. Yes, she is back in her old hometown, but it is not that kind of reunion.
Chloe Price, her best friend since childhood, has apparently gone missing following a bad break-up.
Max grimaces, finding the tea cooling faster than she would like. She searches about the booth for the standard amenities, cardboard sleeves or even napkins should suffice. Especially if she is about to brave the outdoors again.
Content, she gets up, leaving a handful of quarters and dimes near the receipt. She heads out.
The backyard of the old Price family home is in such a state of disrepair. Bizarre, considering the fresh paint and brand-spanking new roof on the house proper. No one has mowed the lawn, or swept the decayed mush of spindles from the neighbor's trees.
She had expected Chloe to do so before she got here. This only confirms her fears.
"Hmm. Well, not like treasures find themselves," she says, whirling on the spot, expecting Chloe to jump out through the back sliding door, with more clues to a puzzle, or just thinking of what to do with all the extra buckets of paint.
She peers through the mesh. There is no sign of recent entry, no car keys on the kitchen counter, nor sounds from the den office. Figures.
Max tries the next stop over.
Blackwell Academy (exterior)
Some of her old classmates now work here, along with a handful of the same faculty, though she had the privilege of not really getting along well with these ones. Did the storm really have to happen? Eight years, and the place still feels uprooted, off-kilter.
Well, at least it probably created a boon for janitorial services.
Nearly a decade after that shit show, and somewhere through it all her ability to rewind time ran dry, completely absent. This otherwise would solve the matter of a missing Chloe faster than the ride back into town.
Yes, she had started on the bus leading out of town, as it had reached the rail yard before the other. She was intent on rewinding her way to the correct stop anyway but that is when the weirdest thing happened. She tried, only to get sparks and dots in her vision, as well as a sudden tingling sensation up and down her sternum. And that iconic cackling, like someone playing the soundboard from one of those fluffy otome games.
Whatever.
"Pssst!" an academy sophomore motions to her, keeping the fire exit propped open with a well-polished dress shoe.
"Oh shit, thanks dude!" Max says in a hushed voice, stepping out of the rudimentary cover the landscaping shed provides. "Glad somebody got my message."
"That somebody," says an instructor, grabbing both of them by the wrist as Max tries to dip through, holding them up while keeping a watch for any eavesdroppers in the dimly lit stairwell, "would be Chloe's mother. She is waiting for you in the staff lounge."
Blackwell Academy (administrative wing)
She paces about just outside the staff lounge, hearing Chloe's mother wrap up what appears to be a very private phone conversation. Her eyes track up and down the corridor.
Seems that not much of the old private school is still the same as Max remembers, probably owing to rebuilt to a more storm-proofed spec. She cannot be certain about the choice of location, whether it utilizes the same foundation, as there was talk of mudslides, downed power lines.
It was bad enough what that one snob, Nathan Prescott, had been up to. To think he nearly got Chloe murdered.
She can only hope that Chloe is aware of her disappearing act causing a lot of people to worry. She would like nothing more than to spend a holiday or two galivanting up and down the avenues, Chloe's arm in hers. There was so much to reminisce about, still more adventures.
Ah, Joyce is calling to her through a gap in the door to the staff lounge. Max affirms audibly, shaking her head before stepping on through. She has to get her mind out of the past. With her powers out, there is nothing she can do to change a thing. The tingling. The jarring pressure just above her bra. Like a phantom limb.
Perhaps that is what gets her weeping uncontrollably, all these unknowns. Missing person. Missing powers. And that god-awful, sub 320kbps voiceover.
Oh, Joyce is thinking of hugging her. Max backs away, unsure what the weirdness affecting her sternum would do if another got in range.
"Thanks, Mrs. Price. I'm just a bit worried about your daughter is all," Max says calmly enough, running a forearm past her eyelids.
"Look, if there's anything you need," Joyce begins, pausing as police sirens gain in pitch and intensity. A unit was converging on the academy premises, no doubt about it. "Did someone file a missing person's report without consulting me?"
"No, ma'am," the instructor says, looking up from a workstation. "Appears there's something going on over at the lighthouse."
There's always something to do around town.
C H A P T E R O N E
Two Whales Diner
Maxine Caulfield, twenty-six year old nature photographer, is sipping a green tea while seated. Sunlight hints upon the damp from the morning's rain (which the radio station neglected to mention that following AM), much of it clinging to the diner's corrugated metal exterior. The seats inside are nearly as wet from all the raincoats and jackets left to dry as people crowd the register.
Without her sunglasses, Max simply parks a free hand on her forehead. The ceiling resembles one found in a brightly lit indoor pool, causing her to wince visibly.
It is bound to be a long day spent entertaining friends and family. Yes, she is back in her old hometown, but it is not that kind of reunion.
Chloe Price, her best friend since childhood, has apparently gone missing following a bad break-up.
Max grimaces, finding the tea cooling faster than she would like. She searches about the booth for the standard amenities, cardboard sleeves or even napkins should suffice. Especially if she is about to brave the outdoors again.
Content, she gets up, leaving a handful of quarters and dimes near the receipt. She heads out.
The backyard of the old Price family home is in such a state of disrepair. Bizarre, considering the fresh paint and brand-spanking new roof on the house proper. No one has mowed the lawn, or swept the decayed mush of spindles from the neighbor's trees.
She had expected Chloe to do so before she got here. This only confirms her fears.
"Hmm. Well, not like treasures find themselves," she says, whirling on the spot, expecting Chloe to jump out through the back sliding door, with more clues to a puzzle, or just thinking of what to do with all the extra buckets of paint.
She peers through the mesh. There is no sign of recent entry, no car keys on the kitchen counter, nor sounds from the den office. Figures.
Max tries the next stop over.
Blackwell Academy (exterior)
Some of her old classmates now work here, along with a handful of the same faculty, though she had the privilege of not really getting along well with these ones. Did the storm really have to happen? Eight years, and the place still feels uprooted, off-kilter.
Well, at least it probably created a boon for janitorial services.
Nearly a decade after that shit show, and somewhere through it all her ability to rewind time ran dry, completely absent. This otherwise would solve the matter of a missing Chloe faster than the ride back into town.
Yes, she had started on the bus leading out of town, as it had reached the rail yard before the other. She was intent on rewinding her way to the correct stop anyway but that is when the weirdest thing happened. She tried, only to get sparks and dots in her vision, as well as a sudden tingling sensation up and down her sternum. And that iconic cackling, like someone playing the soundboard from one of those fluffy otome games.
Whatever.
"Pssst!" an academy sophomore motions to her, keeping the fire exit propped open with a well-polished dress shoe.
"Oh shit, thanks dude!" Max says in a hushed voice, stepping out of the rudimentary cover the landscaping shed provides. "Glad somebody got my message."
"That somebody," says an instructor, grabbing both of them by the wrist as Max tries to dip through, holding them up while keeping a watch for any eavesdroppers in the dimly lit stairwell, "would be Chloe's mother. She is waiting for you in the staff lounge."
Blackwell Academy (administrative wing)
She paces about just outside the staff lounge, hearing Chloe's mother wrap up what appears to be a very private phone conversation. Her eyes track up and down the corridor.
Seems that not much of the old private school is still the same as Max remembers, probably owing to rebuilt to a more storm-proofed spec. She cannot be certain about the choice of location, whether it utilizes the same foundation, as there was talk of mudslides, downed power lines.
It was bad enough what that one snob, Nathan Prescott, had been up to. To think he nearly got Chloe murdered.
She can only hope that Chloe is aware of her disappearing act causing a lot of people to worry. She would like nothing more than to spend a holiday or two galivanting up and down the avenues, Chloe's arm in hers. There was so much to reminisce about, still more adventures.
Ah, Joyce is calling to her through a gap in the door to the staff lounge. Max affirms audibly, shaking her head before stepping on through. She has to get her mind out of the past. With her powers out, there is nothing she can do to change a thing. The tingling. The jarring pressure just above her bra. Like a phantom limb.
Perhaps that is what gets her weeping uncontrollably, all these unknowns. Missing person. Missing powers. And that god-awful, sub 320kbps voiceover.
Oh, Joyce is thinking of hugging her. Max backs away, unsure what the weirdness affecting her sternum would do if another got in range.
"Thanks, Mrs. Price. I'm just a bit worried about your daughter is all," Max says calmly enough, running a forearm past her eyelids.
"Look, if there's anything you need," Joyce begins, pausing as police sirens gain in pitch and intensity. A unit was converging on the academy premises, no doubt about it. "Did someone file a missing person's report without consulting me?"
"No, ma'am," the instructor says, looking up from a workstation. "Appears there's something going on over at the lighthouse."
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Precipice I
Max wastes no time, going to see what is happening near the lighthouse...
Cape Manaria
By the time Max arrives at the scene, all of Arcadia Bay's police presence and--if she really wants to count--at least a third from Portland proper have converged where the gravel access simply narrows too much for vehicles, even if they agreed for once to ride on in single-file.
The lighthouse looks about as good as she remembers, though very much inoperable. Still, the way the base housing has been cleared of the long strewn about debris, as well as whatever that tornado was supposed to throw at it, done up now with scores of high beams and the occasional blinking of a helicopter's tail rudders and struts, it might as well be a Black Friday sale happening up in here.
She checks her pocket for her non-existent phone. The 24th... maybe she would still have enough gas in the week ahead for Medford.
Oop. Someone is calling over to her, not easy to pick out among the chit chat of huddled investigators. "Huh?"
"That means you, Chloe," Blackwell's security guard and smartass, Mr. Madsen, cups his hands to holler. Max whirls about, scanning the sloping terrain for her friend.
She does not notice Joyce hopping out of the back of a truck to smack David soundly on the back of his work issue ballcap.
Blackwell Academy (pavilion outside the extension years' dorms)
Kate, feeling underdressed, crosses her arms as she veers away from all the glammed up former dormmates, some of them probably on their second or third bottle of Willamette Gris a piece, judging by the number of empties on the concrete steps. This reunion, first of its kind and finally taking place, is nowhere close to everyone's graduation date, May 18th but easily six months after. Though, this is not the only reason why she feels like she is having the least bit of fun. She hovers near a plastic bin with all of the party favors no one has already called dibs, chancing a glance at the contents. It is mostly bare, revealing the copious tissue paper confetti used as a base layer. Oh, toy rockets, firecrackers. I guess it helps to be outside of Portland city limits by a pretty good stretch.
Something deposits just then in the bin, she swears by it. Glancing down, there is a Polaroid, hanging out with all the trinkets. The reagent coating the film seems to have forgotten its assigned duties.
Stooping, and picking up the Polaroid, it starts to develop the captured photo the closer she brings it on up to eye level. Or, Kate is just now discovering how much of a pro she is with analog prints. It probably helped that Max was always around, practically at her beck and call back then.
*POP!*
Flinching, Kate almost drops the Polaroid, before squaring her shoulders and wordlessly turning to regard the approaching group. Go figure.
Taylor is first to enter the dorm exterior's flood lights. She too is reacting to the noise as she shifts her drink to raise what some fellow ex-popular crowd thinks is an opening for a high-five.
Kate sizes them all up. The party favor popper she does not recognize, but there joining from the entry gates is an outright sea of smirking Vortex Club members. Some of them are holding candles, probably for the recent anniversary of October 11th.
"Hey, that wasn't on purpose, okay? Somebody brushed their candle against my bag. This stuff's made of canvas, all right?"
"Well, next time, don't try putting out a fire while you're holding confetti poppers, Capiche?" Taylor airs, gesticulating.
"Hey, why of all things you gonna be sour about spicing up the party atmosphere?"
"Because that was right in my eardrum!" She shouts, thinking to punch the other club member silly. Then, she spots what Kate is holding. "Ooh! Look at what Kate has. Let me guess, a love gram from MaxGyver?"
"Give me a break, Taylor," Alyssa says over the spontaneous fit of chuckles as she sets down her own wine glass and tries shaking glitter and confetti from her bangs.
Kate blinks, stooping down right beside her. "Hey, looks like somebody forgot their cell phone."
"Let me see that!" Taylor demands, ripping it from Kate's fingers with the decisiveness of a seagull only too familiar with human reaction times. She fusses with the lock screen's passcode for a good while, before giving up and chucking the item to a colleague. "See if you can figure it out."
"What's in it for me?" they demand.
"Nothing, except maybe I won't throw this cheapo wine in your pretty face."
"Lighten up, Taylor, for realsies."
Taylor flinches, not having heard that tone, that timbre of subtle angst which she once held in such high regard. "Who said that?"
Two Whales Diner
"Well, appears my unit is still being given the runaround," remarks Officer Berry, glancing knowingly at the tv chiming with the opening notes of the next news bulletin about to pique the interest of Joyce's wait staff. He swings a leg out from the bar stool he has been using ever since the place reopened for business, though it is a couple spots closer to the register than the old one. Just in case, he figures.
"You going to finish that pie, Berry?" asks one of the investigators traveled over from Portland, assigned to the peculiarly named junk yard portion of the manhunt.
"I bet you've been waiting to say that all afternoon," says a trucker seated not far from either of them.
Officer Berry motions to one of the wait staff to box up the dessert all the same, fishing around his dress pants for some spare change with which to tip, only to think against it and glance at the register. "You still don't have one of those touchpads?"
"We're not exactly sitting underwater here," remarks the employee, glancing appreciably over.
Cape Manaria
By the time Max arrives at the scene, all of Arcadia Bay's police presence and--if she really wants to count--at least a third from Portland proper have converged where the gravel access simply narrows too much for vehicles, even if they agreed for once to ride on in single-file.
The lighthouse looks about as good as she remembers, though very much inoperable. Still, the way the base housing has been cleared of the long strewn about debris, as well as whatever that tornado was supposed to throw at it, done up now with scores of high beams and the occasional blinking of a helicopter's tail rudders and struts, it might as well be a Black Friday sale happening up in here.
She checks her pocket for her non-existent phone. The 24th... maybe she would still have enough gas in the week ahead for Medford.
Oop. Someone is calling over to her, not easy to pick out among the chit chat of huddled investigators. "Huh?"
"That means you, Chloe," Blackwell's security guard and smartass, Mr. Madsen, cups his hands to holler. Max whirls about, scanning the sloping terrain for her friend.
She does not notice Joyce hopping out of the back of a truck to smack David soundly on the back of his work issue ballcap.
Blackwell Academy (pavilion outside the extension years' dorms)
Kate, feeling underdressed, crosses her arms as she veers away from all the glammed up former dormmates, some of them probably on their second or third bottle of Willamette Gris a piece, judging by the number of empties on the concrete steps. This reunion, first of its kind and finally taking place, is nowhere close to everyone's graduation date, May 18th but easily six months after. Though, this is not the only reason why she feels like she is having the least bit of fun. She hovers near a plastic bin with all of the party favors no one has already called dibs, chancing a glance at the contents. It is mostly bare, revealing the copious tissue paper confetti used as a base layer. Oh, toy rockets, firecrackers. I guess it helps to be outside of Portland city limits by a pretty good stretch.
Something deposits just then in the bin, she swears by it. Glancing down, there is a Polaroid, hanging out with all the trinkets. The reagent coating the film seems to have forgotten its assigned duties.
Stooping, and picking up the Polaroid, it starts to develop the captured photo the closer she brings it on up to eye level. Or, Kate is just now discovering how much of a pro she is with analog prints. It probably helped that Max was always around, practically at her beck and call back then.
*POP!*
Flinching, Kate almost drops the Polaroid, before squaring her shoulders and wordlessly turning to regard the approaching group. Go figure.
Taylor is first to enter the dorm exterior's flood lights. She too is reacting to the noise as she shifts her drink to raise what some fellow ex-popular crowd thinks is an opening for a high-five.
Kate sizes them all up. The party favor popper she does not recognize, but there joining from the entry gates is an outright sea of smirking Vortex Club members. Some of them are holding candles, probably for the recent anniversary of October 11th.
"Hey, that wasn't on purpose, okay? Somebody brushed their candle against my bag. This stuff's made of canvas, all right?"
"Well, next time, don't try putting out a fire while you're holding confetti poppers, Capiche?" Taylor airs, gesticulating.
"Hey, why of all things you gonna be sour about spicing up the party atmosphere?"
"Because that was right in my eardrum!" She shouts, thinking to punch the other club member silly. Then, she spots what Kate is holding. "Ooh! Look at what Kate has. Let me guess, a love gram from MaxGyver?"
"Give me a break, Taylor," Alyssa says over the spontaneous fit of chuckles as she sets down her own wine glass and tries shaking glitter and confetti from her bangs.
Kate blinks, stooping down right beside her. "Hey, looks like somebody forgot their cell phone."
"Let me see that!" Taylor demands, ripping it from Kate's fingers with the decisiveness of a seagull only too familiar with human reaction times. She fusses with the lock screen's passcode for a good while, before giving up and chucking the item to a colleague. "See if you can figure it out."
"What's in it for me?" they demand.
"Nothing, except maybe I won't throw this cheapo wine in your pretty face."
"Lighten up, Taylor, for realsies."
Taylor flinches, not having heard that tone, that timbre of subtle angst which she once held in such high regard. "Who said that?"
Two Whales Diner
"Well, appears my unit is still being given the runaround," remarks Officer Berry, glancing knowingly at the tv chiming with the opening notes of the next news bulletin about to pique the interest of Joyce's wait staff. He swings a leg out from the bar stool he has been using ever since the place reopened for business, though it is a couple spots closer to the register than the old one. Just in case, he figures.
"You going to finish that pie, Berry?" asks one of the investigators traveled over from Portland, assigned to the peculiarly named junk yard portion of the manhunt.
"I bet you've been waiting to say that all afternoon," says a trucker seated not far from either of them.
Officer Berry motions to one of the wait staff to box up the dessert all the same, fishing around his dress pants for some spare change with which to tip, only to think against it and glance at the register. "You still don't have one of those touchpads?"
"We're not exactly sitting underwater here," remarks the employee, glancing appreciably over.
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Precipice II
Joyce realizes that former members of the Vortex Group have Chloe's phone in their possession...
Blackwell Academy (faculty and student parking)
Matching Officer Berry's estimations wholesale, the search procedures over at Blackwell is disorganized, quiescent and subdued. It is still unclear whether no other evidence remains on campus that could aid in the search for the missing person. Still, while some attending the reunion are thinking of, or already in the process of getting back into their cars, or a shared ride, to join in the effort at the next prescribed juncture, a few others remain behind. Including Kate herself, who has voiced her desire to stay put for now, despite shivering visibly. She is near one of the overarching enclosures just past the immediate dormitories, keen on staying well removed from Taylor and her posse and immensely relieved many of her former dorm friends are with her.
Then, suddenly, noise levels take another level, as an outright crowd mesh and melt into their section of the reunion now turned into a late into the evening search, seemingly with gusto.
Kate watches for a moment as townsfolk pan and sweep with phone LEDs in front of her old dormitory building, still looking for something. Most of them are clearly not with the Vortex Club, who are tentatively taking orders from Taylor no less.
This elite clique that Kate and probably most from her old class would rather see on the front of the Blackwell Totem for all their crimes. Senior club members, like Taylor, pass around a phone that Kate had found lying on the ground thank you very much. Still, if the phone belongs to someone at Blackwell or their get-together, it would help everyone concerned to at least find out its owner.
The Vortex Club presence, so abuzz with gossip, fails to make out the ping suggesting surely this is Chloe's phone. But it gives their techies a much easier go of unlocking it.
Everyone is startled silly as the phone screen lights up. So, Kate walks over, chancing a peek. Joyce's face is on the screen. "That is Chloe's mom."
"Ya think?" a club member counters, smirking.
"This can only mean one thing," Taylor tries, listening in for what it is worth to Joyce's update. The message is clear: the campus search is pointless and everyone can relax. She seems to take this as a cue to join Kate's side of the conversation, wrapping her arm around her and pretending to be friendly.
Kate takes the phone back, talking over Taylor who seems too busy yammering about why any of them are in possession of Chloe's phone to be of much help. She looks from the front camera to the video of Joyce staring quizzically, stating firmly: "Guess she is not ready to be found."
There is a collective gasp from those assembled near, prompting Kate to hold the phone off-angle as she glares around.
"What? Not like I'm the first one to make that assumption here."
Joyce's voice cuts in after an awkward pause, casually dropping that Chloe's bike is over at the lighthouse if that helps any. So they check her phone history, finding sure enough that she was looking up biking trails.
Taylor withdraws her arm, instantly misinterpreting as she asks Kate: "You're into biking?"
Kate sighs, not ready for another showdown. "Uh..." Taylor fights back an outright guffaw in order to tell all her entourage: "Listen to this. Ms. Marsh wants to go biking in the woods! Like, who in their right mind would want to go to all that trouble?"
"That gets me thinking you crave that dropout's attention, or something. Some sort of dramatic overture, eh Kate?" asks another.
"Why don't all of you just shut up?" Kate snaps. "We're trying to find our friend, not have fun."
"Sure. Fine."
"Don't you worry about her, Taylor?"
"You know what," Taylor admits, "Ms. Marsh may be onto something. Who knows, it might be fun?"
Her posse shifts gears abruptly, suddenly down to business. "We could rent some bikes, there's bound to be some around."
"Taylor made?"
"Who said that?"
Kate ignores them for a moment, mulling this over. Then, Stella says to their combined discourse: "Hey, maybe we can pick up the trail this way? Though, Chloe is definitely quicker than most of us on and off paved roadways."
"But, all the way to the lighthouse?" Kate considers.
"Right. She's going to be tuckered out, making it that far. Still, probably at least glad to see us after all these years."
Taylor steps between either of them brusquely. "As if. More like she'll freak out and run away again."
Weather-beaten Lighthouse Façade
Max is grateful that the ocean's rhythm from well below everyone's vantage still calms her this well, judging by her heartbeat and mood alone. Distracted her shoes catch upon the bicycle set on its side.
"Chloe?" a hospital orderly remarks from a borrowed megaphone the many strides back to the assembled motorized responders.
Max pivots, regarding all of them again, then frowning, doubting that Chloe would hear any of them.
Joyce ventures out, hoping to get to Max before the Portland cops at least, no matter how well she knows the procedure by now.
Why had Max called her earlier, saying she had found the best spot for camping and needed her daughter's help? She knew this would somehow be code for visiting the old lighthouse, which was still off-limits even with the reconstruction wrapping up. She also knew this would lead to some kind of trouble, because someone just had to call the local police about a noise at the site and, foomp, half her customers were on their way, unfinished plates.
She catches up to Max, about to say something.
But Max simply dashes towards the lighthouse, cackling, thinking better of avoiding the junk that work crews have left behind, as it might be one of those scavenger hunts she loves so very much.
Blackwell Academy (faculty and student parking)
Matching Officer Berry's estimations wholesale, the search procedures over at Blackwell is disorganized, quiescent and subdued. It is still unclear whether no other evidence remains on campus that could aid in the search for the missing person. Still, while some attending the reunion are thinking of, or already in the process of getting back into their cars, or a shared ride, to join in the effort at the next prescribed juncture, a few others remain behind. Including Kate herself, who has voiced her desire to stay put for now, despite shivering visibly. She is near one of the overarching enclosures just past the immediate dormitories, keen on staying well removed from Taylor and her posse and immensely relieved many of her former dorm friends are with her.
Then, suddenly, noise levels take another level, as an outright crowd mesh and melt into their section of the reunion now turned into a late into the evening search, seemingly with gusto.
Kate watches for a moment as townsfolk pan and sweep with phone LEDs in front of her old dormitory building, still looking for something. Most of them are clearly not with the Vortex Club, who are tentatively taking orders from Taylor no less.
This elite clique that Kate and probably most from her old class would rather see on the front of the Blackwell Totem for all their crimes. Senior club members, like Taylor, pass around a phone that Kate had found lying on the ground thank you very much. Still, if the phone belongs to someone at Blackwell or their get-together, it would help everyone concerned to at least find out its owner.
The Vortex Club presence, so abuzz with gossip, fails to make out the ping suggesting surely this is Chloe's phone. But it gives their techies a much easier go of unlocking it.
Everyone is startled silly as the phone screen lights up. So, Kate walks over, chancing a peek. Joyce's face is on the screen. "That is Chloe's mom."
"Ya think?" a club member counters, smirking.
"This can only mean one thing," Taylor tries, listening in for what it is worth to Joyce's update. The message is clear: the campus search is pointless and everyone can relax. She seems to take this as a cue to join Kate's side of the conversation, wrapping her arm around her and pretending to be friendly.
Kate takes the phone back, talking over Taylor who seems too busy yammering about why any of them are in possession of Chloe's phone to be of much help. She looks from the front camera to the video of Joyce staring quizzically, stating firmly: "Guess she is not ready to be found."
There is a collective gasp from those assembled near, prompting Kate to hold the phone off-angle as she glares around.
"What? Not like I'm the first one to make that assumption here."
Joyce's voice cuts in after an awkward pause, casually dropping that Chloe's bike is over at the lighthouse if that helps any. So they check her phone history, finding sure enough that she was looking up biking trails.
Taylor withdraws her arm, instantly misinterpreting as she asks Kate: "You're into biking?"
Kate sighs, not ready for another showdown. "Uh..." Taylor fights back an outright guffaw in order to tell all her entourage: "Listen to this. Ms. Marsh wants to go biking in the woods! Like, who in their right mind would want to go to all that trouble?"
"That gets me thinking you crave that dropout's attention, or something. Some sort of dramatic overture, eh Kate?" asks another.
"Why don't all of you just shut up?" Kate snaps. "We're trying to find our friend, not have fun."
"Sure. Fine."
"Don't you worry about her, Taylor?"
"You know what," Taylor admits, "Ms. Marsh may be onto something. Who knows, it might be fun?"
Her posse shifts gears abruptly, suddenly down to business. "We could rent some bikes, there's bound to be some around."
"Taylor made?"
"Who said that?"
Kate ignores them for a moment, mulling this over. Then, Stella says to their combined discourse: "Hey, maybe we can pick up the trail this way? Though, Chloe is definitely quicker than most of us on and off paved roadways."
"But, all the way to the lighthouse?" Kate considers.
"Right. She's going to be tuckered out, making it that far. Still, probably at least glad to see us after all these years."
Taylor steps between either of them brusquely. "As if. More like she'll freak out and run away again."
Weather-beaten Lighthouse Façade
Max is grateful that the ocean's rhythm from well below everyone's vantage still calms her this well, judging by her heartbeat and mood alone. Distracted her shoes catch upon the bicycle set on its side.
"Chloe?" a hospital orderly remarks from a borrowed megaphone the many strides back to the assembled motorized responders.
Max pivots, regarding all of them again, then frowning, doubting that Chloe would hear any of them.
Joyce ventures out, hoping to get to Max before the Portland cops at least, no matter how well she knows the procedure by now.
Why had Max called her earlier, saying she had found the best spot for camping and needed her daughter's help? She knew this would somehow be code for visiting the old lighthouse, which was still off-limits even with the reconstruction wrapping up. She also knew this would lead to some kind of trouble, because someone just had to call the local police about a noise at the site and, foomp, half her customers were on their way, unfinished plates.
She catches up to Max, about to say something.
But Max simply dashes towards the lighthouse, cackling, thinking better of avoiding the junk that work crews have left behind, as it might be one of those scavenger hunts she loves so very much.
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Precipice III
Max has seemingly elected to look into the disturbances around the lighthouse ahead of everybody else, which does not surprise anyone...
Lighthouse interior, first floor
Camping-related activities between Max and Chloe typically sought out the least windblown ocean-facing exterior of the lighthouse, so any spot past the boarded up entrance and somewhat out of view of all the police vehicles and snooping news teams.
Under most other circumstances, this meant catching some of the best sunsets. But this is not like those times.
Max relocates the tree spindles and cobweb-laden construction tarp that the two of them had placed however experimentally over an unfinished section of concrete and rebar, perhaps the one glaring gap in the lighthouse repair efforts.
Clearing out the build up over the years in order to slip on through would take long enough for prying eyes and she simply does not want that. Still, her Jedi powers are on the fritz.
*CLUNK!*
"Shit!" Max wobbles from her perch, a wooden board not anchored in place well enough even for her weight. There is the sound of a tool bag and some loose construction dowels clattering about in the direction of unbalance. She winces, willing her powers to work damnit. Only to land gently in the firmest and friendliest of unexpected grips. She sighs in relief. "Whew. Thanks for looking out there, uh...?" she chances a glance of her helper's face. Oh, Warren of all people.
"Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes."
"Hi there, Mrs. Price," Warren says, chuckling good naturedly.
"We haven't decided on which name to use yet," Max says in haste, not liking how close their faces have become.
"Well, your secret is safe with me."
"What secret?" Max insists, scowling.
But Warren already has her back on solid ground as he tiptoes about the loosened building material, regarding the shadows under the improperly applied tarp. "Well, I don't have a can of RAID, per se, but," he pauses, feeling about his person, perhaps to check if he remembered...
"Your three-beam helmet lamp?"
"Ayup."
"They are on your head, umm, helmet," Max supplies.
"Right." He smirks, nodding appreciably. The helmet, loose despite resting over thick curls wrapped up in a beanie, slides over his eyes.
"Get back over here, silly," Max demands.
She tightens the strap a bit, centering the headgear and, with an indicative prodding, guides Warren's hand to activate the lights.
"Ooh, those work all right," Max attests, wincing as she backpedals a bit unsteadily from the beam's path.
"Watch where you step, okay?" Joyce reminds from a few paces away, seeming out of breath from resuming the tail end of the hike.
"Relax, she's got me," Warren remarks, accidentally shining in the general direction of Chloe's mom. "Ah, sorry."
"Honey, with all the first aid skills you displayed a couple Octobers ago, don't even sweat it."
Max thinks to raise a contention about the amount of time that had already passed, but the lighthouse was calling to her something fierce.
In she goes.
"We're going inside that thing too?" David seeks, regarding Warren and Joyce.
"She knows her way around the innards better than both of you. Hurry your asses up!" Joyce demands.
The first thing Max notices is she has entered a dark and cold room. The stone finish of the lighthouse base forms part of the walls encircling whichever way she looks, but the rest has an outright dungeon atmosphere to it. There is a faint light coming from a small grate in the center of the room, as well as the sounds of pickaxes and flowing water.
She sits cross-legged, mulling this over.
Right then, Warren and Chloe's stepdad emerge, breathing a collective sigh of relief. "Dead end?"
"You guys better take a look," Max insists. As they gather around, she says emphatically: "There is no way the lighthouse is sitting over anything remotely as cool as this."
"Yeah, it is pretty chilly down here," Warren says aloud, rubbing his upper arms.
"Relax, if Chloe is about, she'll have some camping supplies."
"How sure are you that anyone has been down in this...thing lately?" David tries.
Max thinks this over, glancing over their heads for a bit. She saw the usual spiral staircase that winds up to the underside of the roof level of the lighthouse, a latched escape hatch deterring would-be climbers.
She also saw, pushed over to the side like an afterthought, an old desk with a rusted lamp and the reams of an old book on it.
"Hey, what's the game plan, pumpkin?" David asks her gently.
Max waves him off for a second as she stands up. She approaches the desk and grabs at the still intact portions of the book.
"Hey, this was someone's diary. Pretty sure it wasn't here back when Chloe and I were little."
David and Warren look at each other, perplexed, before a thought strikes the older gentleman. "Ms. Caulfield," he states flatly.
"Why yes?" Max pivots, smiling broadly at him.
"Suggest you not bother with that. Come on, you two," he motions to the ground level coverings, their way back out.
"And, uh, somebody remember to turn off the lights."
"Oh, there is not any installed lighting," Max says knowingly. She seems intent on inspecting the abandoned diary further. It is so intriguing, with a thin leather cover and a worn brass locket. If only she could have opened it when it was still intact, what a rush that would bring. She closes it back up, loosening a bunch of dust and dead spiders. "Yup. Let's call it a day."
Somberly, she ascends the part of the winding stairs that reaches the cutout, poking her head on through the tarp.
In time to see the news chopper taking perhaps too much interest in their activities, as the blades, then the front bubble glass, smash to bits against the lighthouse, caving in a freshly-lain section right over everybody's heads.
Lighthouse interior, first floor
Camping-related activities between Max and Chloe typically sought out the least windblown ocean-facing exterior of the lighthouse, so any spot past the boarded up entrance and somewhat out of view of all the police vehicles and snooping news teams.
Under most other circumstances, this meant catching some of the best sunsets. But this is not like those times.
Max relocates the tree spindles and cobweb-laden construction tarp that the two of them had placed however experimentally over an unfinished section of concrete and rebar, perhaps the one glaring gap in the lighthouse repair efforts.
Clearing out the build up over the years in order to slip on through would take long enough for prying eyes and she simply does not want that. Still, her Jedi powers are on the fritz.
*CLUNK!*
"Shit!" Max wobbles from her perch, a wooden board not anchored in place well enough even for her weight. There is the sound of a tool bag and some loose construction dowels clattering about in the direction of unbalance. She winces, willing her powers to work damnit. Only to land gently in the firmest and friendliest of unexpected grips. She sighs in relief. "Whew. Thanks for looking out there, uh...?" she chances a glance of her helper's face. Oh, Warren of all people.
"Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes."
"Hi there, Mrs. Price," Warren says, chuckling good naturedly.
"We haven't decided on which name to use yet," Max says in haste, not liking how close their faces have become.
"Well, your secret is safe with me."
"What secret?" Max insists, scowling.
But Warren already has her back on solid ground as he tiptoes about the loosened building material, regarding the shadows under the improperly applied tarp. "Well, I don't have a can of RAID, per se, but," he pauses, feeling about his person, perhaps to check if he remembered...
"Your three-beam helmet lamp?"
"Ayup."
"They are on your head, umm, helmet," Max supplies.
"Right." He smirks, nodding appreciably. The helmet, loose despite resting over thick curls wrapped up in a beanie, slides over his eyes.
"Get back over here, silly," Max demands.
She tightens the strap a bit, centering the headgear and, with an indicative prodding, guides Warren's hand to activate the lights.
"Ooh, those work all right," Max attests, wincing as she backpedals a bit unsteadily from the beam's path.
"Watch where you step, okay?" Joyce reminds from a few paces away, seeming out of breath from resuming the tail end of the hike.
"Relax, she's got me," Warren remarks, accidentally shining in the general direction of Chloe's mom. "Ah, sorry."
"Honey, with all the first aid skills you displayed a couple Octobers ago, don't even sweat it."
Max thinks to raise a contention about the amount of time that had already passed, but the lighthouse was calling to her something fierce.
In she goes.
"We're going inside that thing too?" David seeks, regarding Warren and Joyce.
"She knows her way around the innards better than both of you. Hurry your asses up!" Joyce demands.
The first thing Max notices is she has entered a dark and cold room. The stone finish of the lighthouse base forms part of the walls encircling whichever way she looks, but the rest has an outright dungeon atmosphere to it. There is a faint light coming from a small grate in the center of the room, as well as the sounds of pickaxes and flowing water.
She sits cross-legged, mulling this over.
Right then, Warren and Chloe's stepdad emerge, breathing a collective sigh of relief. "Dead end?"
"You guys better take a look," Max insists. As they gather around, she says emphatically: "There is no way the lighthouse is sitting over anything remotely as cool as this."
"Yeah, it is pretty chilly down here," Warren says aloud, rubbing his upper arms.
"Relax, if Chloe is about, she'll have some camping supplies."
"How sure are you that anyone has been down in this...thing lately?" David tries.
Max thinks this over, glancing over their heads for a bit. She saw the usual spiral staircase that winds up to the underside of the roof level of the lighthouse, a latched escape hatch deterring would-be climbers.
She also saw, pushed over to the side like an afterthought, an old desk with a rusted lamp and the reams of an old book on it.
"Hey, what's the game plan, pumpkin?" David asks her gently.
Max waves him off for a second as she stands up. She approaches the desk and grabs at the still intact portions of the book.
"Hey, this was someone's diary. Pretty sure it wasn't here back when Chloe and I were little."
David and Warren look at each other, perplexed, before a thought strikes the older gentleman. "Ms. Caulfield," he states flatly.
"Why yes?" Max pivots, smiling broadly at him.
"Suggest you not bother with that. Come on, you two," he motions to the ground level coverings, their way back out.
"And, uh, somebody remember to turn off the lights."
"Oh, there is not any installed lighting," Max says knowingly. She seems intent on inspecting the abandoned diary further. It is so intriguing, with a thin leather cover and a worn brass locket. If only she could have opened it when it was still intact, what a rush that would bring. She closes it back up, loosening a bunch of dust and dead spiders. "Yup. Let's call it a day."
Somberly, she ascends the part of the winding stairs that reaches the cutout, poking her head on through the tarp.
In time to see the news chopper taking perhaps too much interest in their activities, as the blades, then the front bubble glass, smash to bits against the lighthouse, caving in a freshly-lain section right over everybody's heads.
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Intermission
"Hey! You must be the new girl. I've heard so many things about you already."
"Yeah, word travels fast. … Wait just a second! I think you are confusing me with someone."
"Oh, now that could be. Mikey, crank up the lantern, would you?"
*ffsssss...*
"Much better! You're right, totally not the exchange student."
"Hmm?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Oh, you're joining us?"
"Yep! Chloe Price is the name, and if that's tabletop I am so game."
"Lame."
"Huh?"
"No, not you, uh, Chloe. I'll just roll again."
"On what grounds?"
"Steph here, our DM."
"Charmed."
"Right, see, my starter build gets one extra spell per Reverie."
"Oh? That's exclusive to elves, but your figurine looks more some orc that raided a Scottish barbarian's wardrobe."
"I'm surprised you know that. Oh, but this? It's a Kratos figurine. Got him with a combo meal."
"...If you say so. Hey, I have a lighter! Want me to give him elf ears?"
"And stink up the place? I hate the smell of burnt plastic."
"Steph, is it? Give me a character sheet, I've got just the player class...uh, Mikey?"
"Is it still my turn?"
"Yes, maybe? I just want to know... what does your dude do exactly?"
"Drunken... uh, just a fancy kind of martial arts."
"I thought elves can't get drunk."
"Just so you know. Anything we place on this game board, it uh..."
"I have medicated long enough!" the Kratos figurine says, kicking at the inadequate dice roll.
"Holy shit, Kratos is... I must be tripping balls," Chloe hisses, leaning to inspect the anomaly.
"Meditated, my guy," Mikey points out, tapping the rulebook. "You're not converting booze until level 11. And we are in no position to advance that far in one sitting."
"It gets on our case pretty kick. Uh, quick!" Steph explains, pulling her fold-out cardboard partition away from little Kratos's wrath.
"That's pretty rad, I have to say," Chloe remarks, fist bumping Mikey, before considering doing the same with the little figurine.
"I am touched, but these hands are still caked with the ash and dust of my Lysandra's passing."
"Far out!"
"Yeah, I just kind of roll with it."
There is a sound issuing down through the grate situated in the middle of the tavern ceiling.
"We are wasting time while the enemy grows in numbers."
"You think so, Kratos? Steph, free action. Give my guy a boost on one of the crates."
"Heheh. Kratos, crates..."
"Where...oh Kratos don't do that!" Steph reaches and centers Kratos on the board better. "What have I told you before?"
"I must wait a turn anyway and then try escaping."
"It's kind of weird how obedient it is, don't you think?"
"That's all to the video?" Rachel asks, sitting up at once in the disused beige F-150.
"Yeah, sorry, the board could charge up a plastic figurine, but not my phone. Would have helped if my mom stopped texting me so much," Chloe admits, glancing at the now plugged-in personal gadget and frumping. "It's charging so slow."
The cabin bulb starts flickering.
"Uh-oh. You might want to just turn it off for a bit," Rachel instructs. "Especially..."
"Nyah. Dunno how ready I am to hear Step-prepper on my voicemail nine hundred times."
"Oh yeah, they go to voicemail powered down. Psh. Phones are hella weird, Chloe."
Chloe shrugs, before relenting, trying the phone lock experimentally, swiping it to standby for the first time since it was through its original setup on the way out of the electronics store. "For reals. Although, weird is an understatement. It's like watching a nightmare unfold in little pixelated form. Drama, disagreements every minute of every hour."
"Ugh, I know, right? But we hafta play along, for now."
Chloe looks at her. "Play along? What do you mean?"
Rachel looks pointedly at her travel case, devoid of the clothes she once gave Chloe. "You know exactly what I mean. We're not really supposed to be here."
"Ye...yeah. I get it. Guess I'm now one of them too."
"Well, not that it matters all that much. If we stay out of everyone else's hair."
"Hey, my junkyard, es su junkyard, Rashe."
"Yeah, word travels fast. … Wait just a second! I think you are confusing me with someone."
"Oh, now that could be. Mikey, crank up the lantern, would you?"
*ffsssss...*
"Much better! You're right, totally not the exchange student."
"Hmm?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Oh, you're joining us?"
"Yep! Chloe Price is the name, and if that's tabletop I am so game."
"Lame."
"Huh?"
"No, not you, uh, Chloe. I'll just roll again."
"On what grounds?"
"Steph here, our DM."
"Charmed."
"Right, see, my starter build gets one extra spell per Reverie."
"Oh? That's exclusive to elves, but your figurine looks more some orc that raided a Scottish barbarian's wardrobe."
"I'm surprised you know that. Oh, but this? It's a Kratos figurine. Got him with a combo meal."
"...If you say so. Hey, I have a lighter! Want me to give him elf ears?"
"And stink up the place? I hate the smell of burnt plastic."
"Steph, is it? Give me a character sheet, I've got just the player class...uh, Mikey?"
"Is it still my turn?"
"Yes, maybe? I just want to know... what does your dude do exactly?"
"Drunken... uh, just a fancy kind of martial arts."
"I thought elves can't get drunk."
"Just so you know. Anything we place on this game board, it uh..."
"I have medicated long enough!" the Kratos figurine says, kicking at the inadequate dice roll.
"Holy shit, Kratos is... I must be tripping balls," Chloe hisses, leaning to inspect the anomaly.
"Meditated, my guy," Mikey points out, tapping the rulebook. "You're not converting booze until level 11. And we are in no position to advance that far in one sitting."
"It gets on our case pretty kick. Uh, quick!" Steph explains, pulling her fold-out cardboard partition away from little Kratos's wrath.
"That's pretty rad, I have to say," Chloe remarks, fist bumping Mikey, before considering doing the same with the little figurine.
"I am touched, but these hands are still caked with the ash and dust of my Lysandra's passing."
"Far out!"
"Yeah, I just kind of roll with it."
There is a sound issuing down through the grate situated in the middle of the tavern ceiling.
"We are wasting time while the enemy grows in numbers."
"You think so, Kratos? Steph, free action. Give my guy a boost on one of the crates."
"Heheh. Kratos, crates..."
"Where...oh Kratos don't do that!" Steph reaches and centers Kratos on the board better. "What have I told you before?"
"I must wait a turn anyway and then try escaping."
"It's kind of weird how obedient it is, don't you think?"
"That's all to the video?" Rachel asks, sitting up at once in the disused beige F-150.
"Yeah, sorry, the board could charge up a plastic figurine, but not my phone. Would have helped if my mom stopped texting me so much," Chloe admits, glancing at the now plugged-in personal gadget and frumping. "It's charging so slow."
The cabin bulb starts flickering.
"Uh-oh. You might want to just turn it off for a bit," Rachel instructs. "Especially..."
"Nyah. Dunno how ready I am to hear Step-prepper on my voicemail nine hundred times."
"Oh yeah, they go to voicemail powered down. Psh. Phones are hella weird, Chloe."
Chloe shrugs, before relenting, trying the phone lock experimentally, swiping it to standby for the first time since it was through its original setup on the way out of the electronics store. "For reals. Although, weird is an understatement. It's like watching a nightmare unfold in little pixelated form. Drama, disagreements every minute of every hour."
"Ugh, I know, right? But we hafta play along, for now."
Chloe looks at her. "Play along? What do you mean?"
Rachel looks pointedly at her travel case, devoid of the clothes she once gave Chloe. "You know exactly what I mean. We're not really supposed to be here."
"Ye...yeah. I get it. Guess I'm now one of them too."
"Well, not that it matters all that much. If we stay out of everyone else's hair."
"Hey, my junkyard, es su junkyard, Rashe."
Grotto I
Maxine, ever the guardian angel, dislodges enough of the lighthouse framing to scare away rescue workers for a moment, as she rewinds the worst the inattentive helicopter piloting has wrought...
C H A P T E R T W O
En Route to the Azores
Last she checked, the magnificent 50-yard schooner belongs to her great-uncle. So, where it travels is not really Claire's nor anybody on the manifest's business. Still, why the sailing vessel has been asked to run a boatload of dry goods in the middle of the Atlantic—instead of leaving such a humdrum task to one of the far more robust and, more importantly, expedient mercantile vessels—was simply beyond her.
As she considers this, it seems her foot-tapping draws attention. Turning, she catches a knowing grimace from her mother, which she still hasn't forgiven yet. To excuse either of them from all the upcoming stately functions so close to the holidays makes no sense. Surely, she had a hand in drumming up this voyage.
"...vouliez vraiment?" Her mother is trying to ask her something.
Claire simply rolls her eyes and turns away. "Like a give a F."
"Claire, it is not very ladylike to..." her mother starts, versed enough in the lingo.
"To swear like a sailor?" she counters, eyes fierce, head held high.
Her mother raises both hands placatingly, before scooping Claire into a firm embrace. "You silly thing. What would your tutor say if he saw you like this?"
Claire, losing the fight the moment her mother's fragrance envelopes her senses, is reminded of an oft-cited passage from Archibald Campbell's memoirs about that very patch of water. "That nothing we learn on dry land is of any use out here."
Her mother chuckles. "Erm, perhaps." She steps out of the hug to regard Claire warmly. "Though it sounds you have been paying attention. Say, are there any books you have brought along?"
"No, I thought you said you would pack those," Claire says dully, watching as her mother withdraws a hand into view, scribbles adorning the creases. "What's that?"
"Well, the maids asked I secure some passion fruit, to press juices with."
"One does not simply fish tropical fruits mid-voyage, unless someone ahead of us fell into trouble," Claire reminds her.
"Yes, that would be peculiar."
Claire turns her head slightly, ears picking up outside activity. "I hear gulls."
Just then, a staccato series of warning bells sound from abovedeck, prompting her mother to secret Claire away between some barrels before hiking up the steep, wooden stairs.
Before Claire can so much as inquire, a harsh, rigorous shaking takes hold of the entire vessel, while mariners shout at the top of their lungs. Thrown off balance, she reaches to catch a lantern before the oily contents become a thing, pivoting, proud of her dexterity.
She glances up, excitement adorning her features. Then, a dislodged bundle of coiled rope descends and strikes her about the face.
She is out like a light.
Lighthouse Exterior
Waves of reddish time manipulation wash off the helicopter, the source of its operator's discomfort or distraction apparently removed in the process as it hovers in the air without much fuss.
Still, it does no one any good to stick around. Lowering her arm, Max sighs, thinking for a moment how close that got. Any worse than that, and the lighthouse would look less of a landmark, more a chew toy for the helicopter's bent, warped rotors.
Looking around, she sees the reset is still going to take some getting used to, though how to calibrate something that chose to work its magic in her is anyone's guess.
Max pauses, her dress shoes nudging against spent syringes lain in plain sight. "This just smacks of street gang tomfoolery."
"Did you say something, SuperMax?" Warren tries, blowing construction dust out of his hair as he clears the flimsy material hiding the cutout into the lowermost levels of the lighthouse.
David is right behind him, clearing his throat politely. He chances a glimpse back outside. "Whoa, that helicopter is sitting pretty close, no wonder there's all this damn dust!"
Max nods at him, before looking over at a pair of familiar faces situating near the cluster of cop cars. Some are midst conversation.
"So, no sign of the suspect, nor Ms. Price?" a policewoman prompts Joyce, readying a report for the precinct.
Warren strides up right beside Max, crossing his arms and shivering noticeably. "Track jacket is no good in this breeze."
"Helicopter is making a downdraft. So, technically, the latent heat on the lighthouse façade should be reaching us," Max airs.
"Yeah, if only the sea breezes weren't forming a condensation point with my sweat," Warren tries. "Got to dress better for this."
"Hey, you can all get changed back at Whales-R-Us," David affirms, fixing a ball cap to his head and motioning to his wife to warm up their rides.
"Oh yeah, you guys totally redid the upstairs. Added some bed-n-breakfast, if I had to guess," Max murmurs, debating long and hard on whether Warren was already too over a decades long crush for something as non-innocuous yet nice sounding as slipping into each other's sleeves.
Joyce smiles at them for a moment, before hopping despite herself as one of the inspectors tosses a spare set of road flares and a walkie talkie at the policewoman talking her up.
"Word's gotten out, got to make the place look more closed off."
"How do you expect me to do that?"
"Dunno. Flip over one of the squad cars, or something," the inspector says with a shrug, before hiking a thick-collared jacket against the cool breeze and distancing from further conversation.
Blackwell Academy (front quad)
"Chloe is still not back yet. Where is she?" Kate demurs, pacing along the painted lanes of the search party's choice of parking spots.
"It's too bad, too. If she heard I was seeing Firewalk's drummer, she might have stuck around," Taylor figures.
"Guess we'll just have to try again tomorrow," suggests a Vortex Club rep.
"For now, who do I turn this phone in to?" Taylor asks, holding Chloe's phone up indicatively and looking about.
"Don't look at me," Kate tries, grimacing.
Two Whales Diner
David and Warren climb out of a friend's sedan, glancing back at Joyce bringing up some other stragglers in David's car.
"Good of you to join us," David says, stepping to embrace Joyce once she has extricated herself.
"As if," Joyce huffs, "when someone really needs to consider a spare set of keys." She starts leaning in for a quick kiss before withdrawing concernedly. "Where is she?"
"Joyce, there are at least a handful of lady cops. You're going to have to do better than that," David deflects, though he is not quick enough to dodge the playful punch sent his way. He looks over for assistance. "Umm, Mr. Graham?"
"Yeah, don't know what to tell you, David. She told us to go on ahead."
"Oh, the nerve of that girl, sometimes," Joyce says with a grimace, David forgetting about her antics a moment ago as he pats her upper back.
"Apparently," Warren adds, stepping out of the way as the first crop of squad car brights start rolling and casting shadows on everyone. The squad cars' sirens are off but their engines are nevertheless roaring as they swarm into the customer parking. "Ah, shit, are we still technically open?"
"No, not unless it's to-go," Joyce insists. "Hey, Mr. Graham?"
"Yeah?"
"Stay put, find out who is the best point of contact. Ya dig?"
Lighthouse interior, basement level
It only took the briefest amount of pilfering David's toolbox while everyone was packing up their things to head back into town, for Max to finesse her way through the roof-level access hatch. Only to be completely turned around.
The sounds, the smells, the low-lighting and whatnot, none of it speaks to being aboveground or otherwise in view of more of the horizon.
Wiping grit from her forehead, she reaches into a pocket and produces a lighter. "Figures."
She tilts it to horizontal, feeling the isobutane reservoir is nowhere near needing replacing. It's not like she smokes much these days, not when she has a very specific part to play in all of this.
* Fffsssshzhzzz!! *
The lighter does not just produce a pocket-sized flame, it flexes some muscle, illuminating the passageway ahead. There is a slight downward grade, though the floor is natural stone and easy to scoot across.
The sounds of a cavern, now paired with rivulets pooling, coiling and caressing the length of the hewn route into the unknown.
"Well, well."
"Pops?"
"Still pretending to be Caulfield, yeah?"
"All except the secret powers."
"She's been waiting for you," William's specter alludes.
C H A P T E R T W O
En Route to the Azores
Last she checked, the magnificent 50-yard schooner belongs to her great-uncle. So, where it travels is not really Claire's nor anybody on the manifest's business. Still, why the sailing vessel has been asked to run a boatload of dry goods in the middle of the Atlantic—instead of leaving such a humdrum task to one of the far more robust and, more importantly, expedient mercantile vessels—was simply beyond her.
As she considers this, it seems her foot-tapping draws attention. Turning, she catches a knowing grimace from her mother, which she still hasn't forgiven yet. To excuse either of them from all the upcoming stately functions so close to the holidays makes no sense. Surely, she had a hand in drumming up this voyage.
"...vouliez vraiment?" Her mother is trying to ask her something.
Claire simply rolls her eyes and turns away. "Like a give a F."
"Claire, it is not very ladylike to..." her mother starts, versed enough in the lingo.
"To swear like a sailor?" she counters, eyes fierce, head held high.
Her mother raises both hands placatingly, before scooping Claire into a firm embrace. "You silly thing. What would your tutor say if he saw you like this?"
Claire, losing the fight the moment her mother's fragrance envelopes her senses, is reminded of an oft-cited passage from Archibald Campbell's memoirs about that very patch of water. "That nothing we learn on dry land is of any use out here."
Her mother chuckles. "Erm, perhaps." She steps out of the hug to regard Claire warmly. "Though it sounds you have been paying attention. Say, are there any books you have brought along?"
"No, I thought you said you would pack those," Claire says dully, watching as her mother withdraws a hand into view, scribbles adorning the creases. "What's that?"
"Well, the maids asked I secure some passion fruit, to press juices with."
"One does not simply fish tropical fruits mid-voyage, unless someone ahead of us fell into trouble," Claire reminds her.
"Yes, that would be peculiar."
Claire turns her head slightly, ears picking up outside activity. "I hear gulls."
Just then, a staccato series of warning bells sound from abovedeck, prompting her mother to secret Claire away between some barrels before hiking up the steep, wooden stairs.
Before Claire can so much as inquire, a harsh, rigorous shaking takes hold of the entire vessel, while mariners shout at the top of their lungs. Thrown off balance, she reaches to catch a lantern before the oily contents become a thing, pivoting, proud of her dexterity.
She glances up, excitement adorning her features. Then, a dislodged bundle of coiled rope descends and strikes her about the face.
She is out like a light.
Lighthouse Exterior
Waves of reddish time manipulation wash off the helicopter, the source of its operator's discomfort or distraction apparently removed in the process as it hovers in the air without much fuss.
Still, it does no one any good to stick around. Lowering her arm, Max sighs, thinking for a moment how close that got. Any worse than that, and the lighthouse would look less of a landmark, more a chew toy for the helicopter's bent, warped rotors.
Looking around, she sees the reset is still going to take some getting used to, though how to calibrate something that chose to work its magic in her is anyone's guess.
Max pauses, her dress shoes nudging against spent syringes lain in plain sight. "This just smacks of street gang tomfoolery."
"Did you say something, SuperMax?" Warren tries, blowing construction dust out of his hair as he clears the flimsy material hiding the cutout into the lowermost levels of the lighthouse.
David is right behind him, clearing his throat politely. He chances a glimpse back outside. "Whoa, that helicopter is sitting pretty close, no wonder there's all this damn dust!"
Max nods at him, before looking over at a pair of familiar faces situating near the cluster of cop cars. Some are midst conversation.
"So, no sign of the suspect, nor Ms. Price?" a policewoman prompts Joyce, readying a report for the precinct.
Warren strides up right beside Max, crossing his arms and shivering noticeably. "Track jacket is no good in this breeze."
"Helicopter is making a downdraft. So, technically, the latent heat on the lighthouse façade should be reaching us," Max airs.
"Yeah, if only the sea breezes weren't forming a condensation point with my sweat," Warren tries. "Got to dress better for this."
"Hey, you can all get changed back at Whales-R-Us," David affirms, fixing a ball cap to his head and motioning to his wife to warm up their rides.
"Oh yeah, you guys totally redid the upstairs. Added some bed-n-breakfast, if I had to guess," Max murmurs, debating long and hard on whether Warren was already too over a decades long crush for something as non-innocuous yet nice sounding as slipping into each other's sleeves.
Joyce smiles at them for a moment, before hopping despite herself as one of the inspectors tosses a spare set of road flares and a walkie talkie at the policewoman talking her up.
"Word's gotten out, got to make the place look more closed off."
"How do you expect me to do that?"
"Dunno. Flip over one of the squad cars, or something," the inspector says with a shrug, before hiking a thick-collared jacket against the cool breeze and distancing from further conversation.
Blackwell Academy (front quad)
"Chloe is still not back yet. Where is she?" Kate demurs, pacing along the painted lanes of the search party's choice of parking spots.
"It's too bad, too. If she heard I was seeing Firewalk's drummer, she might have stuck around," Taylor figures.
"Guess we'll just have to try again tomorrow," suggests a Vortex Club rep.
"For now, who do I turn this phone in to?" Taylor asks, holding Chloe's phone up indicatively and looking about.
"Don't look at me," Kate tries, grimacing.
Two Whales Diner
David and Warren climb out of a friend's sedan, glancing back at Joyce bringing up some other stragglers in David's car.
"Good of you to join us," David says, stepping to embrace Joyce once she has extricated herself.
"As if," Joyce huffs, "when someone really needs to consider a spare set of keys." She starts leaning in for a quick kiss before withdrawing concernedly. "Where is she?"
"Joyce, there are at least a handful of lady cops. You're going to have to do better than that," David deflects, though he is not quick enough to dodge the playful punch sent his way. He looks over for assistance. "Umm, Mr. Graham?"
"Yeah, don't know what to tell you, David. She told us to go on ahead."
"Oh, the nerve of that girl, sometimes," Joyce says with a grimace, David forgetting about her antics a moment ago as he pats her upper back.
"Apparently," Warren adds, stepping out of the way as the first crop of squad car brights start rolling and casting shadows on everyone. The squad cars' sirens are off but their engines are nevertheless roaring as they swarm into the customer parking. "Ah, shit, are we still technically open?"
"No, not unless it's to-go," Joyce insists. "Hey, Mr. Graham?"
"Yeah?"
"Stay put, find out who is the best point of contact. Ya dig?"
Lighthouse interior, basement level
It only took the briefest amount of pilfering David's toolbox while everyone was packing up their things to head back into town, for Max to finesse her way through the roof-level access hatch. Only to be completely turned around.
The sounds, the smells, the low-lighting and whatnot, none of it speaks to being aboveground or otherwise in view of more of the horizon.
Wiping grit from her forehead, she reaches into a pocket and produces a lighter. "Figures."
She tilts it to horizontal, feeling the isobutane reservoir is nowhere near needing replacing. It's not like she smokes much these days, not when she has a very specific part to play in all of this.
* Fffsssshzhzzz!! *
The lighter does not just produce a pocket-sized flame, it flexes some muscle, illuminating the passageway ahead. There is a slight downward grade, though the floor is natural stone and easy to scoot across.
The sounds of a cavern, now paired with rivulets pooling, coiling and caressing the length of the hewn route into the unknown.
"Well, well."
"Pops?"
"Still pretending to be Caulfield, yeah?"
"All except the secret powers."
"She's been waiting for you," William's specter alludes.
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Grotto II
Just when the day could not possibly get any weirder, Kate is tasked with trailing after the more wanderlust-stricken alum after umpteenth reports of sing-song shanties issuing in an unexplored section of the old lighthouse...
Mysterious passage
Holding her phone up to shine the LED about, Kate pauses to likewise tone down the screen brightness just to maybe make out the contours to which the opened hatchway at the top of the stairs tried rather inexplicably to bar access.
Instead, it catches upon the cleanshaven visage of a man blinking and yammering most disconcertingly from just past it, as he powers through the wooden partition and halts at the top of the stairs bemusedly.
What is that dialect? And that outfit, borderline Renaissance Faire.
Kate waves at him, causing him to jump, his English wool cap brushing cobwebs.
"Umm, excuse me, are you the here to look at lighthouse?" she thinks to ask.
"Huh? What ever for, has someone tampered with the wick again?" he ventures.
"Do you know Chloe?" Kate tries next, walking over to him while speed-dialing Chloe's mother. "Perhaps you can update the rest of us on her whereab-- Hey! Watch it!"
For the odd way his eyes regard her phone, arms half-raised, perhaps to brazenly secure the item from her grip? It clues her in to needing to head back up for, well, backup.
Portland Int'l
There is a jangling of tabletop dice as Steph retrieves her suitcase from the baggage claim, hopping on the balls of her feet to the airport PA tunes and waiting patiently for Alex to recover her own effects.
Alex glances over, shaking her head. "This might take a while longer, you want me to watch yours, go use the ladies room?"
"Oh, I'm good until the hotel," Steph remarks, hands in her pants pockets, still hopping.
Alex fixes a knowing grimace, before opting to chassé her way over, feet stopping right before Steph's suitcase as she leans the rest of the way to trace a digit past the hint of sideburns into Steph's beanie. "Why are you hiding it?"
"Hiding what?" Steph asks, eyes and body language avoiding the topic as she checks whether Alex's bag is to appear next in the softly billowing plastic sheets lining the start of the conveyor getup.
"That wasn't just a café au lait you went to get during out stopover in Montrose."
"Oh, you got me," Steph allows, withdrawing her beanie to showcase the change, the top layers of her medium-length hair done up in curls, while the rest of her head is shaved close, tram lines zigging behind snipped sideburns to complete the look.
"Where's your camera crew, Cressida?" asks Mr. Lucan, dropping both his and Alex's bags with practiced ease. "Bwah, this lower altitude feels freaking amazing."
"It's just recycled airport air?" Alex contends, before reaching to rub Steph's fresh haircut playfully.
"Ah, easy, I don't want...!" Steph tries, but Alex is persistent. The curls to one side of her hair unravel, cascading down and obscuring her 3 o'clock. She sighs, brushing them back, before wordlessly securing the beanie over the do.
"Now," Alex asserts, laying in a firm kiss on Steph's hurt look, "she is Cressida-tier."
Passageway
"Marsh, y' say? Never heard of them," he says, sniffing perturbedly.
"I'm saying, we Marshes are trustees to the lighthouse and all that it conceals. I mean, reveals, I mean. OH, pick up the phone, Joyce!"
"Joyous?" the man tries. "Perhaps it is at that." He pauses his scrutiny of the uppermost level, the very old-form lighthouse mechanical workings, to motion back the way he probably came. "We do have some absolutely splendid strawberry parfaits in the cantina this hour. I was just about to go fetch one."
"There's nobody working the lighthouse, or serving food," Kate insists, rubbing a sudden tiredness from her eyes.
"You really aren't a cheerful girl. A shame, given your stature."
"As much as I'd like to know what you are possibly implying, just point me in the direction of these parfaits. Maybe they will have an outlet for my phone."
"Ah, to think of comfort food as little more than an outlet? Fie, I say."
"Fried parfaits?" asks a younger woman's voice from the other end of the passage.
"Is that you, Diane?"
"It is at that. You having a drag with Chloe? Mind if I join you?"
Kate seizes up at once. "Chloe? My apologies to you, good sir nightgown!" She says, leaving a polite peck on his jawline, before blinking and patting away any saliva from the gentleman's chin, the former starting, the latter snapping him out of a mystified grimace. She then hurries down the corridor, heels clacking away.
"The makings of a poet, that one," he figures amicably, touching the fresh sensation dotting his stubble.
A Taxi Ride into Town
"Hwoof!" exclaims Alex, pressing the last of everyone's luggage into a cart and angling for the first yellow taxi responding to their hails.
Steph stoops to meet the driver at eye level, noticing at once the old Model-T Turtle Back decal rocking about on the hook of the rearview mirror. "Ooh, classy."
Ryan seems to have a question, but Alex merely bends over for a moment to catch her breath.
"How long is it to Arcadia Bay?" Steph infers, relaying the question forth.
"Hey, we take the expressway, I get you there in ten minutes, tops."
"Expressway?" Ryan echoes.
"Yeah, we got those and a few more alternate routes. But, the express runs clear on through to Bayside. Just a short hop back down the coast to where you're headed."
"Portland sure has changed," Alex says, fixing her glasses back on.
"All of Oregon," the taxi driver affirms. "Ever since that freak storm. Ten years of hindsight and heavy machinery on the budgets. Chef's kiss."
As they climb into the back bench of the taxi driver's ride, they are asked: "What music you want on?"
Mysterious passage
Holding her phone up to shine the LED about, Kate pauses to likewise tone down the screen brightness just to maybe make out the contours to which the opened hatchway at the top of the stairs tried rather inexplicably to bar access.
Instead, it catches upon the cleanshaven visage of a man blinking and yammering most disconcertingly from just past it, as he powers through the wooden partition and halts at the top of the stairs bemusedly.
What is that dialect? And that outfit, borderline Renaissance Faire.
Kate waves at him, causing him to jump, his English wool cap brushing cobwebs.
"Umm, excuse me, are you the here to look at lighthouse?" she thinks to ask.
"Huh? What ever for, has someone tampered with the wick again?" he ventures.
"Do you know Chloe?" Kate tries next, walking over to him while speed-dialing Chloe's mother. "Perhaps you can update the rest of us on her whereab-- Hey! Watch it!"
For the odd way his eyes regard her phone, arms half-raised, perhaps to brazenly secure the item from her grip? It clues her in to needing to head back up for, well, backup.
Portland Int'l
There is a jangling of tabletop dice as Steph retrieves her suitcase from the baggage claim, hopping on the balls of her feet to the airport PA tunes and waiting patiently for Alex to recover her own effects.
Alex glances over, shaking her head. "This might take a while longer, you want me to watch yours, go use the ladies room?"
"Oh, I'm good until the hotel," Steph remarks, hands in her pants pockets, still hopping.
Alex fixes a knowing grimace, before opting to chassé her way over, feet stopping right before Steph's suitcase as she leans the rest of the way to trace a digit past the hint of sideburns into Steph's beanie. "Why are you hiding it?"
"Hiding what?" Steph asks, eyes and body language avoiding the topic as she checks whether Alex's bag is to appear next in the softly billowing plastic sheets lining the start of the conveyor getup.
"That wasn't just a café au lait you went to get during out stopover in Montrose."
"Oh, you got me," Steph allows, withdrawing her beanie to showcase the change, the top layers of her medium-length hair done up in curls, while the rest of her head is shaved close, tram lines zigging behind snipped sideburns to complete the look.
"Where's your camera crew, Cressida?" asks Mr. Lucan, dropping both his and Alex's bags with practiced ease. "Bwah, this lower altitude feels freaking amazing."
"It's just recycled airport air?" Alex contends, before reaching to rub Steph's fresh haircut playfully.
"Ah, easy, I don't want...!" Steph tries, but Alex is persistent. The curls to one side of her hair unravel, cascading down and obscuring her 3 o'clock. She sighs, brushing them back, before wordlessly securing the beanie over the do.
"Now," Alex asserts, laying in a firm kiss on Steph's hurt look, "she is Cressida-tier."
Passageway
"Marsh, y' say? Never heard of them," he says, sniffing perturbedly.
"I'm saying, we Marshes are trustees to the lighthouse and all that it conceals. I mean, reveals, I mean. OH, pick up the phone, Joyce!"
"Joyous?" the man tries. "Perhaps it is at that." He pauses his scrutiny of the uppermost level, the very old-form lighthouse mechanical workings, to motion back the way he probably came. "We do have some absolutely splendid strawberry parfaits in the cantina this hour. I was just about to go fetch one."
"There's nobody working the lighthouse, or serving food," Kate insists, rubbing a sudden tiredness from her eyes.
"You really aren't a cheerful girl. A shame, given your stature."
"As much as I'd like to know what you are possibly implying, just point me in the direction of these parfaits. Maybe they will have an outlet for my phone."
"Ah, to think of comfort food as little more than an outlet? Fie, I say."
"Fried parfaits?" asks a younger woman's voice from the other end of the passage.
"Is that you, Diane?"
"It is at that. You having a drag with Chloe? Mind if I join you?"
Kate seizes up at once. "Chloe? My apologies to you, good sir nightgown!" She says, leaving a polite peck on his jawline, before blinking and patting away any saliva from the gentleman's chin, the former starting, the latter snapping him out of a mystified grimace. She then hurries down the corridor, heels clacking away.
"The makings of a poet, that one," he figures amicably, touching the fresh sensation dotting his stubble.
A Taxi Ride into Town
"Hwoof!" exclaims Alex, pressing the last of everyone's luggage into a cart and angling for the first yellow taxi responding to their hails.
Steph stoops to meet the driver at eye level, noticing at once the old Model-T Turtle Back decal rocking about on the hook of the rearview mirror. "Ooh, classy."
Ryan seems to have a question, but Alex merely bends over for a moment to catch her breath.
"How long is it to Arcadia Bay?" Steph infers, relaying the question forth.
"Hey, we take the expressway, I get you there in ten minutes, tops."
"Expressway?" Ryan echoes.
"Yeah, we got those and a few more alternate routes. But, the express runs clear on through to Bayside. Just a short hop back down the coast to where you're headed."
"Portland sure has changed," Alex says, fixing her glasses back on.
"All of Oregon," the taxi driver affirms. "Ever since that freak storm. Ten years of hindsight and heavy machinery on the budgets. Chef's kiss."
As they climb into the back bench of the taxi driver's ride, they are asked: "What music you want on?"