to take fate by the throat.

He goes home.

(What else can he do?)

[ ♫ ♪ ♫ ]

He goes home, and it’s only when he’s at his apartment’s door that he realizes he doesn’t have his keys. So he knocks, glancing at the familiar hallway surrounding him. A cheap carpet beneath his shoes. Wallpaper peeling away at the edges. It’s a meager place, but it’s home. And where else can he go?

Light footsteps draw closer to the door from the other side, pausing just in front. There’s a sharp gasp—“Max!”—and all at once the door’s flung aside, and Max finds himself once more in the arms of someone he used to think he’d never see again.

“<Max, oh, you’re alive! Are you all right? I was so worried about you! They said you might never come back!>” The French tumbles from her trembling lips, and she breaks the embrace to take his face into her hands. They seem so much more fragile than he remembers. She seems so much more fragile.

“Chloe… ?”

“<Yes, little bird?>”

And it’s the old pet name that does him in, of all things. His vision turns blurry, throat threatens to close up despite the deluge of things he wants to say. 

“<I never… I thought…>” He swallows hard, unable to stop the tears from gushing forth. “<I apologize, Chloe, for everything… I-I’ve put you through so much pain… please, forgive me… !>”

She hushes him, smoothing her hands through his hair. “<There’s nothing you need to apologize for. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. You’re safe now, Max.>”

He lets her guide him inside, and once the door’s shut, he pulls her close, unable to communicate any other way. And for the first time in God knows how many months, Max really does feel safe.

She doesn’t push for details, and he doesn’t give them. Not yet. His cries now are just a fraction of the grief, the trauma, the pain—not even a four-movement symphony could convey everything he’s felt since waking up in that estate. D.A.T.A. offered him therapy, which he’d accepted in a worn-out daze. He has names and phone numbers in his pocket. He has a letter from a dead man and a journal full of notes and numbers, music and memories.

The conductor’s heart has never felt so raw.

Eventually, he sleeps, in his own bed, dreamless and long. He wakes to sunlight streaming on his face through the window. He’s hopeful for a moment—was it all a dream?—and then despairing—this is only a dream, he’s still in the estate—and then he sits up, blinking. The curtains pulled aside reveal the sky in all its glory, white clouds drifting lazily through the blue.

Faintly, he smells something… fresh bread and coffee.

He smiles.

He’ll be okay.

So they would have died if they’d let the poison run its course. That’s… not exactly reassuring, but at least it means those who died didn’t die for absolutely nothing. Max can breathe a little easier with this knowledge.

(Even then, he’s still suffocating.)

He doesn’t take long to respond to Lilith’s proposal.

“My entire life, I have believed suffering to be the root of all greatness. Mozart’s father forcing him to be a musical parlor trick from a young age, Beethoven’s genius blossoming even as his hearing left him… the thing I myself achieved after my own family cast me aside like garbage.”

“Go suffer in the world, you brat. Maybe then you’ll finally do something worthwhile.”

“You brought me here, to this crucible of suffering. You tortured me more than I have ever tortured myself. And as the others have said, I have come out stronger, better, even…"

“But it is no thanks to you.”

He remembers lying on the cold stone floor in the basement, consumed with fury. He remembers papers strewn at his side, bullshit imitations of melodies the only thing he could wrest from his pen. And he remembers—

“The others here, trapped in this same hell, they are the ones I must thank! They made me realize my own failings and encouraged me to change, even when I was at my very worst! You have your technology, your wiles, but your fixation on changing the past and destroying innocent lives in the process instead of moving forward? It makes you weak, Lilith. We are strong, stronger than you and this Cassius bastard will ever be!”

The thought that he’s died before, been brought back to life at the hands of Lilith’s machinations—it’s scary. But he’s here now, and he stands, hand pressed to his chest.

“Your plans stop here, because I will not be your scientist! I will not be your lab rat! I am a conductor, and I refuse to let you dictate the terms of my existence any longer! My life belongs to no one but myself, and I intend to live it to the fullest, without your help!”

It doesn’t matter what could have happened in another timeline.

Every word from Lilith and Llywelyn, every confirmation that saving the lives lost was impossible—Max feels the world grow heavier and heavier, like a thick tarp weighted down upon him. And the anger returns, too, because that’s all he knows in the end. That’s all he was able to internalize without feeling weak.

So, again, he lashes out.

“You delusional twat, you think you’ve done good? You tortured us! Over and over, you tortured us! All you are doing is destroying precious lives while playing God! You are disgusting, you piece of… !”

But behind his angry words, a slow realization dawns on him, and his face goes pale.

“… My God, we would never have actually died from those poisons of yours, would we?”

Not these specific people, she says, and Max feels his heart sink deep past his chest. He should’ve known it would’ve been too much to hope for to bring back the Jun who teased him, the Declan who befriended him, the Bolin who trusted him.

The Milly who cared so deeply, despite it all.

It’s not entirely impossible, but the weight of all the trauma over the course of the past few months (and apparently many lifetimes) finally makes itself known on his shoulders, and he slumps back in his seat. It’s not that he’s not angry anymore. More like he doesn’t have the energy to maintain it. Now he’s just thinking.

“… Could you not document in detail how the device was created in this timeline and send the memories back to yourself? This way, you and this Cassius would get to keep your precious data and machine, while the rest of us could leave. All of us could leave.”

Briefly, the possibility occurs to him that this might result in his memories getting wiped. It’s scary. Traumatic as they are, these memories are his, and it’s not like there are only bad ones.

(He doesn’t want to lose Adonis.)

But all that depends on one thing, which he realizes soon afterwards—

“… You do intend to let us leave now, yes?”

When it comes to STEM, Max is a fucking idiot. All this talk of timelines and alternate realities makes no sense in his head. He’s here and standing, isn’t he? He is the only him, isn’t he?! But the longer the others talk, the more he feels his anger recede to the back of his mind in lieu of something else. So when he speaks up this time, his voice is much more subdued.

“You have some kind of power that allows the dead to return to life. I have no idea how, if it is time travel or something else, but if you truly do care about us all, in your own twisted way…”

He swallows hard.

“Then please, bring them back! Milly, Jun, Bolin, everyone! They deserve to live again! It is within your ability, yes?!”

It was one thing to be certain Lilith was the experimenter behind all of this. It’s another thing entirely to stand there watching as she confirmed that very fact herself with that twisted grin. Max finds his jaw going slack, hands clenching into fists where he sits.

The others ask their questions, one after the other, and though they’re astonishingly calm, Max only feels his fury boiling until it bubbles over with a vengeance.

“Espèce de connard de menteur hypocrite! Qu'avez-vous fait pour Chloe, tu baises salope?!”

Yet a-fucking-gain he’s on his feet, quaking with rage. The last time he was this angry, he was drugged to hell and back. Now, though, his mind is perfectly clear as he jabs a finger towards Lilith—clearly wanting to do far more to her than just that, but it’s taking all he has to keep himself where he is.

“What the hell did you do to our loved ones?! Where are they?! Tell me now, you fungal piece of shit, or I swear to God I’ll kill you where you stand!!”

Max picks up the second photograph, scrutinizes it, and sets it back down.

“I realize he is not human, but to me, this looks like a younger version of Theo.”

Max wants nothing more than to tear Lilith a verbal new one, but he quiets down once Alcides starts to speak. Despite his confusion, he hands the (former) detective his assembled papers without complaint, giving him a nod before returning to his own seat.

I trust you.

And that trust is well-placed, Max thinks, as he watches Alcides systematically debunk Lilith’s attempts to camouflage her identity. He’s more certain than ever, and there’s such a burning fury brewing in him, but before he has a chance to speak, Adonis brings up something chilling.

What if it’s not one person they need to look for, but two? Still, he has his doubts, nodding at Alcides.

“I agree. I do not think it is Alcides or Adonis, especially as they have both supposedly perished in previous trials. No, I think it is more likely that it is a third party—the person that the seventeenth secret belongs to.”

That’s… kind of a reach? Either way, Max looks up at the others.

“I think we must claim our secrets in order to narrow it down. I, ah… I am the one who cannot play an instrument.”

There’s more Max could say, but fortunately the conversation’s shifting elsewhere, so he doesn’t. He just sits and peers at the papers presented… and feels his blood turn to ice.

“What… the hell?”

(Guess he managed to kill TWELVE after all, huh?)

He takes the spreadsheet, running his finger over it, murmuring under his breath. After a moment, he looks up, more determined than ever.

“According to this, we have all died at the hands of this game beforehand, except for seven people: Agaricus, Cigyun, Dove, Knockout, Luna, Percy, and Tank. I do not know what is different about this round, but… I find it interesting that only one out of those seven is still standing here right now.”

Looking at you, Lilith!

“Now that I think on it, though, I suppose it makes sense. It would not do for the experimenter to die during her own game, would it?”

Max’s not convinced. Also I decided to shift into present tense because that’s what I use in another group and changing back and forth is kinda fucking me up.

He glares right at Llywelyn, willing himself to not start shouting. Fuck, he cares about them, they’re like… a non-garbage dad, if he’s being honest. But every kid gets mad at their parents eventually.

“The paper was in my room. Adonis would have had to steal my key to have access to it. But if he is in charge of this whole affair, then he’d be able to go wherever he likes, in his own castle, wouldn’t he? Who’s to say, as you put it?“

His fist pounds loud on the table and he’s back standing up.

"In fact, who’s to say that he did not set up all these clues just to have one last laugh at us all?! Who’s to say anything’s legitimate here?! It could be anyone with your logic! I am the one with the samples, after all! Who’s to say I haven’t been lying this whole time and I’m the experimenter?!?”

Okay so maybe he did start shouting. He pauses, though, sits down and takes a deep breath. His tone is much more even when he speaks up again, though he’s no less furious.

“… Do you see how ridiculous this line of thinking is? The experimenter has us running around in circles because this game has taught us to doubt each other’s words, to not trust one another. You are giving her exactly what she wants.”

(… So he still thinks it’s Lilith, huh.)

“If she still wants to continue playing for some inane reason, then for now, let us discuss something that isn’t completely absurd. There was talk of previous trials. I want to know exactly what that means.”

Max had expected Lilith to vehemently deny his claims. Why would she acquiesce so easily? He rolled his eyes at her pathetic excuse, and was about to address her when suddenly Llywelyn was snatching away the handwriting sample, and…

He wasn’t expecting that.

“… Are you implying that Adonis is the one behind all of—are you out of your mind?!”

Unable to help himself, he was on his feet, leaning over the table towards Llywelyn as his volume rose.

“You cannot possibly have been here for this long and seen all that you’ve seen and believe that only one person is behind all of this! They have help, for God’s sake! That must be whoever possesses the other set of handwriting! And I, for the record, am quite confident that the person in question is whoever is in charge of Theo, given the similarities in speech!”

We’re really out here slamming down paper, aren’t we?

“Look here—‘Success? Success!’ And on one of the previous papers, look what it says at the very end—‘Right? Right.’ I have heard Theo’s infuriating voice far too many times in this hellhole to not notice that Theo has a marked tendency to speak in repetition like that when he wishes to make a point.”

And then he picked it up and—well, not quite threw it at Llywelyn, but that was still quite a forceful way to get it over in their direction. Thankfully Cygne escaped his wrath.

“Do you see now?! Two different people have been writing these notes, and Adonis is not one of them!!”

Max had brought a few papers of his own after a quick trip to his suite, but kept them close—he didn’t want anyone snooping, after all. Not after what he’d found. He sat down stone-faced, papers in his lap.

Speaking of paper, once Lilith’s paper reached him, he pulled out another, glanced between the two…

And started chuckling—cold, humorless, but still severely off-putting.

“You must be joking. You are still playing these games? Well, I refuse. Allow me to clear something up before we continue.”

There was no warmth to his tone. He slammed both papers down on the table, revealing the other as something the contestants would probably find familiar from several trials back.

“This is your handwriting. You wrote this. You were behind this whole affair, were you not, Lilith?”

Okay, this was getting—

“Will you all just be quiet?! It’s all but decided, so stop tormenting him like this! There is no need to justify this further!”

Tensions ran high, but really, could he be blamed? Max drew a shaky breath, finally, finally looking back to Adonis.

“Forgive me, I am… not a particularly good friend, am I? Forcing you to endure all of this… It is truly abhorrent. But I have faith that I will be able to make it up to you, if such a thing is even possible.”

He stood, making his way over to the other. For a moment, he seemed uncertain, like he might do something, but he ended up keeping his impulses in check.

“Do not be angry with the others, Adonis. I am the one who told them it was all right. It is my choice. And I… I understand if you hate me for it. Yell at me, hit me if you will—I’ll accept it all. I certainly deserve it at this point.”

He hadn’t expected it.

He hadn’t expected it in the least.

Maestro could only listen, dumbfounded, as all those he’d heard rail against him for so long… actually agreed with him. Finally, they heard him, and took to heart what he’d been saying for so long. They would give him a chance.

(Funny, how that might be the last thing anyone ever did for him.)

All at once, he pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, scribbling something down, concealing it from anyone’s view. A strange sense of calm washed over him. Finality, perhaps? Either way, when Theo gave his all-too-expected cryptic answer, Maestro cleared his throat.

“Listen to Theo—he’s being so vague, he wants us to doubt this decision. That makes it all the more necessary to take the risk.”

Did that make sense? He wasn’t sure. Still, his resolve firmed by the second.

“I do not know what will happen to me when the vote goes through. In case of the worst, there is a letter in my room with detailed instructions about who to inform and where they are located. But whatever happens, I want you all to know this. I am Maximilien Beaumont, and I will not play by these godforsaken rules any more.”

But there was still one more thing left. Just in case. Maximilien turned towards Adonis, expression softening.

“Forgive me, Adonis… I know I swore to do better. I know that. But this is a gamble I am willing to take. Whatever happens to me… I want you to know that meeting you was one of the few good things to happen to me in this place. You are a dear friend, Adonis, you have become precious to me in ways I cannot even begin to describe—“

Suddenly aware of the fact that he was saying all this in front of God and everyone, Max’s face flushed, and he lowered his head, tearing the first page off of the pad that he’d been writing on and thrusting it towards Adonis.

“I apologize, this is the worst time to burden you with this information, and you are under no obligation to provide an answer, or to even read it at all, as it is very—and I do have faith in my decision, I promise, but…”

“… I do not want to risk losing the chance forever.”

Way to be cryptic as fuck, dude. With that, he took a moment to regain his composure. It didn’t take long.

“Everyone… thank you for your faith. Let us end this.”

[cw: mild suicidal ideation]

Maestro’s jaw dropped. He felt like he’d just been sprayed with freezing cold water. The only proper reaction to this was, firstly—

“C’est quoi ce bordel?!”

Yeah, that’d do it.

The clock was ticking, he was well aware. Five minutes to convince everyone around him of something, but of what, he had no idea. Five minutes to wrest his fate into his own hands, whatever that fate might be. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breath coming faster as adrenaline pounded through his veins.

“… Carmine. You are a revolting individual. But I do not want to see you die. That is certainly what will happen if we vote for you. We all know that. What we do not know is what happens if we vote for someone innocent.”

He felt everything in him revolting against the words coming out of his mouth.

“And before any of you start, I am not saying this because I have a death wish or anything of the sort. I know my life is valuable! I do not want to throw it away! But… so are all of yours! And now we finally have the chance to throw a wrench in this killing game by going against the very system set up to destroy us!”

His heart, hammering in his chest. His blood, like ice.

“I am no altruist. And I am no martyr, God forbid you call me something so idiotic. Taking the fall for Carmine is an abhorrent thought to me, I cannot believe… but… I am just…

“I am tired. We cannot keep going on like this—I cannot. Counting down the days until we die… I am sick of it. I cannot endure it any longer. But we have the opportunity to do something different this time, a sliver of a chance to prevent bloodshed, and for that reason, I do not mind taking the vote. I will not demand anything of you. Just just know that… I do not mind.”

He didn’t even know if he would die, after all. And if he did die, like this, on his own terms… he’d finally be out of his hellish game. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

“… I do not expect any of you to take my words into account, but I needed to say it regardless.”

With that, he slunk back into his seat, awaiting the inevitable shitstorm.

“……… I’m sorry.”

Maestro shouldn’t have been surprised that there was no confession, and yet he was. Then again, four rounds of this with a ready confession, he’d been prepared for whoever did it to fess up.

Not that it made him any less certain in the killer’s identity, but he was even more certain in his resolve.

“Schrödinger said it well. I choose to default. I urge the rest of you to do the same. Especially since things are so unclear.”

Apparently not even Maestro could take Maestro’s silence for much longer. With a shaky breath, he lifted his head to speak.

“I can confirm that I was with Adonis and Schrödinger at the time the antidote was administered. It must have been about ten minutes before we discovered Luna. I would also like to mention that I witnessed Cygne sleeping in the courtyard, but she left shortly before the antidote. That is when she went to the suites and spoke with Agaricus, I believe.”

A breath.

“As for the poison, the almond-smelling liquid on the floor was soda. Luna was certainly poisoned beforehand. If Miss Carmine’s testimony that Luna got her own drink is true, there was only been a very small window of time for the drink to be poisoned. Adonis, Schrödinger, and myself were occupied. Arsène was asleep. Agaricus and Cygne were conversing moments before Luna’s death. That leaves…”

The implications were obvious. Even so, the sentence died in Maestro’s throat, and he swallowed it down hard. He idly scratched the back of his hand with the other, staring at the tabletop.

“… Forgive me, I cannot… I can’t do this. Please… do not ask anything more of me. I can’t.”