lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Chapter 9

Max.

He is supposed to get Max out of here. But here is not the Inbetween or the Arcade. It's just another section—a step further away from the real world, from home. Holy shit, there are way too many layers to this. How much further until he reached the Upside Down? Will he even remember the truth? Or is he destined to roam in a haze? No matter what, he had to get him and Max out.

"Max," Lucas' instinct was to reach for Max's hand to check she was real. That he was real. But he didn't know it would be welcomed, not with the memories swirling around his head reminding him that this Max was cold with him.

"Shh!" Max was sharp and dismissive.

Lucas felt a flicker of annoyance and desperation blend into a sludge. It was happy to make a home in his body and weigh him down.

It was more than uneasiness from crawling around a dank and mysterious dungeon with enemies in every shadow. He would've sworn on his soul: he was Lucas Sinclair, marksman extraordinaire, the best shot in the West, hero of men. Every memory felt true: the journey of becoming friends with his Party, becoming part of something bigger than himself, his legs aching from running and the joy of finding Max again. Before that, his life of training, the hours he had spent perfecting his skills in his youth, the burn of building the muscles in his arms and the triumph of finally hitting his target. This life felt real. There had been no doubt. How could there be? It would've been crazy to even think the life he led was real. It was more likely that he was under a wicked spell meant to hinder him in their quest. (And still, a part, smaller than a grain of salt, of him felt how natural it was to hold his longbow, how at ease he was in his strange clothing. What was there to doubt?)

And if he has been here for a short time (he doesn't even know how long it was since he touched that accursed arcade machine) and doubted what was real, what did it mean for Max? Max has been here for months on end. What does she remember? What does she believe? Is there even a chance to save her? Was there any hope?

No.

Lucas must have faith in Max. Lucas must trust himself to do this. He might not be Lucas Sinclair, marksman extraordinaire. But he was Lucas Sinclair, brother to Erica the Honest, a proud member of his Party, and a big believer in Max Mayfield. Failure was not an option.

"Max!" He whispered much more urgently.

"Just be quiet!" She snapped at him.

"Max," Lucas stopped walking. It didn't take long for her to take notice. Her cloaked-hidden body tensed in frustration or impatience. He didn't have long to figure it out before she moved. Quick as a viper, she pushed him against the cold and stony walls, her forearm pressed against his upper chest. His chainmail armour dug into his skin through the layers of his clothes.

"Are you trying to get us killed?!" Her cornflower blue eyes flashed in anger holding his stare.

"Max, this isn't real," She stepped back, allowing him some distance between himself and the wall.

"Did you hit your head or something?" Her voice was laced with concern. Her eyes darted around him, trying to find a clue to what the matter was with him. But it wasn't him: it was her.

"Max, listen to me," He hoped she could see the truth in his eyes, that she would believe him and his impossible words. But it was not to be.

"No. We don't have time for this. We have to save our friends. Let's keep going." Max left him with one last confused expression before she shook her head and dismissed him. She turned around, her woollen cloak whipping behind her.

Max went forward.

Lucas had no choice but to follow. He tried to think how he would free her from whatever influence kept her from the truth. But he wasn't in her head (not in that way), and Lucas didn't know what Max knew. Or what her memories told her was true. And she wasn't exactly receptive to any discussion from him. He could still see her tense, even with her cloak drowning her body. Her walk, while quiet, had a tinged of being pissed off.

Every step was compounded with a heavy drumbeat of anticipation and dread. Wait. The music wasn't coming from Lucas' imagination. It wasn't coming around him like the cinema, but it was there. The music sped up, filling him with dread and anticipation. And that's when they appeared.

They were gross to look at. Skin grey, a gross facsimile of a candle melting off and showing the bones underneath. Eyes dribbled and left empty and haunting voids. Nothing little more than rags clung to their limbs. The worst was the smell: putrid and vile, it wafted even in the still air, infesting Lucas' (and he guesses Max's as well) nose and mouth in its disgusting odour. They might have been humans once, but now they were the vessels of dark magic. Wights, he realized.

This world might be fake, but he wasn't risking those nasty shits coming close to him or Max. So he loaded his bow and let the arrow fly. She would go in, a quick dance, cutting down and slicing, and he would shoot down the wights.

After the first moments of fear, Lucas found it all kinda silly. Their walk was clumsy and ambling. The music-garish and overwhelming. The sound effects as the creatures were killed and the experience points Max and Lucas gained were ridiculous. Maybe it was after years of facing actual monsters in his life or just being over this whole thing and wanting to return home. Maybe, this would have been more fun if it weren't for the dire circumstances. But just in general: he was over it.

And as if the world responded to his thoughts, the illusion fell away. The stony halls flickered like the torches on the wall. With one breath, they were the cold and grey that encased their environment for so long. Next, they were the boringly beige lockers of the high school. The linoleum floor peeked through the grime as he took a quick sneak down. That peek almost cost Max her life.

A wight crept near her while she slashed her other combatant. He quickly knocked an arrow and let it loose with a satisfying thwap into its eye socket. That would hurt like a bitch if it was alive and real.

He doesn't know how long they spent advancing as they slew their enemies. (Did time even function the same here? Questions, questions, and yet no answers.) But all that was left: was scattered bones, fallen weapons, and rusted armour before they came before great doors.

The next level, Lucas thought. The doors were intimidating in iron-wrought adornments of torture and death. So that was something fun to deal with. They both stepped forward and hauled the doors open. Max gave him a small smile, and they stepped through.