Lucas was numb.
The blood was thick, sticky, and hot. But Lucas was so cold. He thought there might have been more pain. Lucas never thought a sword would have been driven through him, but paper cuts hurt more than this. He takes his hand from the wound, it gurgles, and his hands are red.
There's a girl. Max is her name, he thinks. She runs to him and helps him stand. Woah, he didn't even notice how unsteady he was. She's warm. This was nice.
He topples over. The ground feels so good. This is as good as any place to rest, a little cold. But it's just to close his eyes for a little while. His eyes are heavy. His mouth is dry: a sip of water would be good, maybe after his sleep.
There's a light beyond his eyes. This was okay. He was okay.
Carpet. Sweat. Bitter and sour. Plastic. Stale and mildew. Clogging dust.
Carpet.
Why does death smell like carpets?
There wasn't a carpet in the dungeon.
His eyes shoot open and wince: blinded by even the slightest of lights after candlelight and grimy underground lairs. Behind his eyelids, he knew the lights were a technicolour madness, and the noise surrounding him was discordant and upbeat. The Arcade. He was back in The Arcade.
He checks himself over. He is back in his clothes, not that weird fantasy get-up, there are no medieval weapons around, and there's no gaping wound on his abdomen. No pool of blood. No stickiness.
Lucas knows in the most rational, the take no-bullshit part of him that everything that happened while in the Game was fake. But that didn't make him feel better. It didn't make that fear and horror fade. It didn't make his hand stop shaking or his breath slows from its erratic pattern. Unlike any mundane nightmare, it won't take away the memory of dying.
He didn't have long to ruminate in his melancholia when Max, standing by the machine seemingly in a trance, tripped backwards and went down with a giant oomph.
She shot up like spring and started to attack the machine. She was a wild thing, all manic energy and lashing limbs.
He jumped to grab her from behind to stop her from hurting herself.
"No, I have to go back! I have to kill him! He needs to pay for what he did," Her voice breaks at the last word. She gathers herself, "You can't stop me. Let me go."
"Max, it isn't real," Lucas had said that word so many times, uttered that phrase: he wasn't sure if it had any value left. He cupped her face ensuring she couldn't pull her eyes away from his own, "Look: I'm fine. No one killed me. I'm not dead. But this is killing you."
She stilled. Which is worse. Lucas could see her state of her. Cheekbones jutted out of her face: almost as if they wanted to escape their fleshy prison. Her skin was translucent, only highlighted by the purple bruises encircling her eyes and red and green veins. Her hair felt like hay. He thought the wights had looked grotesque, but it was nothing compared to seeing a living corpse. To see Max as a living corpse.
"I'm fine," Her voice is pure iron. As much as it could be with her thin voice, Lucas did not doubt her intention.
"No. You can't push me away. I won't let you run from the truth. I'm not giving up on you."
"You should," Max whimpered, all fight leaving her body as she crumpled in his arms, "I got you killed."
Now that he held her, he could feel how thin Max was through the layers of clothing: it was fatal. He needed to get her out now. Lucas knows he hasn't always been the best with his words, but never before had it seemed more important to get it right.
"You didn't get me killed. The game was rigged. It has always been rigged."
Max began to shake her head no. But he continued: she had to hear it.
"You're not meant to win. You're not meant to leave. Max, think. How many times have you played the same stupid game?"
He could see her eyes whizzing past in memories, eyes haunted.
"You told me you played it 100 times. You're amazing at arcade games. There's no way Madmax wouldn't have beaten it already."
She looked at him like he was saying impossible things. Like they weren't in an impossible place. Entrenched in an impossible secret.
"He's using you to make himself better. Let me show you."
Her legs began to tremble like a baby deer, but she followed him to the back room.
It's like a demented house of mirrors trying to follow that golden wire. It twisted more than the first time he had followed it. He did not know if it was his imagination, but the droning that had subtly filled the Arcade seemed to grow more frantic. It made his heart beat faster in fear or panic. It made Max feel worse. He could tell, even with her impassive face, she would squeeze his hand. He would return it, feeling comfort at the act.
Lucas can't help but think about that haunted room. When he had last seen Henry as a half-formed abomination. He wonders about the room and Max/
The room is where their story started. It's where Lucas released a geyser of the messed-up shit that happened to him and his friends. Horrible things they were forced to tamp down and pretend like they didn't fight monsters or see the cruelty of their government, the depths of indecency they swam in. But he did it because he trusted Max. Because he believed she was worth it. Because he didn't want to lie any more than he had. Sometimes, in that sterile hospital room, he regrets tricking her into going into the backroom. He wonders if she regrets knowing him; resents him for dragging her into it. He sometimes resents himself.
He knows it wasn't their fault, but he resents El for opening the gate, Will for disappearing, Mike for not letting the cops do their jobs, and Dustin for being recklessly curious. Himself for being stubbornly loyal.
He wishes they never knew anything about it.
Would it matter if they didn't know about the Upside Down? Was she destined by some fucked up stars to be Vecna's victim? He would have never known what happened to Max. It wasn't like Chrissy, Freddie, or Patrick had a prior experience with the Upside Down. If she was still targeted by Vecna, he would have been like Jason learning the horror from TV and an unsympathetic cop. He would have been told to not look at her twisted and dead body. He would have lived believing that Eddie, his friend, killed Max. A person he looked up to had viciously killed her. Lucas doesn't know if Lucas would have hunted Eddie down like Jason had: without impunity or remorse. He hoped he wouldn't have. But it's Max.
It's hurtful, but he wished he could love Max less. It's a sting of betrayal to his heart and being, but maybe this immovable pain would lessen. Loving her hurts. Losing her hurts. But he knows if he had the choice, he would still choose knowing her. So: a stalemate.
Those thoughts would never go away, fade as all scars do. But Lucas would live with the what-ifs, but he knew there was little to nothing he could do about them but accept them.
The room was the same as the last time Lucas saw it. Dim with only the barest of neon lighting casting shadows about the place. It still carried the same rancid aura of dread, something that he had to be brave enough for Max to continue. It had the same whirring buzz that prickled at his nerves: yelling to get out. Everything was the same but him.
He had been a half-made abomination of fleshy vines, strung up multiple wires as they fed him a goo. Now he was closer to being complete. An evil parody of Swamp Thing (now he has to throw away all his comics. Thanks, douchebag).
He sneaks a look at Max. Somehow she paled even further. She tugs his sleeve, "Lucas, I wanna go home."
They walked away from the room and began their trek back to the entrance. A rumble began to shake the walls, stretching and compressing their surroundings. Cracking and breaking the walls and floors. A voice, almost robotic, soft as thunder, began to croon:
"Max, do you think there's anything out there for you? Do you really think your friends want you back, a temperamental depressed and violent waste of space. No, they want to lessen their guilt. They'll welcome you back for a week, then forget you. Remember all those months they left you alone: that's who they really are. Stay. You can have anything here. You can build a beautiful story. Nothing will hurt here. You'll have all the joy and justice the pathetic outside doesn't have. Stay. I'm the only one that wants you. I'll appreciate you. I understand you."
"Shut up, asshole!"
"Shut up! Shut up!"
Hell hath no fury like a Max Mayfield's will.
Lucas shouldn't have been surprised by where Max got the strength. He really shouldn't. She has more power within her than he'll ever discover.
But she became a twister of destruction: grabbing a piece of a shattered machine, she began hacking at everything. The other machines, the walls, wires, floors. She began butchering the wire carrying the golden fluid. It proved a little stubborn, but Max was more than a match for it. She began to butcher it, flecks of gold freckling her hands and face.
Then.
All at once: the neon lights dim. The buzzing of the machines fades. And the discordant music stops. They step out of the Arcade.