Hatchetfield.

What do you want, Max?

he was so happy, right before it happened. that group of nerdy prudes (and steph) had put together a whole show just to prank him. makeup and costumes and acting and all. definitely nerd shit, but— the adrenaline that shot through his system when he first saw the ghost, the catharsis that washed over him as he raised his fist to beat up the skeleton.

beating up his fellow students gave him relief. it gave him a rush of power, quieted the simmering anger that boiled non-stop in his gut, but when he was about to overcome his fear? about to lay a thundering hand on the creatures that made him tremble like a sissy? that's a far greater feeling.

so maybe the nerds weren't all bad. he'd been in the middle of telling them so when his foot caught a particularly creaky board and the world flew out from under him.

the split-second he is falling feels like a lifetime. the dim presence of the third story floats gently away. the darkness whistles, air rushing past his ears.

a blue light appears above him. somehow, it smiles.

"hello, maxie-darling," whispers the light, petting his hair. it's still ruffling in the wind of the fall. how long has he been falling?

"what the fuck?" he yells, hoarse.

he isn't scared— ghosts and skeletons may be fairy tales but at least their existence is somewhat believable. whatever this thing is, max has never heard of it before. and even if he had, he would have dismissed the story outright. no, max is terrified.

"who— what—" how does he ask a question he doesn't really want to know the answer to? "the fuck are you?"

"the name that will not drive you mad is pokotho," says the light, caressing his cheek. "but we're going to become best friends, you and i. so you may call me pokey."

"best friends?" he scoffs. this creature, this thing beyond his comprehension wants to be best friends with him? he may be stupid but he isn't an idiot. he knows that means something more under the surface. something that he doesn't want to touch. so he says, "i've never had a best friend. go ask shit-lips or flemwad, they know how to be friends."

pokotho laughs. it doesn't really make a sound, instead it reverberates into the blackness like a ripple on the water's surface. "you misunderstand, darling. we will be best friends." there is a finality in the voice that sends a cold shiver down his spine.

"okay," he says, feeling very small. nothing in the world has ever made him feel this small— except his father. all his strong emotions ebb away and are replaced with delicate compliance.

"now, let me ask you a question," says pokotho, and the blue swirls around his body as if searching for something. the voice sings, "what do you want, max?"

"i don't know," he says. the light pulses, angry, and for a moment he sees his father's hand, raised to strike. "i mean, i want... i want to stop falling!"

the light hums, disapproving. "no, that simply won't do. think about it, maxwell. think about your life, until this point in time. you could have anything. what do you want?"

the answer comes to him immediately. he swallows nervously, breathes in the tasteless air, and says, "i want my dad to leave me alone."

his chest explodes with blood and gore. the red droplets spin out into the void and disappear.

he looks down. there's a gaping hole, filled with bone and blood and frayed organs. a delayed shock of pain overcomes him, burning underneath his skin. he screams. it does not leave his lips.

"this is what will happen to you," whispers pokotho, firm and steady as max writhes in agony. phantom sensations cut through his limbs, like an invisible saw is ripping his flesh apart. "this is what they will do when your fall ends. they will do it without mercy, without regret. they will rejoice when your body is gone."

and max believes it. he would believe anything if it meant the pain would stop. wave upon wave crashes into him, until finally he screams, "stop! stop it, please, please..." he devolves into wordless sobbing. dad was right. he's a pansy.

"it's their fault you feel this way," sings the blue light, and max accepts it without question. "those nerdy prudes. they made you fall, didn't they?"

"they did," he echoes. his tears float away, mixing with his blood in the dark.

"they have killed you, maxwell."

"but i'm not..." he can't be dead. you shouldn't feel this much agony if you're dead.

"you will be. you are about to be. your story will end like this—" the light spins, showing him visions of the school, of his classmates. of his body, lost and forgotten. "those nerdy prudes will cut you up and leave you to rot and everyone will praise them. doesn't that make you angry?"

"yeah," he whimpers, and a familiar spark ignites in his gut.

"do you know what i think, maxwell?"

"wh-what?"

"i think those nerdy prudes must pay." the light dances at the edges of his vision. "i think those nerdy prudes must die. wouldn't that be wonderful, maxie-darling? wouldn't that be delicious? wouldn't that make the most beautiful story you've ever seen?"

his fists clench. quietly, he says, "yeah. yeah it would." his chest is whipped with an invisible knife, carving away flesh.

"you can make them pay," whispers pokotho, sickly sweet and sing-song. "let me in, maxwell jägerman, and we can take over the world."

he isn't really listening. all he wants is for the pain to stop. he would do anything and everything, if it meant he didn't have to go through this horrible agony a second longer.

"okay."

the blue smiles, then opens its maw and devours him whole.

the pain stops. for a moment.

a board stabs him through the chest and he crashes into the splintered wooden floor of the lobby. when the nerds arrive, sweaty and panicked at the sight of him, he doesn't see red. he sees blue.

"nerdy... prudes... must pay!" he shouts.

blood drips from his mouth and the rage in his gut boils over. his entire body hurts. but it's nothing compared to what he just went through. he can handle anything. he's max fucking jägerman. he's a fucking god.

with his last breath, he declares, "nerdy... prudes... must die!"

~

the next time he opens his eyes, he is standing at the doors of a theatre, looking out at an empty stage. it looks familiar to him, though that's impossible. theatre is for nerds. he's never stepped foot in one in his life, and yet... he recognizes the shape of the stage. the lights. the seats.

they were watching him. wait... yes, he told them to stop, didn't he? at pasqualli's, he heard something no one else could hear, and he screamed at them to SHUT UP—

a cold blue hand caresses his cheek.

"don't worry about that, maxie-darling," whispers the voice. "remember... what do you want?"

shit-lips appears on-stage, sitting on the bleachers and smiling. that smile fills his heart with rage. how dare richie be so happy, when he is rotting under the floorboards?

he wasn't sure, before. but he knows what he wants now.

he wants those nerdy prudes to die.

and he has the power to make that happen. so he bares his teeth and embraces the humming, icy blue.