Consider his reprieve cancelled.
[He had been aware of the town's presence for several days before he went anywhere near it.
He'd remained outside of it. Pacing the outskirts. Waiting. Things like this simply don't happen on this island, after all - at least not for no reason. But for three days, there was nothing outside the town that wouldn't be considered normal. The town was still there, though. And Maxie could tell there was something wrong with it.
He couldn't say how he knew, of course; call it instinct, if it must be called anything. But either way, something wasn't right. And early on the morning of the fourth day, he found that he couldn't leave it alone anymore.
He brought his Pokémon with him; he left Mitch behind in the cave, asleep. They'd been staying elsewhere for now, away from Archie, so he wouldn't have to worry about questioning from that angle, either. And it wasn't unusual for him to be gone for long periods of time alone, anyway; there was still training to be done, after all. If anyone asked, that would be where he was, regardless of whatever he found in that town.
Not like it mattered; he'd be back within the hour.
The sun is setting on the fifth day, and Maxie is no longer here.
Oh, he looks like he's still here; in fact, you may see him sometime tonight. His hair has managed the unusual feat of looking more unkempt than it always does; the jacket he's wearing still bears the Team Magma insignia, though the garment itself has taken some damage. Some very...familiar damage, culminating in the destruction of the left sleeve, the last remaining shards of it heavily shredded against his shoulder. If you get close enough to see it, there are heavy red welts tracing up that arm, starting at the back of the hand, then running up sharply to disappear under what remains of the damaged sleeve. The pattern is long and sweeping, parallel lines that once in a while shift to converge before running parallel again, sharp points and circles and though the pattern is deliberate, it's definitely not natural. A bit of blood has dried on his arm where it had seeped up from a few sections of the design, but the trails where the skin is broken are very thin; its more like scratches than anything else, though they've clearly been gouged over and over again - by someone's nails, perhaps.
If you get close enough to see his face - and if he sees you, he will approach - you'll probably notice two things immediately.
The first would be the fact that his arm isn't the only thing that's been bleeding; there's a large mess of similar scratchmarks on his forehead, though these aren't forming any pattern. They seem to be concentrated around the center of it, deep but haphazard, as though he's been trying to get at something buried beneath his skin.
The second would be the look in his eyes.
His gaze is very aware, very alive, but at the same time extremely distant; his pupils are heavily dilated, shot open wide, but there's a distinct lack of recognition behind them. Whatever he's seeing, it isn't you. But it does seem to be making him very, very aggressive.
Try to talk to him all you like. Try to run from him, if that's what you would prefer. Try to get him out of here, maybe, if you're charitable; he's obviously been through hell. Go ahead; see the consequences for yourself. It doesn't matter to him either way.
After all, as he would have worded it, were he able to do so: Maxie doesn't exist anymore.]
He'd remained outside of it. Pacing the outskirts. Waiting. Things like this simply don't happen on this island, after all - at least not for no reason. But for three days, there was nothing outside the town that wouldn't be considered normal. The town was still there, though. And Maxie could tell there was something wrong with it.
He couldn't say how he knew, of course; call it instinct, if it must be called anything. But either way, something wasn't right. And early on the morning of the fourth day, he found that he couldn't leave it alone anymore.
He brought his Pokémon with him; he left Mitch behind in the cave, asleep. They'd been staying elsewhere for now, away from Archie, so he wouldn't have to worry about questioning from that angle, either. And it wasn't unusual for him to be gone for long periods of time alone, anyway; there was still training to be done, after all. If anyone asked, that would be where he was, regardless of whatever he found in that town.
Not like it mattered; he'd be back within the hour.
The sun is setting on the fifth day, and Maxie is no longer here.
Oh, he looks like he's still here; in fact, you may see him sometime tonight. His hair has managed the unusual feat of looking more unkempt than it always does; the jacket he's wearing still bears the Team Magma insignia, though the garment itself has taken some damage. Some very...familiar damage, culminating in the destruction of the left sleeve, the last remaining shards of it heavily shredded against his shoulder. If you get close enough to see it, there are heavy red welts tracing up that arm, starting at the back of the hand, then running up sharply to disappear under what remains of the damaged sleeve. The pattern is long and sweeping, parallel lines that once in a while shift to converge before running parallel again, sharp points and circles and though the pattern is deliberate, it's definitely not natural. A bit of blood has dried on his arm where it had seeped up from a few sections of the design, but the trails where the skin is broken are very thin; its more like scratches than anything else, though they've clearly been gouged over and over again - by someone's nails, perhaps.
If you get close enough to see his face - and if he sees you, he will approach - you'll probably notice two things immediately.
The first would be the fact that his arm isn't the only thing that's been bleeding; there's a large mess of similar scratchmarks on his forehead, though these aren't forming any pattern. They seem to be concentrated around the center of it, deep but haphazard, as though he's been trying to get at something buried beneath his skin.
The second would be the look in his eyes.
His gaze is very aware, very alive, but at the same time extremely distant; his pupils are heavily dilated, shot open wide, but there's a distinct lack of recognition behind them. Whatever he's seeing, it isn't you. But it does seem to be making him very, very aggressive.
Try to talk to him all you like. Try to run from him, if that's what you would prefer. Try to get him out of here, maybe, if you're charitable; he's obviously been through hell. Go ahead; see the consequences for yourself. It doesn't matter to him either way.
After all, as he would have worded it, were he able to do so: Maxie doesn't exist anymore.]