After an overly long time of careful deliberation—known more commonly as sleeping on it—I've come to a very thorough conclusion.
Something is very wrong with the Life is Strange universe.
Not because of the people, even though most of them are walking stereotypes wrapped in teenage angst and bad dialogue. Not because of the depressing atmosphere or the constant feeling that something terrible is always looming just out of sight. And not even because of the fact that my photography teacher is a pretentious serial killer who hides his god complex behind shallow pseudo-artistic rambling and would be a casual Dexter victim.
No.
The problem with this universe is much simpler than that.
It's boring.
Painfully so. Suffocatingly so.
There's only so long a man can sit still pretending to care about dorm gossip, photo contests, and small-town drama before his patience runs dry. I don't need a quest reward to justify my existence here, and at this point I'm not even sure I care if I finish the system's objectives the way I originally planned to. If I'm being honest with myself, I may end up burning Blackwell Academy to the ground before the week is over simply out of spite.
When I first chose this universe, I genuinely believed I was making the smart choice.
The world was relatively safe, there was barely any power scaling to be had, and the narrative was laughably predictable. I could even gain a girl with reality-breaking abilities with minimal effort, one who could undo any possible future mistakes I make if I played my cards right. From a purely logical standpoint, it made perfect sense. Secure the asset, finish the quest, move on.
What I didn't account for was how excruciating it would be just to exist here.
I'm surrounded by children pretending to be profound, teachers pretending to care, and a town pretending it isn't rotting from the inside out. Every conversation feels like filler. Every day feels like a rehearsal for something that never quite arrives.
I could've gone to Worm.
That thought has been eating at me more than I care to admit.
If I'd chosen that universe, I would've been surrounded by conflict from day one. Combat. Actual stakes. A society built around power, where ambition is vital, even if quietly resented. I would've had opportunities to sharpen myself—mentally and physically—without needing to hide behind fake smiles and fake schedules unless it amused me.
In Brockton, at least I could've done something.
Sure, the risks would've been higher. Heroes, villains, oversight, constant scrutiny. But I don't care about any of that. I've spent my entire life suppressing my impulses, tempering my desires, and playing the role expected of me. The end result of that restraint was boredom so profound it nearly hollowed me out.
I'm done pretending that safety is worth it.
Spending my previous life repressing my urges taught me one thing very clearly: denying myself fulfillment doesn't make me better. It just makes me resentful.
And resentment festers.
That realization has pushed me toward a decision I'd been circling for a while now.
This world has nothing for me except the people of interest I've cataloged thus far. So I'll stop pretending otherwise.
Originally, I planned to integrate myself into their lives slowly. Build trust. Establish emotional dependency. Position myself as the one constant they could rely on while everything else fell apart. Given enough time, their current ways of life without even realizing they were making the choice. It was clean, elegant, and efficient.
I underestimated just how tedious it would be to babysit a teenage girl's emotional development in a universe with nothing else to offer me. I also overestimated how much patience I had left for subtlety.
More importantly, I don't yet know the full extent of what I'm capable of.
The system is powerful, yes—but it isn't holding my hand. It gives me tools, but no real guarantees. Speeding up my plans means I need to compensate by becoming stronger, faster, and harder to kill. That requires action, not waiting around for canon events to play out on schedule.
The multiverse is infinite, and staying here longer than necessary is a waste.
Maybe this decision is impulsive. Maybe it's reckless. But I didn't claw my way through life just to sit quietly in a world that offers me nothing but monotony.
I've been given an opportunity most people couldn't even comprehend.
I refuse to squander it.
…Maybe I have ADHD.
Doesn't matter.
Blackwell Academy would burn remarkably well.
- Max Caulfield -
Chloe died.
Max lay on her bed in the girls' dorm, staring up at the ceiling as if it might suddenly change her life and have it all make sense. The room was quiet in that unnatural way that only happened late at night, when everyone else had either fallen asleep or pretended to. It was weird to think about, seeing as it's only the afternoon, but that isn't what's important here.
Chloe had been shot.
She remembered it clearly—the sound, the shock, the way the moment stretched longer than it had any right to. Her childhood friend, the one person who still felt familiar in a town that no longer did, despite all she had gone through to avoid her, had crumpled in front of her.
Dead. Eyes cold and lifeless.
And then she hadn't.
Max had rewound time. That was the part her mind kept getting stuck on.
Rewinding time felt wrong in a way she didn't have words for. Each time she used it, the world resisted her just a little more. Her head hurt. Her chest felt tight. The sensation lingered long after everything snapped back into place. She shouldn't want to do it again.
But she did.
The idea crept into her thoughts uninvited, tempting and terrifying all at once. If she could do it once, she could do it again. And if she could do it again… then what else could she change? That question scared her more than Nathan's gun ever had.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket closer even though the room wasn't cold. The world felt different now. Not dangerous exactly, but wrong. Like she'd stepped slightly out of sync with everything else. She hadn't told anyone. She couldn't.
Chloe would demand explanations Max didn't have. Joyce would panic. The teachers wouldn't believe her. No one would.
And part of her was afraid that if she said it out loud, the ability would disappear. Or worse—it wouldn't.
Max squeezed her eyes shut, trying to slow her breathing.
She didn't want to be responsible for time itself. She didn't want power. She just wanted things to stop going wrong. Maybe for her and Chloe to reconnect, and even for Victoria to stop being…well, Victoria. She would've settled for miracles like those instead any day.
But deep down, she knew that wasn't how this worked. Something had changed.
And it wasn't going to let her ignore it.
- Vincent -
It's far easier than I expected to commit arson, but I guess that's mostly carried by the fact that I literally have the power to generate flames whenever I please [Pyrokinesis].
Besides, this house's structure is old, and its materials are cheap. The fire took hold without much resistance.
I raise my right hand slightly and feed a controlled output of heat into the porch supports, before stopping myself. Instead of simply generating a stream of heat from my palms, I change my approach.
Drawing my arms back into a position you'd expect from an archer, I focus upon my ability to generate flames and ignite the air between my hands as I do so.
Releasing my hands from the position as if I was firing an actual arrow, I say only one word.
"Fuga."
If I'm going to live this life, then I'm going to have as much fun as I can. If that means doing unnecessary aura farming and maybe being a bit corny in the pursuit of that fun, then so be it.
Besides, this is also training.
Training isn't just about increasing how much power I can release, It's about perfecting my control too.
The flame arrow shoots forward at breakneck speeds before exploding upon contact with the porch supports, splintering the wood in every direction, and the residual flames climb upward in a steady line.
I also use this time to test how I manipulate flames that have already formed and moved on their own. I watch how the fire reacts when I reduce output versus when I maintain pressure. When I pull back too quickly, the spread slows. When I sustain it, the structure begins to fail even faster than on its own.
Perhaps it's the smell of smoke, the family's screams, or how beautiful the fire is, but I am genuinely beginning to love this shit. This is exactly what I needed. And I know that I obviously can't just go around casually burning houses down, but that's not where all of my enjoyment comes from.
This is not some random act of arson I committed after getting a bit antsy. This is my version of moving things forward. I scoped the house out for a few hours before I made my decision, and I've been eyeing my target for far longer.
There are no cameras anywhere outside of the home, and the backyard just goes straight into the woods, because for some reason or another they didn't bother to install a fence around the perimeter of their house. The roof has a bit of wear and tear, which makes sense seeing as it's already almost fully crumbled by now, and I've only spent around 2 minutes raining havoc on this house.
This house is occupied by a family of two. A widow and her daughter. The mother doesn't matter, but the daughter on the other hand…I've got plans for her.
Now I know that sounds bad, but hear me out. I'm not only doing this to train my [Pyrokinesis], but to level up my [Cultist] class as well.
After all, no cult can truly begin without followers, and I have a feeling that this target of mine would be perfect for what I have planned.
Deciding to finish indulging in my newfound addiction, I lower my hands and cease my manipulations of the flames before slowly making my way into the newly desecrated home.
My window for manipulation is pretty small, but I believe that my advantages can make this work.
The house is in a sorry state, but not fully engulfed yet. I'm training my control even further by actively holding back the flames, but the flames aren't the main problem anymore.
The house is shaking.
I notice a few things that are, to be honest, completely expected once I walk into the house. The curtains are gone, the couch is halfway there too, and the air is thick enough to sting but not thick enough to blind.
The body of an older woman lies unresponsive on the floor between the living room and the kitchen.
I don't stop to check. Why should I waste my time on a dead woman?
I calmly step over her and head upstairs.
The staircase groans as I walk upwards. The fire shifts when I move, pulling back slightly along the railing and the wall beside me. I make sure to practice making the flames flicker dramatically as I walk closer and closer to my target.
At the end of the hallway, there's one closed door.
The air around it feels tense, but I open it anyway.
Standing in the middle of the room, I see her, my target. The one who will be one of the facets of my ascension.
She's tall for her age, with her body slightly hunched, less so out of fear and more so out of habit than anything. Her hair is long and pale, hanging loose and messy around her shoulders. Her face is flushed from heat, and her eyes are wide but not wild. There's something soft about her features, and it just makes me feel all the more excited about the potential she holds.
Before I can begin to say anything, the desk to her side begins shaking, and the mirror above it cracks, and the bed-frame lifts a few inches off the floor and drops again with a hard thud.
She stares at me.
Short replies are key. I have to try and sell the mysterious image.
"You're not on fire," she says. Her voice is rough. Looks like the smoke's already affected her heavily. I'll have to get her body up to standard once she joins me. "I mean—you walked in and it didn't… it didn't do anything."
"No, it didn't." I say simply.
Her eyes shift to the flames crawling along the wall beside me. They flicker wildly, but slide away from me before they can get too close.
The same thing they do once they get close to her.
"You're doing that," she says. Not exactly accusingly, more so like she's just trying to understand.
"Indeed I am, but so are you. You got anything to say about that?"
The dresser rattles harder. One of the drawers jerks open and slams shut.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," she says quickly. "I didn't tell it to—I wasn't trying to—I just wanted her to stop."
"I know."
She presses her lips together, frustrated.
"You don't know," she says. "You weren't here. You didn't hear what she was saying. She just kept going and going and telling me what I was and what I wasn't supposed to be, and I just—"
The window behind her cracks with a sharp pop.
"I know enough," I say, slowly walking towards her, making sure to move at a pace that would make Drax proud. "I know you didn't start the fire."
She hesitates at that, looks toward the hallway, then back at me.
"She locked me in," she says, more quietly now. "She said it was better if I stayed here until I understood what I'd done. Like I could just think it away."
The bed lifts again, higher this time, hovering long enough to be deliberate before settling back down.
"You're not scared," she says, watching me closely.
"No."
"Everyone else is," she replies. "They look at me like I'm something they stepped in."
"They don't understand what they're looking at."
"That doesn't make it better," she says, and there's a sharp edge in it. "It just makes it lonelier."
The ceiling creaks. Something collapses downstairs.
"You're not looking at me like that," she adds after a second. "Like I'm… broken."
"You're not broken."
She gives a short, humorless breath, and I have to fight for my life to keep myself from breaking out into a bright smile.
I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am.
"You didn't see what I did."
"I don't need to."
Her eyes narrow slightly.
"That's not how that works," she says. "You can't just decide I'm not and make it true."
"I'm not deciding anything," I reply. "I'm telling you you're not defective. You simply lack knowledge."
The phrase catches her off guard.
"'Lack knowledge'," she repeats. "You say that as if you aren't the same age as me?"
Looking like she's on the verge of a breakdown, she continues hysterically.
"I've seen you around Blackwell. Everyone notices you, but no one knows you. You walk around with your head held high and talk to no one, but it never matters because they all seem to at the very least, like you anyways. Who are you to be so loved when I'm shunned for existing?
The mirror fractures further, splintering across her reflection.
She doesn't look at it, and instead of saying anything I let her continue.
"I don't want it," she says, letting out a slightly unhinged huff of laughter. "I never asked for it. I try not to think about it and it just… builds. And then someone says something or laughs or touches me and it's like my head splits open."
The dresser lifts completely off the ground now, hovering at an angle. She isn't looking at it. She's looking at me.
"And you're just standing there," she says. "You're not even bracing."
"There's nothing to brace against."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does," I say. "You're pushing because you think you have to defend yourself. I'm not pushing back."
She stares at me, trying to find the angle behind my words. the trick I'm playing on her in order to get in her good graces.
"You walked through a burning house," she says slowly. "Past her. You didn't even look at her."
"Not once."
"She's dead," she says, the tremor in her voice more pronounced now. "I didn't mean to kill her. I didn't wake up this morning thinking that was going to happen."
"I know."
"You keep saying that," she snaps, and the dresser jerks higher, slamming against the ceiling before hovering there. "You don't know what that was like."
"I know what it's like to have something inside you that reacts before you do," I reply evenly. "And I know what it's like to be told that reaction is evil."
The dresser trembles but doesn't fall.
Her breathing slows slightly.
"You're not calling it evil," she says.
"No."
"You're not calling me evil."
"There's nothing evil about you."
Her reaction to our talk is telling. We may technically be the same age, but her circumstances have left her with much to be desired in the way of emotional intelligence and maturity.
"Why?"
"Because it isn't."
She swallows.
"She said it was," she says. "She always said it was. She said it was punishment. Or temptation. Or something that needed to be beaten out of me."
"And did that work?" I ask.
Her jaw tightens.
"No."
The fire pushes further into the hallway. The heat increases. Plaster flakes from the ceiling.
And after finally seeing my chance, I hook her in. This may be risky due to her history with people too invested in religion, but I need this to go a certain way
"Those whose lives are intertwined with the divine can never truly escape it, no matter what the mortals around them may lead them to believe."
Sometimes being cryptic is more than enough to draw in a curious mind. I can't name the amount of times someone has started a sentence just for me to interrogate the rest of it out of them because they said "nevermind".
Her eyes widen a fraction and the dresser trembles once more, but I don't give her any time to react further.
"We need to leave," I say.
She doesn't move.
"If I walk out," she says, "they'll be there. The neighbors. The police. They'll ask questions. They'll look at me."
"Yes."
"They'll know something happened."
"They will. This isn't something that can be kept quiet"
"And you're just not going to be there?"
"You'll find me eventually, but this is something you must go through alone."
Her eyes flick to the flames again.
"You could stop all of it," she says. "You're already controlling it. You could just end it."
"I could."
"So why don't you?"
"Because this part matters."
She frowns.
"What part?"
"You choosing to walk out."
She's quiet for a moment.
"I don't know how to control it," she says. There's no anger in her voice now, just a tired honesty. "It just feels like it fills up my chest and my head and if I don't let it out I'm going to break."
"That's because you've only ever used it when you were cornered," I say. "You've never used it on purpose."
"And you think I can?"
"I know you can."
"You don't even know me."
"I know you're still thinking instead of screaming," I reply. "I know you didn't run. I know you're trying to understand what's happening instead of pretending it isn't."
The dresser slowly lowers, inch by inch, until it touches the floor again.
"You're not afraid I'll hurt you," she says.
"There isn't an ounce of fear in my heart."
"Even now?"
"Even now."
She studies my face carefully.
"You're not trying to fix me," she says.
"No."
"You're not trying to lock me up."
"No."
"And you're not telling me to pray."
"Not yet."
The corner of her mouth twitches slightly at that, and I know that I've struck a nerve.
I shouldn't be rage-baiting the target. Focus.
"If I leave with you," she says slowly, "what happens? Don't just say I learn or I get stronger. What actually happens?"
"You stop apologizing every time something moves without anyone touching it," I say. "You stop waiting for someone else to decide what you're allowed to be. You learn how to move things without losing control of yourself."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we'll adjust."
"We?"
"Yes, we."
She looks toward the hallway again. The fire is almost at the stairs now.
"You're really not coming with me," she says.
"Not yet, no."
"I don't know why, but that bothers me," she says quietly. "Despite what I said earlier, I don't even know your name."
"Vincent."
She repeats it under her breath, like she's testing how it feels.
"If I walk out there," she says, "I'm not going back to how it was."
"If you did, then none of this would have been worth it."
"And if they try to make me?"
"They won't be able to."
There's a long pause.
"You're very sure of that," she says.
"I've rarely been so sure in my entire life."
The ceiling above us cracks loudly, a chunk of plaster falling between us.
She flinches this time, but only slightly.
"I don't want to be scared of myself anymore," she says.
"Then don't be, but you have to be willing to face that fear"
"That's not helpful," she replies automatically, but there's less bite in it now.
"Fear doesn't disappear because someone tells you it's gone," I say. "It disappears when you use what you're afraid of without it using you."
She considers that.
"So you're saying I've been letting it use me," she says.
"Yes."
"And you're not going to?"
"No."
A lie, but one she'll need to believe until she's begging to be a useful tool on her own.
The house groans again.
She takes a step toward the door. The flames pull back just enough to make space.
She notices.
"It really listens to me," she says, wonder creeping into her tone. "Is that what you're offering?" she asks. "To teach me how to make it listen better?"
I move closer to her, softening my voice a bit in response to her words. "That and so much more. You really have no clue just how much potential you hold within you."
I'm slipping. That reply was too long. If I ramble too much then the whole image will fall apart.
Instead of saying anything else, I take a small step closer to her.
Another step. She's close enough now that I can see the fine tremor in her hands.
"If I hurt someone again," she says, "you're not going to look at me like they did."
"Never", I say with only the slightest shake of my head.
"And you're not going to tell me I'm a monster."
"I can't. Not when I'm worse," I say to her, making sure that my words sink in.
She exhales slowly.
"Okay," she says. "Okay."
We move into the hallway together. The fire thins along the path.
Halfway down the stairs, she glances at me.
"You really weren't afraid," she says, like she's still trying to find the catch.
"We're in this together."
"That's..new. I've only ever had myself and mama," she replies.
At the front door, she hesitates.
"If I come with you," she says, "I don't want to be hidden. I don't want to feel like some secret."
"You won't be hidden," I say. "But you won't be exposed either."
"That sounds complicated."
"It isn't. You just have to trust me"
She studies me for one last moment.
"Alright," she says finally. "I'm not staying here."
She steps outside into the night air.
Once she's out of the picture, I take the alternate route out of the back door of their house and head towards the woods.
When she's far enough from the porch and I'm far enough into the woods, I finally release control.
The fire surges upward, finishing the structure in a single decisive collapse as I let the system notifications flood in and collapse onto the forest floor and take deep, exhaustion fueled breaths.
Through the act of pushing yourself in a situation completely new to you, you have grown as a person.
Player Status Increased!
|Vincent West|
{Health: 100%}
{Stamina: 38%}
{Rank: Mortal}
{Class: Cultist - Level 7}
{Strength: C}
{Constitution: C+}
{Dexterity: C+}
{Intelligence: B+}
{Wisdom: C}
{Charisma: A}
{Luck: A-}
[Honeyed Words] - Skilled
[Pyrokinesis]* - Practitioner
You have officially taken your first step towards gaining followers on your cultist journey. Keep up the good work!
[Cult Members: 0]
-Possible Members: 1-
-Overall Cult Faith: Shaky (Almost Nonexistent)-
-?-
-?-
-?-
This was probably the most productive day I've had since my reincarnation, bar starting my manipulation of Max. After all…
It's not every day that you meet and get to manipulate Carrie White herself.
Possible ? Gained
[Carrie White]