A/N: Thank you for checking out my new Stranger Things Fanfic! This piece is something of a sequel from my first (which you can read here: s/12183864/1/). It takes place 12 years after the show. The Upside Down has merged with the modern world, enveloping half of the earth, creating a dystopian society where civilians live in colonies, protected from the Demogorgons by the Authority (military/government). POV is Twelve-a familiar young woman with a gift for killing Demogorgons.

Twelve

One

Ted pulled his hat lower and shrugged his shoulders against the cold. His breath clouded the air in quick puffs, leaving microscopic dew drops in his mustache. Every footstep crunched through the thin layer of ice that had frozen over the week's snowfall. When he paused, Ted heard nothing. The world was all dead trees and ice and silence. He hated the winter; he always had. The unrelenting cold, the biting wind and sleepless nights. But this winter was the worst. Not yet February and three workers had frozen to death in their own homes.

If it had just been Ted, he'd manage. Somehow he'd get through. But there was Diane, his wife, and Teddy, his son. And what man wouldn't do this for his family? he thought. He tightened his grip on the crowbar and forged ahead. Where did the working class get fuel and blankets and clothing when their salaries barely covered their food? The black market—the seedy underbelly of the dingy outer circle of Northeast's Sector 3. That's where he could get oil and heavy blankets and winter jackets and boots, but he needed to pay and with his weekly tokens barely covering their food, he needed to find another form of payment. And there was one thing the hawkers wanted: dead reapers.

Ted stopped again and lowered his shoulders, exposing his ears to the icy cold. He listened for any sound, the hint of movement, the telltale slow nickering of a reaper nearby, but the Badlands were silent. Ahead the trees cleared to reveal a patch of bare sumac. Ted ducked beneath their branches, breaking off the more brittle twigs as he passed. Gradually the underbrush cleared, revealing a sloping, snow-covered lawn and a sprawling, two-story grey building. On the far side of the grounds was an old, overgrown parking lot and in between the lot and Ted was an elaborate, wooden playground. The swings had long ago fallen and the slide was rusted, but in all, it was still a marvel of the time before the reapers and the Vale. The sight relaxed Ted and for some reason, brought tears to his eyes. His grip relaxed on the crowbar and he imagined the schoolyard flooded with laughing children, singing and playing, racing across the wooden turrets and slipping down the slide.

He'd gone to an elementary school a lot like this one in Pittsburgh. The playground hadn't been as nice, of course, but he still remembered fondly his days there—the friends, the teachers, recess. And high school. Of course there was no recess in high school—he smiled to himself—but still, what a wonderful time to be alive! Before the reapers came. Ted's eyes darkened. Before the south was swallowed by the Vale and the north was broken into sectors and colonies governed by fear and hunger.

A movement between two wooden playground towers brought Ted's thoughts to a sudden halt. He withdrew slightly into the overgrowth and retightened his grip on the black crowbar at his side. The form reappeared and immediately he recognized it as human. It was a woman. He squinted. She was carrying something small and had a baton strapped to her belt. Ted cocked his head. What was she doing? Being in the Badlands without authorization was illegal. Everyone knew that. And yet…

The woman stood up straight and took a long, slow look around. She wore close-fitting clothes with a military-grade jacket. But she wasn't military. Her clothes were black and grey, not the blue of the Authority. And there was something familiar about that baton.

Ted froze as her eyes raked across the tree line. His clothes, filthy from long days at work, blended into the thicket and the woman hadn't seemed to notice. After scanning her surroundings, she bent at the waist and extended whatever was clutched in her right hand. Ted watched a stream of black suddenly shoot out from the object and splatter against the snow. She turned and shot another jet against the wooden tower beside her. A third, fourth and, finally, fifth splash marked the ice and snow that surrounded the woman. She straightened and tucked the object into her jacket pocket. Ted strained to see what she'd sprayed on the ground, but it just looked like black splatters. Dye? Ink? Was she marking the spot for something?

The woman seemed to relax then. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight, kicking up one foot casually. She seemed to be waiting for something. Ted felt the answer dawning on him as the liquid, slowly melting a path through the snow, left tracks of red against the white. Blood. Suddenly Ted knew what she was waiting for. He felt the crowbar in his hand and his eyes fell again to her slender baton. His heart lurched. She'd be torn to shreds!

Abandoning his secrecy, Ted emerged from the woods, crunching through the ice-crusted snow. The woman abruptly tensed. It took Ted a moment to realize she wasn't responding to his appearance. She was looking straight ahead to where a reaper was stalking out from between the crowded branches of a row of white pines.

Ted froze. He'd never been this close to a real-life reaper. It stood at least seven feet high; its body was a coiled mass of muscles and each deliberate step sent a ripple of power and strength across the yard. Its jaws were snapped shut, folded together to create a hawk-like sharpness in the reaper's face. Weaving its head left and right, it seemed to be seeking out the blood and then it locked on, snapping its head in the direction of the woman, it crouched low for an attack.

Ted surprised himself when he screamed, "Run!"

Both the woman and the reaper turned abruptly to look at him, but the reaper couldn't be distracted for long. It lunged forward, racing for the blood. "Run!" Ted screamed again, darting toward the woman with his crowbar raised.

She didn't flinch. With deft movement, she removed the baton and braced herself. Before the reaper reached her, she glanced at Ted out of the corner of her eyes and said clearly, "Stay away."

Her words didn't slow his momentum, but her movements stopped him in his tracks.

The reaper reached out and in a blinding flash, she'd swung the baton, catching the creature's elbow as it extended for her. Its upper body twisted left from the strike and the woman took the opportunity to swing the baton again, landing it against the outside of the reaper's left leg, spinning its lower body right. The reaper fell to the ground and Ted watched, his jaw open, crowbar slipping out of his limp fingers. In an instant the reaper was back up, slashing at the woman who dodged and repelled his attacks with an almost bored look on her face.

She moved faster than the reaper. Ted couldn't understand it. It was inhuman. The baton struck two more times. "Come on," he heard her say. "Open up." When the reaper turned aside for a moment, she pulled back, doubled her grip on the baton, planted her feet and swung, two-handed. The baton struck the side of the reaper's torso and the ensuing crunch told Ted she'd crushed part of its carapace. The reaper's head finally unfolded, five jaws simultaneously swinging open to reveal the terrifying maw within and it roared a horrible, blood-curdling sound. Remarkably, the woman smiled and in the split second after the reaper's roar had ended, Ted heard the high-pitched whistle of charged electricity. He realized then what the woman was, and witnessed as she lazily struck the reaper one last time, touching her charged baton to the moist membrane inside its mouth. The reaper froze in an awkward, contorted position, before crumbling to the ground like an empty husk.

The entire fight had only lasted half a minute, but the impression it left on Ted was staggering. He stared at the reaper—the monster that haunted his nightmares, that destroyed the modern world, that slaughtered civilians who left the safety of the colonies—and stood in awe at the wreckage it had been reduced to by a single girl. As he watched, the reaper's chest rose and fell in labored breathing.

"It's not dead," he said, looking up at the woman. She stared back at him with striking blue eyes and sharp features. A chestnut brown ponytail curled out from beneath her black skullcap and her cheeks were freckled underneath the red flush from the cold. He pegged her at late-twenties, early-thirties.

"What are you doing here?" she asked impatiently. She looked him up and down. Ted was trying to understand how she wasn't out of breath when she added, "You're not supposed to be here. It isn't safe."

Ted stared openly at her, glancing once more at the reaper. "You're a Slayer," he said. When she didn't deny it, he nodded his head. "I've never seen anyone move like that. I've never met a Slayer who could take down a reaper in less than a minute."

Her expression was impassive. "You've never met me," she said simply.

Ted was quiet for a moment while he tried to piece together the situation. The Slayers were part of an elite guild sanctioned by the Authority to hunt and kill reapers. They were professional monster hunters and it was one of the most dangerous jobs. There were almost no female Slayers, except…

Ted looked at the unconscious reaper again, the oozing puncture in its torso from her baton, and the pieces fell together. He snapped back to her, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You're Twelve," he said in awe. The legendary Slayer—right in front of him.

She gazed at him for a few unblinking seconds, then turned away. Holding up her right hand, she pointed at a shiny black band around her wrist. A red light was rhythmically blinking from the center of the band. "The Authority will be here soon," she said flatly. "I suggest you return to your hiding spot." She lifted her chin toward the woods. Nothing in her tone suggested she had any interest in talking, so Ted turned around and walked back into the underbrush. Less than five minutes later, a black cargo truck eased into the parking lot. Ted watched five people get out. The main one, a man with dark, short hair and wearing a crisp suit, led the other four—all dressed in blue grunt overalls.

The woman showed no signs of the nervousness Ted would have felt face-to-face with the authority. The man in the suit appraised the reaper. He nudged it with the tip of his shiny shoe. The woman didn't move when the suit passed her, inspecting the stains in the snow. "What is this, B-positive?" his voice carried across the yard.

The girl hesitated and Ted watched the man turn to her, silently demanding an answer. She finally said, barely audibly, "O-negative."

The man's face broke into an unpleasant, triumphant grin and under his smug stare, the woman finally shrank a little. "Oh, you are a piece of work," he laughed. He moved closer, standing just a few inches away from Twelve. He crossed his arms, bearing down on her with that menacing sneer. "Are you selling her blood yet?" Twelve made an involuntary movement and the man laughed. "Take it easy; I don't blame you. No one would," he chuckled darkly. For a long, uncomfortable minute, he studied her, then continued, "No, you're not selling. In fact, I bet no one even knows you have an O-neg ward. That would put her in too much danger. You'd have drainers kicking down the door." He exhaled loudly. Behind him, the grunts were taking measurements of the reaper and unrolling a narrow tarp next to its body.

The woman still hadn't made a sound. "You've cultivated a hell of an image," the man continued, the smile quickly vanishing from his lips. "Protector of the weak, unlikely heroine, femme fatale… Twelve. What would your fan club think of you draining a minor?"

She stared back at him unflinchingly. "Just give me my tokens, Thompson," she said.

With a look of disappointment, Thompson motioned to one of his workers. "Give her a token, Hank," he said.

A towheaded man directing the other three grunts as they dragged away the reaper turned to face his boss. He nodded respectfully and withdrew a large metal coin from a pouch on his belt, handing it to Twelve. After nodding again to Thompson, Hank joined the rest of the workers hauling the reaper to the truck.

"One," Twelve said incredulously. "You can't be serious, Thompson. I need at least two."

The suit openly laughed. "Then take out another Demogorgon," he mocked.

"You owe me at least two for that one!" she replied, balling her fists at her side.

Thompson stopped laughing. "That was an adolescent," he said, moving uncomfortably close to her. "You want two? Take down an adult." He exhaled heavily from his nose and stepped back. "Shouldn't be a problem for you." He turned and walked away. Before reaching the parking lot, he called over his shoulder, "You could always sell a pint of that O-negative. I bet that would bring in an extra token." With a bark of laughter, he climbed into the truck as his workers finished loading the reaper.

Ted was already out of the woods when the truck was pulling out. He walked up to Twelve, but kept his eyes on the taillights as they vanished around the corner. In front of him, Twelve was flipping the token around in her palm. Her eyes were narrowed and lips pinched tightly.

"I can't believe I'm meeting you," he gushed. Despite the uncomfortable exchange that he'd just witnessed, Ted couldn't stop himself from grinning broadly. He tried to imagine what his son's reaction would be when Ted recounted the story tonight. Teddy was going to be so jealous. "You're the most well-known Slayer," he continued, excitedly.

Twelve looked at him without lifting her head, her icy eyes staring coolly as he practically bounced with enthusiasm. She snorted and shook her head.

Misreading her reaction, Ted pushed, "I'm serious; you're famous. You're a legend."

Twelve pocketed the token and faced him. "I'm not a Slayer," she said flatly. Before he could protest, she added, "There are no more Slayers." Ted looked at her confusedly and she changed the topic, motioning to the snowy gravel where the reaper had been. "What are you doing out here?" she asked. She nodded to his crowbar. "You're not going to take down a Demogorgon with that. You're just going to get yourself killed."

Ted felt embarrassed holding the cheap weapon in front of her. After witnessing a reaper's attack in real life he realized that she was right. The Slayers were trained to take reapers out and even Slayers didn't always survive a fight. He cleared his throat and replied sheepishly, "I needed a reaper. I figured I'd give it a try." Hearing himself mumble weakly, he added, puffing out his chest, "I'm strong. I'm a lumberjack." He raised his eyebrows. "It's hard work."

Twelve blinked a few times in silence. He noticed her bottom lip stuck out just a bit further than her top, giving her a slightly pouty look. "What are you going to do with a reaper?" she asked finally.

"There's a guy who will pay five tokens for a dead reaper," he explained. After a moment of stunned silence, he added, "Dead, but in good condition." Another few seconds of silence. He continued, "It's a black market kind of thing." Ted shrugged nonchalantly then wondered if he was saying too much.

Twelve's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's the guy's name?" she asked.

Ted shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He'd never actually met the guy, but word travelled around the labor division—the network that needed black market trade most of all. He swallowed heavily and repeated the name he'd heard again and again: "Dustin."

She actually laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dustin!" she repeated. "Fucksake. Seriously? He's paying for dead reapers?"

Ted shrugged his eyebrows. Desperate to change topics, he pivoted the conversation. "What did you mean when you said there are no more Slayers?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes, looking at the melted spot where the reaper had lain before being collected. She hesitated before answering and when she finally responded, she seemed fed up. "You were the one who was surprised that I left it alive," she said motioning to the ground. "Well, that's what I meant. We don't slay anymore. The term Slayer is a bit of a misnomer since we're forbidden to kill the Demogorgons." She clenched her jaw and rolled her head agitatedly.

"Since when?" Ted asked. "I thought that was your job."

Twelve glared at the ground. "The job description changed," she said shortly. "The Authority wants them alive." She shook her head and smiled with the side of her mouth, tired of reliving the frustration. "Where can I find Dustin?" she asked, turning to the man. But she stopped short when he fell to his knees next to her. The crowbar toppled to the ground and he lurched forward, landing in the snow. In the back of his neck was a vivid orange dart.

Twelve took a step backward and cursed under her breath. The woods were suddenly alive with the grunts from earlier. She scanned the parking lot, but the truck wasn't there. They must have parked a street over. To her left, Thompson emerged from the trees, looking unbearably smug. His men were already collecting the unconscious man at her feet. Twelve took another step back, fighting the instinct to run. As usual, Thompson could read her every urge and actually stopped to chuckle at her discomfort.

She felt the pressure of her belt, the baton at her side. One hit and she could crush his skull. She shook her head. Swallow your pride. Remember your priorities. Thompson raised a single eyebrow at the man who was being dragged away. He tsked her and spread his feet, planting himself between her and his workers. He was provoking her. He wanted her to react. Twelve forced herself to relax, to unfurl her fists, unknot her core, drop her shoulders. She took a single deep breath and looked into Thompson's repulsive grey eyes.

"That was confidential information you were disclosing to a civilian," he said lazily. "That is not permitted and you know it."

Twelve felt a chill run down her spine. "Don't," she said suddenly. But she saw the purpose and contempt in his eyes. He loathed her as much as she did him. "Please don't," she pleaded, holding her hands up defensively.

He tipped his head and gave her a condescending smirk. "Strike Two, Wheeler."