So, after a burst of interest on my Tumblr for a particular AU I came up with on the spot (cue Anne of Green Gables reminiscing), this little fic idea emerged. It's set at the turn of the century, based of the aesthetic appeal of period dramas. The billowy shirts, the rumpled hair, the curious side glances - you get the idea.

Although I have no idea how long this will be (not very, I assume, knowing the woeful amount of time I have to do things I actually want to these days), I can at least promise that it won't be too long. Probably about 4 chapters, I would say.

There will be some references I'll link in in the first chapter, so wait up for them. I also can't promise entire historical accuracy, but I'm researching as much as I can and using my favourite period dramas for reference. Look at Anne with an 'E' or 'Far From the Madding Crowd' for the kind of feel I'm going for.

I've got a playlist for this as well (my, how the list grows), so please give that a listen if you can:

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/5cbW5blGhCuEAn56rEsgm2

As always, please read and review! They are honestly so helpful and encouraging, you have no idea.

Oh, and before I forget: Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! I hope you all had a wonderful time, and enjoy the rest of your holidays!

Thank for all the continued support for my work! Enjoy this little prologue.

Michael Wheeler had never considered the town of Hawkins to be a place of any great incident.

But then again, they still had the rest of the century to get through, so maybe he was being a bit hasty.

It was no little known fact that said turn of the century was proving an interesting time for most people. The days of Victorian England were over; the New World was settling down mightily well, with the emergence of a whole new view of modernity sitting itself down for the next 100 years.

Mike wasn't so sure how he felt about the whole thing.

At thirteen years old, Mike hadn't had much experience with things. He'd only just gotten used to the idea of having to take the cart down to the town every time he needed to get things for the farm, or when he needed to consider how best to avoid his mother when she was in a foul mood. Although the farm they lived on reminded him of how remote they were in comparison to the townsfolk, they weren't quite so lonely. If you walked on down from the farm, and took the right turn down the path, you'd come into the richer housing of the townsfolk, with their streets huddled amongst green-leafed trees and geranium bushes, bursting into season as they fell over the front of the fences, wide, open windows glinting in the filtered sunshine.

It was nothing but idealistic, he thought. The fresh, flower-filled springs, and warm, heady summers. The burning autumns and bitterly cold winters, with the snow on the ground and the air nipping at his skin like needle pin-pricks.

If anything, Mike rather enjoyed living in the small town of Midwest Indiana.

But nothing much happened there.

People went about their normal routine, and he mostly joined in with them. He travelled down with the horse and cart to the market every Wednesday; he met Mrs Hayes at the Post Office for the usual two letters they got every so often (farmers didn't make for great, local correspondences); he rode down to church every Sunday with his family, though he despised the droning sermons and long hours, which he mostly spent fidgeting with his hands, and staring up at the rafters of the rather meagre church building.

Life was, genially, very normal.

It was 1903 – and he supposed, that meant a lot of things would change.

Some things didn't.

The sidelong looks that the Sinclair family got were mostly all bark and no bite, but it didn't mean insults hadn't been hurled before. Mike, in all his selflessness, was always the first to step in when Lucas was feeling the heat, but it also meant he was always the first to get hit. He didn't mind so much, but his nose rather did, he imagined.

The girls fawned and pouted in the direction of Steven Harrington, the mayor's son, and that sort of meant that Mike and his friends were considered rather unattractive in his wake – despite how they argued that there shouldn't be a comparison in the first place, when Steve was nearly 4 years their senior. Apparently, such details didn't matter to said pouting girls.

Oh. And the weird city-people always came in every 6 months, making inspections of the town. That always happened.

And that was it.

Hawkins was normal.

"Mike, honestly, you're not seriously considering packing up and leaving town, are you?"

Mike sent a scathing look in Lucas' direction, furiously wiping his brow. The work out in the wheat field always proved to be a harrowing task, not least because the early set-in of the evenings was beginning to mean that autumn was truly snatching away their time. Although the trickles of the harvest had already begun, it did not mean the two boys got to save their energy for the main event. With every ray of the sun branding the back of his neck, Mike felt like his skin was peeling away with the heat, loose, linen shirt clammy against his back.

Lucas huffed out a breath, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, are you?"

"You know how much I hate this place, Lucas. Why is that news to you?" Mike sheared off another handful of wheat with the sickle he currently held.

Lucas shrugged again, dark skin bronzed by the early autumn evening's shine. Despite his rather lowly status, him and Mike were fairly equal in terms of opportunity. They helped each other's families as best as they could, especially if it meant a sly slice of Mrs Sinclair's plum tart. Autumnal harvest could absolutely be worth the back-pain, Mike thought.

"Because as far as I was concerned, you weren't an idiot, and considered how comfortable you are here,"

Mike's look darkened, sticking his sickle into the ground as he brushed off his hands, looking out over the picturesque scene of the early evening. The bronzed sky cast long, golden shadows across the hills, the distant trees' leave cast in copper. The mountain rise further out, nothing more than a blue-violet shadow against the pale blue horizon, made him feel like he was kept in from the world: circled by free-wandering nature and yet feeling like there was no sense of escape if the need ever came upon him. Even gathering wheat in the field by hand became too tiresome and tedious as time went on. Mike needed escape. He needed adventure.

They'd only been told to start on the wheat field. But even by that measure, they hadn't gotten very far.

"I just need to get out of here, Lucas. Nothing ever happens. It's all such a bore. I can't even go three miles down the road without being chased back into town by some nutcase from the neighbouring farms." Mike paused for breath. "Not on my watch, sonny!" He mimicked the old man he'd encountered the last time, waving his pipe at him in some violently unthreatening gesture of 'hightail it back to your own turf'.

Hawkins closed its roads to most people, but apparently that also meant Mike couldn't get out.

"If I have to do it at night like some highwayman, then I will –"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mike. That's insane – you sound insane."

Mike turned to look at him, brushing back his mop of black curls, his hair sticking to his forehead. Although only fourteen, by the August passed, he still looked far older than his age credited him with. The long, unruly curls sat stubbornly upon his head, but were crested with a dozen halos of copper light, freckles like gold dust upon his nose and cheeks, dark eyes like molten copper in the dying light. Maybe his ratty linen shirt, worn breeches, and scuffed boots did not speak well for him, but his looks certainly did. And so did his manner.

All throughout the town, Michael Wheeler was known for his uncanny, gentle manner, as if he meant to befriend anyone he met. Although a temper certainly resided in him, his tears more likely made their appearances more often. He was not one to tie up his emotions with a neat, little bow and forget about them. No – he let them wreck havoc with his heart; let oceans and storms and long, spring days tear into his soul with every breath. Michael Wheeler was no friend to cool indifference. He wore his heart on his sleeve with a pride unlike any of the other boys, who so deftly hid theirs beneath snickers and displays of masculine strength.

He was a farm boy, yes. But he was a boy, and that's what counted.

"Well, I'm not insane, Lucas, so you can go to hell."

"Sue me if you feel I'm being unfair."

"I will - just watch it, Sinclair."

Lucas snorted in laughter, turning to look at the dipping sun, shirt sleeves to his elbows. Only a month younger than Mike was, Lucas had the knack of coming across like his far more matured father, both in the way he held himself and in the way he chastised his friend. If anything, it kept Mike out of trouble. Whether or not that was a good thing was yet to be determined – in some cases, Mike needed excitement or he'd implode.

Lucas, in adamant refusal, was taking no responsibility for the outcome of Mike's prolonged boredom.

"Time to go in, I'd say." Lucas muttered, holding a hand up to cover his eyes, mouth open in thought. Mike turned to look at the sun like his friend, squinting as they watched it shivering behind the horizon, as if afraid to leave the world in darkness. Mike nodded once in approval, turning his head up to the sky as he saw its dark violets, pale oranges and soft blues mingle like lovers above his head.

Time to go in, indeed.

The two boys wedged their sickles up from the ground and trudged up the hill towards the barn, dipping in to set them on the bench before sidling round to the farmhouse in search of some scraps to eat, both their stomachs empty and throats parched.

The inky sky was overruling the fading colours of the evening behind them, one or two pinpricks of light visible in the vast, fathomless gape above their heads, and yet –

The night was yet to begin.

It was only the noises from outside that caused Mike to wake up from his otherwise deep sleep.

Although late storms were nothing of a rarity in Hawkins, Mike had never grown fully accustomed to the idea of there being such a ferocious side to Nature right outside his door. Storms had never scared him, but the aftermath always did – the scenes of destruction never failed to make him cringe and sigh in equal measure, as yet another person's life was torn to pieces by particularly fearsome winds and thundering rain.

Wiping his eyes blearily, Mike scuffled out of the ramshackle heap he called his bed, stumbling through the dark to peer out into the darkness, the metal muntins across the window's glass making it difficult to perceive anything past the dancing silhouettes of the trees outside, the wind battering them as it tried to haul them from their roots.

But there was definitely something out there.

Still amazed to find sleep in his eyes, Mike made the executive decision to go downstairs, groping for the bannister of the rickety staircase, his feet feeling like they were stepping into open air every time he made a move to go down the next step. Lucas had decided to stay over, taking his place in Mike's room, having been too late to take the walk home when they'd finished their work that day.

Mike turned round to the sound of footsteps following him, Lucas appearing around the corner of the stairs with a positively thunderous look on his face.

"This better be worth waking me up for, Mike,"

Mike snorted in response, brushing away his unruly curls, bed hair making every curl take its own path upon his head, sticking up in so many dark strands that it was hard to tell where his hair ended and forehead began.

Lucas raised a dark eyebrow in response.

"What's going on?"

"There's something out there," Mike replied, shuffling over to the kitchen door, peering out the side window, pushing the curtain away to take a look. The sky had become a heathen of black and grey, like a crosshatch drawing made too dark to see anything distinct. One flash of lightening, however, and Mike jumped back in alarm.

There had been a figure. Just near the fence.

"Mike?" Lucas asked, staring at him in concern.

"Mike!"

Mike, snapping out of the reverie he'd currently been enfolding himself in, turned to his friend, noticing the concerned tone he'd adopted.

"There's someone out there, Lucas,"

"You cannot be serious,"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Lucas considered. Mike's face had contorted into one of dark and hazy determination, looking like he was trying to be brave and morally upright at the same time. His eyebrows always creased against his dark eyes when he meant business, appearing at once like the anti-hero of any novel Lucas cared to remember ever reading. There was many a day where Lucas firmly believed Mike belonged better in a book, as the dashing prince or sprightly adventurer of his own, fantastical story, rather than trapped in the underwhelming realities of real life. He suited fiction better than he suited the real world – he always had done.

Lucas was too straightforward to consider himself everything but a contender for fictional realities.

"So you plan on going out there? Now I know you're insane,"

Mike rolled his eyes, turning to wade through the boots at the door to find his own, just as he hauled on his breeches that he pulled from the chair resting by the small fireplace, coals having long burnt out, the ashes now cold.

His nightshirt felt mightily skimpy when considering the weather he planned on going out into, but he wasn't prepared to reconsider; certainly not when something was wandering about out there on its own. Animal or person or whatever it was.

"Mike, come on – be honest with yourself. You can't seriously think about going out into a storm? You could fall! You could hit your head – die!"

"Lucas, shut up! I won't die, don't be stupid,"

"Stupid? You're calling me 'stupid'? Says the guy who plans to walk out into a storm in his nightshirt!"

Mike snorted in response, done trying to argue his point.

Taking one breath to reassure himself that he was not, in fact, entirely crazy, Mike opened the hatch and stepped outside.

His first thought was that he had made a terrible mistake in coming out here.

The storm felt like it was brewing up such havoc just to spite him – the wind slapped his cheeks, tangled in his hair, made him splutter for breath as he tried to take purchase of what was going on. Staggering down the dirt path, he looked out across the hill, glad for once to be so remote and apart from the town. He felt like he was living in the wild moors of England, like he'd read about; lashing rain, soaking through his shirt to his skin, shivering with the biting air, the trees like gnarled demons arching over to grab him from the ground; the distant mountains like proud, terrifying kings standing against the wind, refusing to bow down to its tantrum.

And in amongst it all, a lone heap of a figure sitting down at the fence, grasping for dear life onto the post.

Mike paused, tried to discern the shape, but it was too dark to see. At least it looked human.

Almost slipping down the path, he came to a stop at the bottom, staring through the rain to try and make out what it was.

Stooping down, the figure turned towards him, and Mike nearly jumped back in horror.

It was a girl.

Her short, curly hair was plastered to her forehead, every inch of bare skin smeared with mud and dirt, her eyes dark and soulful, yet as terrified as a trapped rabbit. Her slip of a dress looked too raggedy to even pass as clothing anymore, and her boots were well past their wearable state.

"H – hello?" Mike asked, trying not to shout, but the storm was making it difficult. The wind felt like it was screaming in his ear, trying to deafen him before he could even try to communicate with the girl in front of him. He pushed back his errant curls, now sticking to his forehead again. Christ, he needed a haircut one of these days.

The girl whimpered in response, turning her face back into the post, refusing to budge.

Mike sighed, reaching out a hand to pry away her hands, and she leaped to her feet, grasping her hands like his skin had singed her. He winced.

"I'm sorry I – I didn't mean to frighten you."

She glared at him, despite her shivering frame. She couldn't be any older than fourteen.

"Look, we have to go inside – do you – do you want to come with me?"

The look on her face was hard to discern, but Mike didn't need someone to tell him how she was feeling. It seemed she wore her emotions as boldly as he did, and right now she looked more scared and as equally relieved all in a manner of seconds.

Mike bent down, reaching out a tentative hand towards her, skin sodden as he shivered against the pelting rain, every piece of clothing like a second skin, as wafer thin as paper on his back.

He watched with careful scrutiny as her fingers slipped into his own, at once pulling her up and running with her back to the house, the dirt kicking up against the soles of his shoes as he ran, the rain now almost like fire falling on his cheeks. The girl thudded behind him.

Turning around once, he saw her lying mangled on the path, the dirt having slipped out from underneath her, her ankle now sitting at an odd angle. Mike grit his teeth, dashing back to her with a grim determination, wiping away his curls again. They had to get out of this rain before either of them caught their death.

"You'll need to put your arms round my neck,"

She didn't move, just looking up at him through her tear droplet eyelashes, blinking through the water.

Mike sighed.

"Come on!"

She slipped her frail arms round his neck, her dress slip cool to touch as it brushed past his neck. Mike hauled her up into his arms in one movement, sweeping her legs up into his arms as he trudged the rest of the way to the door, shoving it open with his back. The door slammed shut behind him as he fell against the wood, breathing in once to remind himself of how his lungs worked. He felt like he'd been reanimated from death, but the dead weight in his arms made him forget his own situation for a moment.

Lucas jumped up from his vision, dark eyes concerned, and then shocked, as he stopped to take note of the heap in his arms.

"Mike, what –?"

"There's no time to explain. She's been out there for God knows how long."

Lucas frowned, wiping his face with his hands, clearly agitated by this turn of events.

"And your parents? Don't you think they'll be a little miffed that you've given them another mouth to feed?"

Mike glared back at him, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to keep a grip on her skin. She was slipping under his hands like silk. They needed to get her warm – quickly.

"Lucas! Never mind that - we need to get her dry – she'll catch her death otherwise," He took a cursory glance at her ankle, the joint somehow appearing wrong by a stretch.

"And her ankle needs looked at - it might be broken, at the least twisted,"

"Because I can see this ending well," Lucas sniffed, peering at her from Mike's left, his brow furrowed in confusion. To all the world, Mike was looking more like a romantic hero by the day, as he let his curly hair, soft features and penchant for saving people construct an image of entire romance about him. Lucas grunted to himself again.

"Who is she, anyways?"

Mike shrugged, stooping his head a little to look in at her face, currently curled into his shoulder as if to hide her from the world, in fear of seeing something she would never be able to forget. In the damp candlelight, she looked pale as snow, her skin ice cold and patchy with dirt, dark eyelashes curled on her cheeks. Her hair was a mess of damp curls, hanging heavily about her face with the weight of the water, her form slender and delicate, like an orphan left to starve. Mike hefted her up again.

"I – I don't know. It's like she fell from the sky,"

Lucas snorted.

"Yeah, right."

Her eyes snapped open.

Lucas jumped back, yelping.

"Keep your voice down!" Mike hissed, shoving past him towards the stairs, calculating his ascent to his room. A fire needed to get started in a hearth somewhere in the house, and at least up there she'd be hidden from prying eyes – said eyes being his parents'. And her ankle. Mike frowned down at the slender limb - he knew nothing about first aid. The best he could do would be to get a damp towel to keep any swelling down.

"She's a freaky girl, Mike! What do you want me to do, smile at her?"

"You're unnerving her, Lucas! Just keep it down and get her a blanket from somewhere,"

Mike turned to the stairs again, grunting slightly as his arms began to feel numb, the girl's weight beginning to overwhelm him. The girl's arms tightened around his neck, his chest now warm from her frame having been held against him.

"Do you have a name?" Mike whispered down to her, dipping his head a little to look at her face. She was pretty, he thought – blankly so, like she had never known it herself. But she was hollow, like her soul was missing.

Something was missing that should have been there.

At first she didn't answer, blinking up into his face in guarded curiosity, dark eyes narrowed in her pale face. It was only as she turned her cheek into his wet shirt again that he heard her:

"Eleven,"

Mike looked down at her, waiting for more, but nothing came.

He frowned again, the sounds of the storm rattling against the window as he ascended the last flight of stairs.

Eleven.

The girl who fell from the sky.