Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
Chapter 1 – The Visitor
"Eleven."
"Mike."
They embrace, tears in their eyes.
Max turns to Lucas. "Is that…?"
The boy nods, unable to tear his gaze away.
Mike pulls away first, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I never gave up on you… I called you every night…. Every night for…"
Eleven cuts him off. "353 days." She smiles through her tears. "I heard."
Mike seems confused. Wounded, even. "Why didn't you tell me you where there… Tell me you were okay?"
"Because I wouldn't let her." Hopper replies before Eleven can. His voice is heavy with emotion. M16 swinging on its shoulder strap, he crosses to her. Mike, speechless, finds himself pushed out of the way.
"The hell is this? Where've you been?" Hopper demands.
"Where have you been?" She responds, her tone defensive, accusatory.
Hopper simply pulls her into a hug. Eleven returns it after a moment.
Mike suddenly finds his voice. "You've been hiding her… You've been hiding her this whole time?" The sentence ends in a yell, his teenage voice ragged with fury as he pushes towards the older man.
"Hey!" Hopper rounds on him and stops Mike in his tracks with a hand on his shirt. "Let's talk. Alone."
There is a bloodcurdling screech from outside. Inside the house, suddenly all is silent. Imperceptibly, Max takes Lucas' hand.
There's another scream. Eleven's deep brown eyes widen and she turns to face the way she came. Ever so slowly the door begins to swing shut, apparently all by itself, and a trickle of blood runs down her nose.
Hopper lets go of Mike, who remains frozen on the spot, then raises his weapon once more. Eleven looks back at him.
"More of them." She says quietly, the statement chilling in its simplicity.
"Shit." Hopper voice sinks to a growl. "Back against that wall. Go!" The last word is barked when Eleven doesn't respond.
Mike steps forward to take her hand and together they join the others. Nancy raises her rifle and Lucas, emboldened by Max's presence, releases her hand to draw back his wrist rocket. Dustin, sensing the opportunity, offers Max his hand instead, but her attention is so focused on Lucas she doesn't notice.
"How many?" Hopper's voice is barely above a whisper.
Behind him, Eleven shrugs helplessly. "Don't know. Can't see." Her eyes are wide as saucers.
"Well, try." Hopper brings the gun up to his shoulder.
Mike puts his arm around Eleven protectively. "I… I won't lose you again."
There's another ghastly, ear-piercing cry. The creatures are getting close now, the sound of a hundred inhuman feet now audible.
"Shit." Hopper curses again, checking his shoulder to make sure the others are far enough back. He knows he should say something reassuring, but can't think of anything.
"Don't worry." He comes up with in the end.
Yet another screech. The abominations must be right outside. A shadow flashes across the room as one of them passes by the window. Surely it's just a matter of time before one of them finds a way in. In his head, Hopper vows to take at least the first seven down with him. He can't let anything happen to these kids. To Karen. To Eleven.
*scritch scratch scratch*
One of them has found the door. It's trying to get in. Hopper steels himself, nods to Nancy, and they approach the door. Guns raised. Ready as they'll ever be.
*BZZZZZZZZZZT*
Out of nowhere, a tremendous flash of light floods through the window and illuminates the room. Just as suddenly, it's gone. The scratching stops.
There's barely time for Nancy and Hopper to exchange 'what the hell?' glances before the strange, buzzing sound returns again.
*bzzzt*
*bzzzt*
*bzzzzzzt*
From outside there comes a very quiet, but distinctly recognisable, yelp. The sound of an animal in pain.
*bzzzt*
And then slience. But then footsteps.
Nancy and Hopper share another glance. As one, they back away from the door. The footsteps continue. They mount the porch, and seem to stop outside the door. There's a brief pause.
*BANG*
The door flies open, the moment somehow captured in slow motion. On the step, there is a figure. A human figure.
Or what seems to be, anyway.
It's dressed from head to toe in dark grey and covered in a thick layer of dust. Grey boots, grey fatigues, grey shirt. What looks like grey body armour, festooned with items of grey equipment. Grey gloves holding a slimline grey rifle, brandished butt first from breaking in the door. A grey helmet encasing its head entirely – even the visor is grey, or at least mirrored so it seems that way. The only details of a different colour are barely visible beneath the dirt; a pair of crossed silver swords above a five-pointed gold star adorns the left of its chest.
The occupants of the room stare back as the figure regards them for what seems like an eternity.
There is a crackle. The sound of a speaker coming to life. And then a voice, robotic and canned.
"¿Qué año es esto?"
They look back blankly. There's another crackle; a brief chirp, this time.
"Quelle année est-ce?"
Again, no response.
The figure seems to pause, thinking. Then, ever so slowly, it begins to remove its helmet.
From around the room there is a collective, involuntary gasp. Beneath it, is a boy. A boy of perhaps sixteen, seventeen at most. He has short, blond hair; short almost to the degree Eleven's had been, but unkempt as if left to do its own thing for a while. His eyes are steely and somewhere between blue and the same shade of grey as his clothes, but they seem old – far older than the rest of his youthful features, despite the partially obscuring grime.
He places his helmet beneath his arm and focuses on each of the room's occupants in turn. Then, with the uncertain tones of a voice that has not been used in a very long time, opens his mouth and speaks.
"When am I?"
The room remains silent in utter bewilderment. Then, surprisingly, Mike pipes up. He checks his watch. "It's about 12:30. At night. October 27th."
This doesn't seem to answer the question. The figure speaks again.
"What… Year?"
This time it's Nancy who responds. "1984. It's 1984."
The change in the boy's face is dramatic. His jaw loses its hard line. What little colour there was beneath the dirt suddenly drains away. His eyes seem to suddenly lose their shimmer in the flickering lamplight. The rifle drops limply to his side.
"I'm too late." He whispers, apparently to no one in particular. He seems unable to comprehend the meaning of his own words, as if in total disbelief.
"I'm too late."
His legs seem to give way. He sinks to his knees, the weapon falling from his grasp. He looks up once more at the faces of the occupants of the room before collapsing to the floor. He's passed out.
Behind him, where he had been standing, there is a pool of thick, red blood.
