Chapter Twenty-Eight – White Rabbit

His hands gripped the wheel as his eyes lingered far into the distance. He could see down the road, as far as his high beams reached with their gleaming light…but he blinked anyway, somehow unable to focus on anything. The green Pinto stood, parked on a deserted section of Cornwallis. In the obscurity of night, it was easy to imagine that this machine was the only breathing thing out here…but he knew this wasn't so. Hundreds of nocturnal creatures lurked in the shadows, probably eyeing them right now, reluctant and curious, blinking back at the obnoxious headlights. His jaw ached from the countless times he found himself grinding his teeth, but he did it again, peering back to gaze at the strange little girl. Her wounds had broken, and blood was lazily seeping into Mike's favorite sweater. This was still an indeterminable fact to him, concealed by the very people who'd intended on keeping her safe. No…it's not fair to think like that. In their minds, she was with Joyce right now, sleeping in a home of safety instead of lying unconscious in the back of her car. You lied to their faces. He turned back to face the road, his temples pulsing as his brain worked on something new and difficult.

Tiredly, he gazed down at his flannel shirt, losing himself in that red, plaid pattern; an eternal web of right-angles and squares. His worn jeans clung well to him, even after all of today's horrifying excursions. The watch on his wrist was smeared a slight red, along with Joyce's steering wheel. How could he face her now?

Hop shook his head, some part of his psyche splitting open, that all-too-familiar darkness spuming through the splintery crack.

"When you bring her, you may not wear your uniform. Wear street clothing…"

In a dreamlike state, Hop shifted about, turning back to look at the girl, nearly motionless. Her sides were the only indication that she was even alive, gently rising and falling with every shallow breath. A light sheen coated her forehead…sweat from her last waking moments. Her eyes were dark and hollow; she made him look entirely healthy, and Hop knew he looked like shit.

"…and if you know what's good for you, she must be asleep or unconscious…at the very least, blindfolded."

Hop inhaled deeply, his lungs expanding far wider than Eleven's ever could. He was doing it again…clenching his jaw tight, biting down on some indigestible idea; whether this was good for his teeth didn't concern him in the least.

"After that…you will never have to worry about her again."

He could do it, right now…maybe skip town. Go back to Indianapolis, rent some run-down apartment and live there. Abandon this sad little life he'd carved out for himself in Hawkins. He'd have to turn in his badge…and say goodbye to Joyce.

And Eleven.

Hop felt like shivering, even though he wasn't cold. His eyes rested on her form, his mind ripping in two over an uncompromising debate. That cold, cryptic heart of his could only undulate beneath the pressure of this searing indecision. He was suddenly starved of oxygen. Take a breath, he told himself. His lungs filled with the fresh air he felt he didn't deserve as he contemplated each and every decision leading up to this moment.

What had he fought for over the last week? Over the last few months?! Was it all for nothing; all of their work abolished in a single, decisive masterstroke? She'd disappeared, and suddenly – now that Brenner knew she was actually alive – they wanted her back! That wicked man seemed so intent on recovering her – as if he actually cared for the girl like Joyce and he did – yet he wasn't putting any action towards getting her besides threatening Hop into submission. The answer was obvious: Joyce was a better fit for her…

right?

How long had it been since she'd stepped into a school? Or celebrated a birthday? Or had someone there to hold onto during a shot? Hop was sure he was the first one to talk her through that, and now it was costing her. He should've just brought her home…a bitter resentment for himself hung low in his stomach like glue. Hop dug back in his brain, reeling at a sudden twinge of empathy angrily smothering his heart. He immediately shook that from his mind…he couldn't have emotions deliberating his decision. Right now, Hop was trying to answer an impossible question…how far back does her line of suffering stretch? Nine years? Ten? Eleven?

"It's okay. Hey, it's okay. We're right here…w-we're right here, honey. It's okay. I got you. Don't be afraid. I'm right here with you. I am right here with you…you're safe." With a gasp, Eleven surged upwards out of the water, tearing the goggles off with a splash and instantly drawing back into Joyce's arms, breaking out into shaky sobs. Joyce only accepted this strange girl – whom she'd just met – into a soothing embrace, whispering words of comfort into her ear and holding her close. "It's okay, it's okay…I got you. You did so good…are you okay?"

Something else tapped him reminiscently on the shoulder…that night he stood on the Byers' front lawn, speaking to Joyce amidst that break in the relentless storm. That kiss they'd shared…but mostly what she'd said to him came back in echoes and peals.

"Well…I was gonna say that she…probably needs a, father figure too…"

Just before this, her son and he had watched her coach Eleven through another horrible pain, and something rang familiar between the two situations. Hop figured it had just been the rush of the moment…perhaps he wasn't remembering it correctly. Or maybe he was…he couldn't tell. Right now, his mind was a jumbled mess of clogged emotions and overflowing apprehension. He slowly began to stumble upon the realization that he needed Joyce…especially now. Could it be that she needed him too? So far, he'd only caused trouble for the Byers', putting them into mortal danger; putting Eleven in harm's way!

Hop blinked, a deep sigh from the girl piquing his fear. He jerked to watch her, stretching a hand back to touch hers and pursing his lips at that foreboding cold. Joyce was going to end him if she saw El like this…Hop suddenly didn't know if she could even handle this stomach-turning situation he'd willingly walked into. Strong, determined Joyce Byers…she'd been through enough. How dare he push this upon her? All of this had started because of him!

…and yet…the girl – in a selfish way – owedhim her life. He was the one who fed her…the only one who successfully let her know that she hadn't been forgotten, and that her efforts had not been in vain…

is that why she agreed?

Hop turned back to the wheel, gripping it determinedly as the car sat, immobile and statuesque. Take her back…if he looked close enough, he could see the very tops of those enormous satellites peeking through the vibrant trees…calling to him, beckoning him over with every flash of those tiny lights. He closed his eyes and kept them closed for the first time that night, grasping within himself for that damned voice bating him on. Hop wanted to strangle it into submission, but it cowered behind his treasured – but mostly reserved – voice of reason.

Two roads lay before him: one was straight and flat, unwinding and clear of potholes. It promised an end to all of his worries, a place where his loved ones could live on in safety…but at the beginning of this wonderful road lay a toll, asking for someone's life as the only proper payment.

The second road was a steep, uphill slant, curling its way round a mountain that stretched endlessly into the heavens. There were no signs, no safety rails…there was hardly even a defined path! Scorpions hid behind every rock, poised to strike at any moment and end their journey altogether; at the current moment, Hop couldn't even see what waited for them at the top. He could only assume it was a drop straight to the bottom.

He was torn…his mind clashing horribly with his heart, two armies of reason throwing bomb after mind-shattering bomb over the divide, into unfair territory. The man then reached down and put the car into gear, and both sides of this endless war called an immediate cease fire. Each tiny soldier gazed about warily…having lost track of what they'd been fighting for long ago.

A wheezing sound from the backseat shook him, and he spun about, watching Eleven elicit a sharp intake of air. Hop spun back around, sweat beading his brow. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his hand onto the edge of Joyce's steering wheel. His fingers curled around dried blood that wasn't his, cracking against the creasing skin. He needed to make a decision…because now she was the one running out of time, her heart ticking down with every contraction. There are doctors there…in that place. The tide had turned, with Hop standing at the helm of their tiny ship, braving an upcoming maelstrom, sporting that priceless poker face he wore so well. Whatever he ended up choosing, it would be a different kind of agonizing for all parties involved. So, he let his foot of the brake, his wheels rolling off into the night. Those blue irises glimmered, furious against the dusk. As he drove, a curious owl lighted itself on a precarious-looking branch, watching his taillights shrink into the distance. A gust of wind picked up, threatening to sweep him over and out of the tree…but he didn't worry in the slightest, easily opening his wings and gliding into the air. Not once had he ever placed his faith in tree branches...

Nancy lay in bed, clutching her comforter close to her and pursing her lips. She couldn't sleep, all of tonight's revelations clanging noisily about in her brain. Her heart was still pulsing at an alarmingly quick rate, her gaze stuck to the window. That brow furrowed at the night sky, feeling her very limbs vibrating above the force of her all-consuming anxiety. Get up. Her body demanded it, and so she did, flipping the covers off and rising to her feet.

Why had Hopper looked the way he had? Eleven would've been perfectly fine sleeping in her room, there was no point in banishing her to the basement anymore. She was known…but just how many people knew about her existence? There was no telling. The young woman couldn't help but feel as if she didn't know something. She'd hoped that she'd be able to feel the wool, were it ever pulled over her eyes…but she couldn't! Nancy stood before her bulletin board, gazing softly at all of the pictures of her and Barb. That familiar twinge of sadness creeped up from the depths of her stomach and Nancy almost lost her thoughts for a moment, shaking her head and gazing outside.

Joyce knows she's safe here…right? Perhaps Nancy was overanalyzing this, like she did with most of her school assignments. But this wasn't Shakespeare…this wasn't iambic pentameter she had to memorize. Eleven was back. Brenner was alive. Hopper was acting very strange…or at least laboring through the vicious throes of insomnia. These were cold, hard facts…and Nancy felt prepared to sort them out. Stepping back to her hanging board, she pursed her lips. Her fingers lighted down on a picture of Barb and Nancy shook her head. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, voice pitching about breathily as she removed a thumbtack. Holding that memory in her palm, she did the same with the rest, and her tears slid down her cheeks, falling through the open space and occasionally splashing onto one of the photos. With each tear, another photo was removed from the board and slipped into her dainty hand, clearing a space on the right side.

Barb's funeral came back to her…in gruesome detail. Her mother, brought to her knees beneath her crushing despair…Barb's father kneeling beside the woman, consoling her and simply trying his best to hold everything together. Barb had been their only child…and Nancy could feel that stake of guilt pierce her heart just as poignantly as she had those months ago. Nancy had been especially bitter that day; her tears had stung something horrible. Steve was there beside her…he'd even bought a bouquet of flowers for the Holland's, offering his condolences on the side. Hopper had been there as well…standing in the back, behind the Wheelers, smoking a cigarette like a looming reminder of Nancy's culpability.

If only I had gone with her…she was only looking out for me and I told her to go home.

Nancy's lips trembled, gazing down at the memoirs empathetically. Gingerly, she opened one of her topmost drawers and placed the layers inside. Not all of them had been of Barb…some were family photos, with Baby-Mike and her parents, captured in a younger, happier day. She'd kept those on the board…she'd spread them out some other day. Right now, she needed to stare into that empty space. She knew this was a huge part of any grieving process. Letting go. Moving on. Even after all these months, she was dumbfounded at how hard it was to do this seemingly simple action.

But that's how life was; Nancy just hadn't lived through this part just yet. So, with a gentle, quivering hand, she pushed against the drawer until it closed, two separate streams of tears joining hands at the apex of her chin and dropping to the carpet. Was this how Mike felt when Will was…? No, it couldn't have been this bad for them. Mike seemed to know long before the rest of them did that Will wasn't really dead (she figured this was mostly thanks to Eleven). But then she remembered when Barb's parents had visited their house that night, and Mike had stormed in, utterly distraught and beyond words. Their mother had held him and Nancy had stood from her seat, watching them and fearing the worst.

In that second…Mike had felt the worst of what she was feeling right now. Perhaps it had even burned deeper for him, having gotten his hopes up. Either way, Nancy wanted to bury this sorrow...to burn it like they had the Demogorgon. Slowly, she slipped back to her bed, exhausted and purposefully stifling her thoughts, saving them for tomorrow. Her head was pounding much too harshly to deal with them today. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes, trying to find some sleep.

Dry leaves crunched beneath their shoes as they slipped beside an overturned tree, crouching behind it. The older man peeked over the edge like a spy, then let out a little gasp. His gaze opened up with terror as his son looked on, "W-What is it?"

"Shh!" he hissed, a finger pressed to his lips below a glare. Haplessly curious, Jonathan peeked over the log, spying a bundle of trembling fur. "…see that?" Lonnie's whisper met his ears.

"Uh-huh…" Jonathan nodded, his eyes young and squinting at the struggling creature. It was bicycle-kicking something attached to its ankle rather furiously, throwing itself onto its side in a panicked frenzy. "...is that a rabbit?" he asked, his eyes opening up with wonder.

"Yep…" Lonnie nodded, wetting the corner of his lips with his tongue and readying a pistol. Jonathan turned, still smiling…until he saw the gun. "…boy do rabbit's taste good. You'll see…we'll bring this sucker back home to Will and Mom and cook it right up." As Jonathan's expression drastically changed, an oblivious Lonnie added, "...I'll even show you how to gut it."

"…you're gonna…kill it?" Jonathan swallowed a nervous lump in his throat.

His father rolled his eyes. "Well it's not gonna kill itself, now is it?" For a moment, he recognized that look of distress paint over his son's face and he sighed. "…you know what? You kill it."

The boy stared at him, taken aback with horror. "…me?!"

"Yeah! You're ten now Jonny-boy…" he sighed, loading the weapon absentmindedly. "…it's about time you started acting like it." Jonathan was sure he was joking…or maybe this was all some sick prank. Wouldn't be the first time his dad had scared him out of his wits, yelling about how Huxley had been hit by a car when he was really just locked in the shack. But he saw the way Lonnie snapped the revolver into place, holding it out to him expectantly. Jonathan's stomach turned with worry. "…you ready?"

"...no…" he admitted, shame coating his words.

Lonnie lowered the gun, along with his posture as he sighed, eyeing the boy incredulously. "Look Jonathan…you do this, and Will gets to try his first rabbit. Think of it that way." Jonathan's brow wrinkled fretfully, peering down at his shoes. "…you're gonna have to do this someday."

That's when the boy eyed him ludicrously, "…no I won't!"

"You know what I mean…" Lonnie rolled his eyes at the boy who clearly did not know what he meant. "Look, I'm not asking anymore," he pressed the weapon into Jonathan's small hands. "I'm telling you." Lonnie's eyes grew stern and Jonathan's throat went dry. "…kill it." Before Jonathan could answer, Lonnie had gripped his sleeve and stood, forcing him to his feet from the behind the log. Now that the rabbit could see them, it doubled its futile efforts, flipping about chaotically and shrieking to itself in fear. It knew what was coming, and just that made Jonathan hate this so much more.

"…can't we kill another rabbit? Does it have to be this one?" Jonathan plead, eyeing his father imploringly.

"No! I worked too damn hard to tie these snares. We're not letting this one get away," Lonnie declared, his brow creasing imposingly. "Now aim the damn gun and shoot!"

"But Dad I don't know how!" Jonathan shouted back above the rabbit's tiny screeches.

Lonnie rolled his eyes and fumbled the gun from his son's hands. He sighed heavily, "Course you don't…silly me." A second later, Lonnie pointed the gun at the ground directly beside the tiny creature and pulled the trigger. A deafening echo burst through the forest. Hordes of birds were thrown into the sky in heaps and armfuls, and the rabbit was struck deaf, now petrified into a motionless state. Jonathan's hands slowly left his ears, eyeing the terrified creature. "See? You pull the damn trigger and shoot," Lonnie hastily coached, pushing it back into Jonathan's hands. "Now you try."

"But Dad…can't we shoot something else?"

He rolled his eyes dismissively, yet he still entertained him. "Like what?"

Jonathan sniffed, "…I don't know…anything but a rabbit…"

Lonnie blinked, eyeing him sternly. "…what? Are you gonna cry now?" Jonathan's blood boiled to his face, the gun heavy in his fingers. Lonnie scoffed, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, "You better get used to this Jon…thisis a part of growing up. Now quit crying…or I'll give you something to cry about!" The father stared dangerously at his son who stared right back, his tears staining his young determined face. Despite Jonathan's valiant attempt at gallantry…his lip trembled and that defiant glower cracked, splitting open almost immediately. Wordlessly, the boy turned in a shuffle, facing the rabbit disdainfully and raising the gun. Lonnie broke into a contemptuous smile, "…that's what I thought." Squinting his eyes, Jonathan's fingers trembled, his heart raced against his sadness. The rabbit was still in a state of shock, shivering slightly, it's sides heaving unimaginably fast. "…take the shot," Lonnie's voice softened, crouching down and feigning interest in Jonathan's posture.

For a second, Jonathan inhaled, almost believing that he could do it. He tried reminding himself that there were plenty of other rabbits out there…but then he stopped to think about all of Thumper's sisters. What if this rabbit had brothers or sisters they didn't know about? Or babies?! How would they survive without its help?! Jonathan hesitated, his finger testing the sensitivity of the trigger a tad too boldly. In one heart-stopping moment, Jonathan pressed too hard and the gun went off. That single explosion sent a tiny shockwave through the boy's body, and his hands alone felt like they'd been shaken by some demonic beast. The recoil nearly slammed into his forehead, missing it by a few inches. The bullet plunged itself into the soil far behind the rabbit. Too frightened to move, the rabbit simply held its breath, it's dark eyes wide and fearful. "Oh come on Jonathan! It wasn't even moving!" he exclaimed.

"Dad I can't do it!" the boy informed him, rubbing his still vibrating hands and trying not to cry.

"Jesus Christ…" Lonnie rolled his eyes, gripping Jonathan by the sleeve and walking him around the log. The boy trailed along, half-dragging, half-stumbling along their way. They now stood directly above the small creature, tall and monstrous to those beady eyes. "Now there's no way you can miss. Try again," Lonnie instructed, pointing at the animal. Jonathan winced, shaking his head at Lonnie's request. "…SHOOT THE DAMN RABBIT JONATHAN!"

"I can't!"

"I'm telling you to do it!" Lonnie ordered in a booming tone. He straightened his arms out for him, guiding his finger towards the trigger. "Now do it!"

"B-But-?"

"SHOOT THE GUN!" Lonnie ordered.

"No!" Jonathan cried, closing his eyes against the heartbreaking sight.

"NOW!"

That spine-rattling gunshot forced him from his nightmare and with a gasp sent him from his mattress. He sat up against his sheets, sweat slacking his skin. Jonathan could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He'd been crying in his sleep…when was the last time he'd done that? November of last year. He couldn't even recall the last time Lonnie had entered his dreams…that was one of the few times. With shaky breaths, Jonathan laid back into the mattress, his heart racing. His father was dead now…he wouldn't have to worry about him terrorizing Will or Joyce or him anymore. But, there was an emptiness with this realization, a hollow reminder of what could lay ahead for all of them. His skin pricked with concern and he blinked, unsure of whether sleep would find him tonight.

Hesitantly, as if he were still treading on thin ice or hallowed ground, his thoughts turned to Nancy. We're supposed to go to a concert tomorrow…how was he supposed to abandon his mother now, after what had just happened? Hopefully by then Will and Eleven would be home and…Jonathan's mind skit to a halt.

Will. He was going to find out.

This idea had never struck Jonathan…he'd never had to wonder about how Will would react if their father mysteriously died because Lonnie was usually never around. He spent his last years drinking and partying to his heart's content, trying to find something close to what he'd had with Joyce in Cynthia…if they were even still together. Jonathan didn't know…a part of him wished he did.

…and then another part of him felt a strange sense of relief wash over him, reminding himself that Lonnie had been a bad influence in his life that Jonathan had expertly overlooked. He hoped he hadn't become too much like him. The young man suddenly wanted to check on his mother and see if Eleven was here already. He rose to his feet and crossed the room, walking into the entrance-way and peering in. Joyce was curled up on the couch, a bottle of rum sitting half empty on the table. Pursing his lips, he walked over to close it and Joyce woke so suddenly that it startled him.

"WILL?!" she reached blindly for Jonathan's arm, almost making him knock the bottle over.

"Mom! Mom it's me…" he said, gripping her shoulders confidently.

"…Jonathan?" she blinked, and he could smell a slight hint of whiskey on her words. "…w-where's Will?"

"He's at a sleepover…at the Wheelers…" he reminded her, furrowing his brow anxiously. Hastily, he capped the bottle and held her by the hand. "…you should go to bed Mom."

"…no…no I…I-I can't yet…" she sighed, shaking her head and eyeing the sloshing liquid from outside the bottle. "…s-she's not home yet…"

"Hopper will let us know when he gets here…okay?" Jonathan swore. "You need to get some rest, in a real bed…okay?"

"No…no I need to wait for her Jonathan…" she pressed the edge of her wrist into her mouth worriedly.

"But Mom…" Jonathan groaned.

"I'm fine Jonathan! You don't understand…she needs me to be here for her…." Jonathan's ears perked. It was like she was echoing Lonnie's words to her right back to Jonathan. His gaze went stern on instinct, and even Joyce caught herself, knowing what she'd done. Lonnie had a way of leaving tiny parts of himself behind like that…even in Jonathan whenever he was angry, even in Will whenever he was afraid. Even in death, he still had quite the presence in this household.

Jonathan shook his head, "Mom…I'm sorry…"

"For what?" she demanded, rising to her feet.

"…arguing with you...before…I didn't mean to just leave like that," tears welled in those dark, piercing eyes. "I was just so…angry."

"Oh Jonathan…" she shook her head, pulling him into the embrace he'd needed since Hopper had dropped that stick of dynamite in their living room. "It's okay…it's okay…" she consoled. "We're…w-we're gonna figure this out…"

"No…" he refused, pulling away from her.

"Huh? What-?"

"No I don't wanna figure it out!" Jonathan snapped, wringing from her arms. "I want this to be over!"

Joyce eyed him questioningly, "…what?"

"Dad wasn't even a part of this whole…conspiracy thing, and they killed him," he declared pointedly. Joyce's gaze went soft, her brow pinched longingly. "…I don't want them to do that to you…" the teenager shook his head, his heart raging like an inferno inside his chest.

"Jonathan…" she latched onto his arms, unable to accept what he was suggesting. "She…needsus…"

"Yeah but do we really need her?!" he sputtered, his rage flaring up in unchecked lava plumes. Joyce eyed him accusingly, letting go of his arms mechanically. "She's just putting us in danger...putting you and Hop in danger and-"

Joyce's hand collided so smartly with his cheek that Jonathan stopped midsentence. He stared back at her, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, those lava plumes immediately smothering themselves. "…how DARE you say she's useless!" Joyce bellowed, her voice raising above his. "She saved your brother Jonathan…she saved Will, without even knowing us!" Jonathan swallowed, pursing his lips and eyeing the floor comprehendingly. "We OWE her Jonathan! She's a part of this family now…and she's NOT going back there, everagain!" There was something so outrageously real about Joyce's fury. She only saved it for dire situations, and considering Jonathan's folly…yeah, he totally deserved this. How could he have forgotten what Eleven had sacrificed for them? "I…I-I can't believe you would even suggest that!" Joyce gestured her disbelief with a frantic hand.

"I'm sorry…" he shook his head, his face cringing up in despair. "Mom, it's just…"

"I know it's scary right now…" she fought to lower her voice back to one of gentle reassurance. "But…" Joyce sucked in a deep sigh, shaking her head. "…I, am never going to leave you Jonathan…for as long as I live…I'm not gonna leave you." Jonathan sniffed, his emotions choking him into silence. "…a-and those men…this, conspiracy...we can get over this. I know it!" He closed his eyes, drinking in the bittersweet taste of his own tears. She'd sobered up within seconds of him mentioning that ridiculous proposal, and now her head stung with a completely new kind of pain. "…okay?"

Jonathan shook his head, "…okay…"

Joyce melted into a sigh. "…now come here!" she ordered, beckoning him with a wave of outstretched hands. Jonathan met her in another hug, his arms encompassing her easily. "We just…we need to trust Hopper…okay?" She could feel him nodding in the space above her shoulder, sniffing to himself. "Right now…he's our only hope…"

After this argument, Jonathan begrudgingly to returned to his room. His eyes closed against salty sadness, and he placed his headphones on, hoping it would lull him to sleep. It worked, and he was vaulted into another dream…short but acutely intense. He didn't know where he was or what he was doing…he wasn't even sure what he was wearing. It felt like a suit. He looked down. It was a suit. Jonathan looked back up, flinching back upon seeing his father standing before him, a glower across his face. Suddenly, there were dead rabbits everywhere, falling from the trees, already laying on the ground, all of them with gunshot wounds. Lonnie never looked away from his panicked son, who was gazing about maniacally. Something told him to run…he couldn't remember what it was. That's when Lonnie spoke, his voice a low and meaningless grumble.

"…you ain't no son of mine…" With that, the man disappeared, and in the exact same instance, the Demogorgon burst out of the ground, inadvertently drawn in by the rabbit's blood.

Nancy was suddenly behind him, shouting into his ear, "SHOOT IT JONATHAN!" A gun was in his hand, so Jonathan tried lifting it to aim, but it was like his arm suddenly weighed a ton. He couldn't even move a finger, stuck in place like a piece of stone. "JONATHAN!?" Nancy demanded, clutching that baseball bat in her delicate hands.

"I-I CAN'T!" he shouted back, struggling to lift his arm. Miraculously, Nancy seemed to understand his dilemma, rushing to his side and trying to lift his arm with him. Her hands struggled against his sleeve as she pushed with all her might. Meanwhile, the Demogorgon had just finished crawling through that tear, now towering before them. "NANCY RUN!"

"What?!" she demanded, eyeing him incredulously.

"Get out of here! Just GO! I'll be FINE…" Jonathan ordered, turning to eye her only to find that she was already gone. That bone-chilling roar was the last thing he heard before he forced himself out of the dream, panting and clutching an imaginary gun in his hand. His eyes were wide, immediately drifting to the window. An obnoxiously loud song was blaring into his eardrums, so he tore the headphones off. The sun was just rising. She had to be back now, he thought, rushing to his feet and bursting through his door.

Slowly, the world flickered into view. A voice echoed in and out of comprehension, varying from incoherent gibberish to whole, intelligible sentences. A man was standing in the corner of the room, speaking to someone on a telephone when he turned, approaching that groggy face and leaning closer. "H-…-ey…-wake?" His lips moved, but his voice dropped out a few times, like a poor radio connection. Then, he felt hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring him back down to reality. "…whoa…" Powell's familiar face finally drifted into view, distinguishing itself against the fog. Cal watched him, very confused as the dark man grinned, smiling to himself. "You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch…"

"Mm…huh?" Cal mumbled, his head throbbing incessantly. "…w-what time is it?" He somehow found the clarity to speak properly.

"It's morning…look-" Powell walked to the edge of the room, pulling the curtains open mercilessly. Sunshine inundated the tiny room with glaring light. "-RISE AND SHINE!" he droned.

"Oh…NO!" Cal groaned as Powell grinned victoriously. "No no no no no…close that…ugh…" the man waved his hands about in a sloth-like fashion, his words just as sluggish. He slammed his eyes shut against the radiance, humming in anger. A sharp pain raked inside his chest and he winced, dropping his arms to his sides. This is worse than that hangover from New Years, he thought to himself.

"Yeah alright…" Powell snickered, pulling the cloth together and returning to Cal's side. "It's about time you woke up! They gave you that blood hours ago…and it didn't take them that long to find the bullet…"

"…what?" Cal blinked, gazing half-lidded at his fellow officer. Was this still a dream? I better pinch myself just in case…

"Well of course you had to be O negative…" Powell complained, expertly grinding Cal's gears into rusty cogs. "The Chief had to bend over backwards to find a donor…" Powell squinted over at Cal's hand, his pointer finger curling so he could pierce a nail into his palm. "W-What…what the hell are you doing?!"

"Nothing…" he sighed, quickly removing the nail and going over what he last remembered. Lights…sirens…the pain. That same fear from before suddenly revisited him, everything dropping into place rather violently. "…w-what do you mean find somebody…?" Cal asked, his voice absent. His blue eyes were the only intense thing about him…everything else was lacking in all areas of strength and normalcy.

"…O negative…?" Powell repeated, eyeing him expectantly. Cal blinked twice. "…come on man! The universal donor doesn't even know his own blood type?!"

"YeahI'm the universal donor…I know that. So what?" Cal rebuked, fighting a dry feeling itch at his throat.

Powell shook his head, his grin broad and disbelieving, "…you can only receive your own type of blood."

Blinking at this, Cal hummed with realization, "Oh…"

Powell rolled his eyes, "Geez man…Hop had to find your niece. Then bring her all the way over from Kerley County…" Callahan suddenly hacked into his arm and Powell shot to his feet, filling a cup with water from the sink. "…I didn't even know kids could donate…I was sure there was an age limit..." He handed the cup to his breathless friend, nodding reassuringly. "Drink up. That's one thing the doctor said…"

Cal gulped down the cold, refreshing liquid, hissing agreeably. He regained his breaths, handing the cup back to Powell and shaking his head, "I don't have a niece."

On his way to the sink, Powell stopped, turning back to gaze at him, looking very confounded. "…what?"

"…I don't have a niece," Cal shrugged, wincing at the pain in his chest and peering down at himself. "Not yet anyways…trust me. If my brother ever found love, all of Indiana would hear about it…"

Powell squinted his eyes, pouring a second cup. "…but…the Chief came in with somebody who had the same blood type as you…"

Cal eagerly drank the water, holding the cup back out to Powell, his arm straining against the weight of gravity. The pain became too much and he dropped his arm to his side, the empty cup toppling onto the mattress. "…sorry…" Cal gave a meek mumble of an apology.

"That's fine…take it easy. Doctor's orders," Powell chuckled, a nervousness unexpectedly finding him amidst the gleefully charged atmosphere. Cal was alive…talking and remembering things. He couldn't wait to rub it in Flo's face (no, they hadn't made bets); she'd been more open to the idea of losing him. "…hopefully the Chief will…explain everything when he comes up to see you," Powell assured him over the sound of running water.

"P…P-Powell…" Cal beckoned him over, his eyes widening fearfully. The black man turned, eyeing him just in time to watch him hurl all over his sheets; most of it being the water he'd just inhaled.

"OH…um…" Powell leant out of the room. "CAN WE GET A NURSE IN HERE?" He raced back to Cal's side, handing him a clean bed pan. Bile and water seeped into the sheets, lukewarm against Cal's thighs. His partner sighed, "…at least you didn't get it in the wound." At that, Cal retched a second time into the bucket just as a young nurse flutter-stepped into the room.

Three bikes shuddered against the pavement, four shoes pushing their wheels determinedly. Lucas led the way with Will at his back; Dustin and Mike followed close behind. Lucas stopped at an intersection, the sound of rubber grinding against the blacktop meeting his ears. Will and he peered about, "…which way?"

"…um," Will looked over to Mike and Dustin. "…I-I think it's that way…" he pointed an unconvincing finger towards the right.

"What is it?" Mike spoke up, squinting in the sunlight. He could see Lucas rolling his eyes into the back of his skull at Will's guess.

"I thought you said you knew where it was!" he shot over his shoulder.

"Well, I do! I just…" Will stammered, pinching his brow worriedly. "…I can't remember…"

Lucas scoffed as Dustin shook his head knowingly, "It's this way." He began biking to the left, the others taking a moment to watch him go, then hastily scrambling to follow.

"Are you sure?" Mike shouted.

"Positive!" Dustin tossed back, his legs straining against a certain hill.

Lucas eyed Mike, watching as the pale boy shrugged, Will snickering. "…I guess we'll find it eventually…" Will spoke up in an optimistic tone.

"I knew we should've made Nancy take us!" Lucas stressed, shaking his head.

"I asked! She said she had plans today…" Mike covered for his sister. After the events of last night, he couldn't find it in himself to despise her for the tiny things anymore…at least, not yet. She'd helped Eleven…pretty much saved her. He pursed his lips, drawing into himself pensively, missing those hands clutching his sides and the added weight on the back of his bicycle. Oh well, he thought. Surely he'd see her soon. Will would anyway.

"Yeah…Jonathan's gonna take her to a concert," Will added nonchalantly. Mike shot a glare at him as he grinned over Lucas' shoulder.

Lucas snickered on cue, "Ooooooh…"

Mike groaned, "Ugh…you guys are so gross…they're just friends."

"Hey, wouldn't it be weird if Jonathan and Nancy ended up getting married?" Lucas took it ten steps further, making Will shake his head and grin helplessly. "Wouldn't that make you and Mike…actual brothers?"

"…yeah I think so," Will nodded, both of them gazing at Mike as he tried ignoring this disgusting idea. Thinking about his sister marrying anyone…ugh. He didn't mind Jonathan – he favored him over Steve, that was for sure – but Nancy was just…insufferable sometimes. Picturing her doing anything romantic just repulsed him, and his friends knew it all too well.

"Guys we're here!" Dustin shouted from the front, slowing down and stepping off his bike.

"Nancy and Jonathan sitting in a tree…" Lucas sung, wiggling his shoulders as they braked to a stop.

"…K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Will unexpectedly chimed in as Lucas clawed at Mike's patience. Dustin eyed them confusingly, having been too far ahead to catch their one-sided conversation.

"Guys cut it out!" Mike grimaced at the two as they clung to each other for support, giggling endlessly. "Nancy is…ugh…" Mike shuddered. "Please just stop!"

"Okay okay…" Will rolled his eyes endearingly, sighing to himself.

"I don't even wanna know what you guys are talking about…" Dustin shook his head, burrowing into his bag for the blood-stained clothing. "Now who has the change?"

"Me…" Mike stated quite meekly, digging into his pocket for the many coins. After breakfast, they'd searched Mike's entire house for loose change, even going as far as upturning sofa cushions. It was worth it though: they now had a whopping two dollars and seven cents. As Mike counted the coins in his palm, his thoughts drifting to that of Eleven, a man exited the tiny laundromat, stopping short behind the kids.

"Boys!"

Each of them spun around, their brows wide with surprise. "Oh," Mike voiced his shock. "Hey Mr. Clarke!"

"Morning guys!" he nodded, smiling warmly at his favorite students. His calm, dark eyes drifted over to the Byers' youngest. "Will! It's good to see you! You look well," he observed.

"Well, I feel a lot better," Will covered, smiling along with him.

"Hey, Mr. Clarke, I had a question to ask you…" Dustin broke in a little rudely.

"Sorry Dustin, I'm afraid I'll have to take a raincheck on this one. I've got a busy day ahead…"

"Oh, it'll only take a second!" Dustin swore, following him as he skirted the tight group.

Scott pursed his lips regretfully, "I'm sorry Dustin, but I really do have to go…"

Mike peered over at his friend as Lucas tapped him and hissed, "Just ask him later…"

"Well, it was nice seeing you!" Mike bid him a farewell as Will's eyes inadvertently went over their teachers' belongings.

Suddenly, those hazel eyes widened, recognizing the shape of something beneath the dry-cleaning bag, "Nice suit!"

Scott glanced down at it, smiling back up at Will, "Oh, thanks! Good observational skills. No wonder you're such a talented artist." As the boys smiled at Will, the man stood a moment, hesitating amidst his indecision…had he asked them yet? He didn't think so…for some reason he couldn't remember. His eyes squinted in thought, Mike recognizing that puzzled expression that graced his face so rarely. "…did I already tell you what the suit was for?"

Most of them shrugged or shook their heads. "…is it that one you wore to Will's funeral?" Dustin guessed.

Mr. Clarke scoffed good-naturedly as Dustin's friends eyed daggers at him. "Oh, no! No it's…" he rolled his eyes a tad. "…well, yes it's the same suit. But, it's notfor a funeral. Can you boys guess what it is for?"

"…a…party?" Mike spoke. Mr. Clarke shook his head.

"…graduation?" Lucas chimed in with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Nope," Scott simpered, watching their minds work over the endless possibilities.

"OOH! Is it for a bar mitzvah?" Dustin eagerly asked. They all eyed him a little incredulously, Mr. Clarke breaking into the widest of grins.

"Uh…nope," he chuckled. "Try again."

"…jury duty?" Mike asked, only to purse his lips as their teacher shook his head.

"…is it for a science competition?" Will deduced.

"Good guess, but no…" Scott reluctantly shook his head. He eyed them all like a game-show host, "…any more guesses?" The boys eyed the ground, defeat plastered across all their faces, their shoulders sagging. Scott smiled knowingly, "Well I guess I haven't told you guys yet…hmm…"

"…told us what?" Lucas politely pressed, anxious to know the answer.

"Well…it's a tad complicated…" Mr. Clarke began. "…normally, I'd be asking your parents first…but I think you guys can handle it." They watched him with wondering eyes as he prepared himself. "…boys, I'd like you all to come to my wedding." Their eyes lit up excitedly, a chorus of gasps passing along the group. "Just…try and keep this offthe record and out of the school. We wouldn't want any other students to be getting jealous…"

"Mister Clarke!" Lucas cooed playfully, wiggling his eyebrows at him in a bold gesture.

"Lucas!" he eyed him sternly as Lucas immediately dropped his grin.

"…sorry…" he mumbled.

To their surprise, Mr. Clarke chuckled to himself, "…just pulling your leg. It's alright. I couldn't be happier…" They watched him dreamily gaze off into the distance for a short moment, then return his focus on them. "Her name is Jun, and she is very excited to meet you guys."

"Really?!" Mike asked, astounded. The others tried containing their exhilaration. They'd never been to a wedding before, and for someone like Mr. Clarke…it just promised too much of a good time.

"Yep! She's heard all about how smart you boys are...and to tell you the truth…" he leant in and lowered his voice, the boys craning their necks to listen in. "…she might even be smarter than me."

"What?!" Dustin scoffed.

"No way!" Mike shook his head disbelievingly as Will grinned widely.

"It's true. She's a scientist boys…a real scientist. She gets to work with plants every day!" As Scott enthused, they eyed him a little confusingly. "Well…she's a…botanist. Still, she's the smartest and most beautiful woman I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."

The boys fumbled with their words, inwardly tripping over themselves to try and find the right way to express their delight. "Well…congratulations!" Will finally spoke up, smiling widely.

"-y-yeah! We're so happy for you!" Lucas added as Mike eagerly nodded.

"Oh, thanks guys. I'm just glad I finally found her…" he trailed off, smiling warmly at them all. "…I'm actually kind of nervous," he confessed. This struck them all as odd.

"Nervous?" Lucas repeated with a scoff. "About what?"

"Well…" Mr. Clarke trailed off, pursing his lips. They all eyed him as if he'd just introduced mitochondrial functions to them…but he thought he could see a glimmer of understanding in Michael's eyes. "…don't worry! You'll understand when you're older."

As Mike held his gaze, the others peered down unconvincingly. Dustin chuckled a droning laugh, "I seriously doubt that…"

"Oh…don't be foolish!" Mr. Clarke waved a hand at them, raising their downturned gazes. "Any girl would be lucky to have any one of you at their side. Keep in mind; your body is just a vessel. A person's real worth lies in the power of their mind. Brains over brawn…" he trailed off, trying to convince them of their real worth. "I wouldn't worry too much about it either. You boys have plenty of time ahead of you…" They smiled gratefully at him as he added, "Just be sure not to waste it."

"We won't!" Dustin assured him, beaming toothily. They all regarded Mr. Clarke in a different light now, inwardly paying him the highest respects. Each boy took this information with him…except for Mike. For some reason, the man's words had only twisted the boy's heart into a tightly wound knot. He kept thinking back to that kiss in the cafeteria, his face shading a deep red and his pulse quickening.

Mr. Clarke eyed the silent boy, "…y-you okay there Mike?" To his horror, his friends all eyed him, their shrewd smiles grating against his sanity.

"-yeah! I'm fine!" he lied, his voice croaking awkwardly.

Scott chuckled, "Well, I'll call all of your parents tonight and give them the date. I hope all of you can make it. It'd mean a lot to me."

"Us too!" Dustin nodded eagerly along with his friends.

"Yeah! It'll be so much fun!" Will enthused.

Mr. Clarke nodded at them in a polite farewell, "Have a great day boys. And be safe. I'll see you next week, enjoy your break!"

"We will!" the wizard called after him as he walked towards his car. He turned to eye his friends, "…did anybody know Mr. Clarke had a girlfriend?"

They exchanged mischievous smiles, except for Mike; his legs were trembling anxiously. "I did!" Dustin announced. "I stayed after to study with him one time and I saw her picture on his desk."

"What's she look like?" Lucas asked as Will smiled to himself.

Before Dustin could answer, Mike bounced to a start and called after him, "Hey Mr. Clarke!" Hanging his suit above the back seat, he turned to watch Mike rush towards him, a question behind those dark brown eyes. "…would it be alright if we…brought somebody else too?"

Scott puzzled this, "Hmm…I don't see why not. Who is it?"

"O-Oh, um…" Mike took a moment to rekindle this memory, peering back at his friends almost searchingly, as if he would see her standing beside them all, mouthing her alias in a silent gesture. The three boys eyed him very confusingly, too far away to overhear. "…remember, Eleanor?" Mike chanced Mr. Clarke's brain.

The man squinted his eyes at this, "Hmm…I believe so. She's the one from…Sweden, correct?"

"Oh…yeah!"Mike hastily nodded, having completely forgotten that part.

"Of course! I'm sure we can fit her in, and there'll be enough food there to feed an army," Mr. Clarke chuckled lightheartedly. "…Eleanor didn't strike me as one to eat much, so I'm sure we'll have enough," he joked.

"Oh…you'd be surprised…" Mike chuckled knowingly. When Mr. Clarke eyed him quizzically, Mike's smile quickly dropped. "Um…okay! T-Thanks! I'll…see you later!"

"…take care, Mike," Scott called after the bizarre child as he rushed back to his friends. They looked like they were either scolding or questioning him as they entered the laundromat. Mr. Clarke smiled to himself, suddenly recalling what had struck him as odd about meeting them here. Did one of their washers break? Why were they…here? He blinked skeptically, shrugging to himself and shaking his head. He focused on driving back to his fiancé, blissfully unaware of what the boys were really up to.

"…what was that?" Lucas prompted, watching the pale boy glaringly.

"I was just asking if El could come along…" Mike replied easily, stepping up to a washer with the rest of them. Dustin began unzipping his bag, pursing his lips at the bloodied clothing that lay within. It was wrapped in a thick, garbage bag, but he still refused to touch it, the thought of blood on his skin unnerving him to no end.

Lucas' shoulders drooped instinctively, "…really Mike?"

The boy turned to glare back, "What?!"

"Well, if the Bad Men are alive, I'm pretty sure it'd be dangerous to be bringing her anywhere," Dustin reasoned as Mike blinked back this reasonable notion.

"They can't get her. They don't even know where she is!" he shot back, his brow creasing angrily. He wanted her to go with them. It would suck if she had to stay at one of their houses alone while they all enjoyed Mr. Clarke's new marriage. Dustin's hesitation irked him and he promptly reached into the bag, hoisting the plastic out.

"Did she ever tell you how she got back?" Lucas interrogated him, his friends turning to Mike, awaiting an answer.

The Dungeon Master lowered his eyes to the ground, "…no." Their gazes held with his as he righted himself, trying to cling to some sense of hope. "But it doesn't matter! She's back now. They probably don't even know..." Ironically enough, Mike found it hard to believe his own words, as if he were saying them just to convince himself and not them. Lucas shook his head as Will lowered his gaze. "Let's just do this…" Mike tried to switch the subject, opening the bag and grabbing the clothes. Dustin's eyes widened as Mike's hand gripped the stained shirt, tossing them into the washer. Pursing his lips and creasing his brow, Mike inserted a quarter, two dimes and a nickel into the coin slot. As soon as Will was finished scooping some powdery detergent inside, he shut the door with a slam. With a press of a button, the washer began to rotate and hum. Will's button-down night shirt tumbled alongside one of Karen's bath towels, and they watched as the rushing water dyed a pinkish color, eventually deepening into a watery red, then washing out completely.

The knob crashed into an obstructive wall, the door swinging into his house and bouncing back disagreeably. Yep…there was definitely a dent there now. Moonlight poured into his house, the only source of light for him at the moment. His arm stood cocked beside him, the weight of his gun like ice in his right hand. Hop took one step inside, peering down at the floor anxiously and noting his shoe's firm hold on the wood. It lay bare, unnaturally shiny and clean…how long did it take them to do this? "Jesus…" Hop blinked back that gory image of Lonnie's dead face, his brain obliterated against the inside of Hop's door. Thinking of that, Hop gripped the edge of it with his free hand, peering around the corner to eye the surface. A fresh dent clung to the opposing wall, but the door itself looked brand new, brown and (mostly) spotless…except for one tiny variation. Hop crouched down, exhaling as he further inspected the tiny bullet hole puncturing the wood. His fingers outlined it, fingerprints dragging against the timbers. Those blue eyes hung hollow in their sockets, tired and uneasy. Lonnie died…right here, where I'm crouching.

He shook his head, rising to his feet and toughing through the vomit that threatened to come up. He turned, gun raised at a bent elbow, peering about the rest of his dark home. He'd done what he needed to do, and that didn't mean they were done with him. Blinking warily at the shadows, he reached back and flicked a light switch. To his astonishment, the room illuminated in a barely-comforting cast of light. Figures they should fix the power…God forbid he should go without a telephone. He couldn't lie…Hopper had accumulated quite a distaste for all things technological, and in this booming day and age, he only had The Department of Energy to thank for that. At least now he could see everything…laying in ruins, just as he'd left it. Hop wasn't exactly the neatest homeowner. Crossing the room, Hop set his gun on the table and cleared a spot on the sofa, tossing some foul-smelling blankets across the room in a flurry. Reaching back for his gun, Hop's hand froze, his eyes locking onto something else and feeling instantly anxious. A chill shot through his spine, reaching up to grasp his throat and dig it's nails into his nape.

There was his grandfather's hat, resting delicately on his cluttered coffee table…unassuming and familiar.

They were here. Hop could now clearly remember leaving the hat right behind that man in the grey suit…and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. No. He was here. Brenner was one thing…he at least came by his cruelty honestly. That man…that, cheeky bastard spoke with such disillusionment that it made Hop's stomach coil. It was probably just the way Brenner wanted him…brainwashed into thinking he was doing something good. His eyes never left the hat as he slowly realized a part of him never wanted to wear it again…not even touch it.

Hop shook his head, fighting to keep his stomach under check. With a deliberate blink, he gazed about the room, beads of sweat conglomerating on his skin. He peered around at all of the replaced lightbulbs, furniture, telephones, lamps, and cushions he'd spent months saving up for…and sighed resignedly, "…you've gotta be kidding me."

Saving demolition time for later, Jim snatched his gun off the table, stomping into his bedroom and checking the perimeter. His bed promised him the rest he craved so desperately, but Hop wouldn't even consider it; not when his blood was pumping and his heart beat so violently against his sternum. He left, going on to check the bathroom and closet. Saving the deck for last, he stepped out into the chilled March night, shivering against the air. His finger lingered over the trigger as he spun about chaotically, his eyes darting every which way. Finally satisfied with his hectic search, he lowered his gun to his side, taking a moment to inhale the crisp air into his lungs. Then, he rushed back through his home, crossing his lawn and opening his car door.

Folding the passenger seat, he unbuckled her, hoisted her up and out, then hefted her into his arms. Eleven's head hung back in an alarming manner, so he shouldered it into his chest, kicking the car shut on his way. Hop stumbled into his home, placing her delicately onto the sofa, then crossing the room to slam and lock his door. As if that really mattered, he thought. Anxious, he returned to her, blue eyes bursting with queries. He sighed, resituating her so she was on her right side, facing the wall. With her back to him, he lifted the shirt up and gaped at the bandages, seeping with blood. No wonder she passed out. Like a machine, his eyes tore about the room, and he bolted to his closet, extracting a dusty first-aid kit and returning to her within seconds. Something told Hop to elevate her feet, so he did, stacking a few of the fragrant blankets and stray pillows beneath her feet. It was a little awkward to do this while she was on her side, but once Hop was finished with…whatever he was preparing to fix, he could make the necessary adjustments.

It took Hop half an hour to unwrap the gauze, stare at those monstrous lacerations sweeping her back, stop the bleeding as best he could, sanitize it (thank God she couldn't feel the stinging), and try to recreate the same wrap with brand new bandages. Her shirt had been replaced with one of Hop's old ones…unfathomably large and a dark sage on her small frame. He didn't think she would care. Hop gently turned her onto her back, propping her feet onto the pillows and covering her with blanket after blanket, tucking them in around her sides. When he was finally finished, she looked so warm and comfortable it made him sleepy…but he refused to close his eyes for even a moment. Hopper hoped she could feel this warmth, wherever her subconscious had taken her. He needed to monitor Eleven…to be there when she woke up...he wouldn't allow himself to even consider an if.

A nervous hand smoothed over her forehead as he glared through the window, out into the night. His entire demeanor was guarded, spent entirely on ensuring her safety. They gave you a week, calm down. Hop clenched his teeth and seethed like a simmering teapot; angry with Brenner, furious with himself and even more distraught over Callahan's unknown condition. She was still so cold…his hand pressed against her forehead and he shook his head. Her breaths were the only thing calming him down, though a great distance lay between each shallow exchange.

To be continued…

Authors Note: Thank you guys so much for reading! I greatly appreciate all of your comments! They mean a lot to me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I tried toning it down a little – but not too much because of well…everything – so hopefully it was a nice change of pace. A bit brighter, if you will.

Mr. Clarke is one of my favorite characters. I mean, they're all great in their own ways but if I had Mr. Clarke as my science teacher, FORGET IT! He obviously deserves Best Teacher of the Year Award, like come on now…