A/N: This story will contain spoilers for Stranger Things: Season 4. Read with caution, you have been warned.
Secondary Summary:
Cora was admitted a few years after Henry to Dr. Brenner's control.
Twenty years later, Henry releases her before his killing spree at Hawkins Lab.
She is now trapped in Hawkins, and her leash goes only as far as the city limit.
But she comes to realize that her hauntings are drastically different than the ones that loom over the town.
The clink of drinks and the murmur of human chatter filled the large room. With enough shots of vodka, the bright, gimmicky lights of the slot machines blurred together. The cigarette smoke didn't burn Cora's lungs anymore. She'd been sitting at the roulette table for an hour and a half now, and her chips easily totaled $500.
And she had only started with $5.
The haze of the alcohol in her system hardly impacted the precision of her power. She had been well practiced, and the roulette ball would land at the exact number she'd decided.
She wouldn't win. Not always. It would look too suspicious.
But, every other round, or maybe every three or four rounds, she'd casually flick her wrist while reaching for her drink, and the ball would fall on the twenty she'd bet a $5 chip on.
The casino was grand, but it was also the only one in Hawkins. Cora despised the sleazy atmosphere, but she was also secretly grateful for her single source of income. Instead of using her powers to steal directly from the people of Hawkins, she chose to steal from the casino that already did enough damage to the community.
"With your luck, you should go all in," a man beside her slurred. He pointed his finger at a number on the table. "I'd do 15."
The man had been paying attention to her streak. Cora stacked her chips in front of her and decided to humor him. She pushed in her stack and bet it all on black, because that would only double her amount. Winning on a number meant thirty-five times your bet, and that big of a win would attract unwanted monitoring from the casino.
That evening, she walked out with $1000. She was robbing them blind, she thought with unruly glee.
It was the middle of the night now, and she was more sober, and less happy. She felt the dread of reality hovering over her as the numbness faded.
Her dress fluttered in the wind, and her shoes weren't comfortable. After a few steps in the street, she leaned against a building and stared up at the sky as alcohol burned down her throat. The little bottles, she would admit, she stole from the grocers a few blocks down. One tequila, two vodka. One gin.
Pure gin, she decided, was the worst one of all.
She stuck the empty bottle of vodka back into her purse and continued her trek home. But at a street corner, she felt another presence behind her. The vodka made her head spin, but she didn't fall when she whipped around. She recognized the man from the casino—the one that had baited her to bet for the 15.
"You shouldn't walk these streets alone, girl," he said, and he was advancing closer. The alarm bells in Cora's head were ringing, but they were faint. Just the way she liked them.
She swept a hazy gaze over the empty streets, then her eyes finally landed on him. He was a few feet away now, and she threw out her hand. He slammed into the wall beside her, and she faintly heard a crack.
"What was that, honey?" She asked innocently enough, her hand still extended—still pressing him against the brick.
The man groaned, and Cora was vaguely aware of the blood dripping out of his nose. She didn't want to kill him, and she decided that she wasn't going to.
Releasing him from her telepathic hold, Cora turned right around and headed down the street. She didn't hear him hit the ground, but she didn't quite care. The serene reverie the vodka had her in didn't let her care.
Her apartment was on the second floor of the white, creaky old building before her. She opened the front door and stumbled through, passing the various apartment doors before reaching the stairs.
She held onto the railing for a few minutes, and then finally felt the courage to drag herself the rest of the way. When she finally got to her door on the second floor, she found that it was already open.
She must have closed it, she told herself. She must have locked it, too. She better have. And the lights—she could have sworn she turned them off.
But the concerns were an annoying buzz at the back of her head. She didn't think too much of it, because the haze wouldn't let her. And she loved that.
No problem, she thought. No problem at all.
The apartment was a studio. Her bedroom was her kitchen, and her kitchen was her living room. She kicked off her shoes that were too high for her comfort and let herself fall on the couch. But she really shouldn't have made it to the couch. She had been too far before she lost her balance, but she landed on the pillows nonetheless.
She flipped herself so she lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. Once the room stabilized around her, she decided that she really hated the ceiling. The popcorn texture looked terrible.
Her eyes were closing when she heard the sound of a tap turn on. She groggily propped herself on her elbows and eyed the kitchen sink a few feet away with disdain. She flicked her head, and the water shut off immediately. Her head fell back against the pillows. Perhaps she should get up and crawl into her actual bed, she thought. But the couch beneath her felt cool and soft.
Again, the tap turned on. Now, she was irritated. The lights flickered when she held out her hand and bent the metal of the faucet, effectively tying the damn thing into a knot. In hindsight, this was an overreaction, but she was too lost to care.
Just as her eyes fluttered to a close, she heard a rush of running water and felt the urge to rip the piping out of the walls. She got to her feet and stalked to the bathroom, glaring daggers at the fresh water filling up the sink. It had always been slow to drain.
She sighed, staring at the water. Cupping her hand, she used it as a vessel to transport liquid into her dry mouth. Yes, she thought, as she drank another handful—she was dehydrated to hell.
The headache that had been creeping up already let go of its claws at the first few sips, and she was feeling much better. Wiping her mouth with her bare arm, she looked up at the mirror that hadn't been cleaned for weeks. She took a handful of water and ran it down her dark hair, starting from her scalp. The cool felt good against her skull, and she considered filling up the sink to dunk her whole head in.
And as if her body knew before she did, the shower turned on. Her powers seemingly had a mind of their own.
Cora quickly stripped down, kicking her dress to the corner of the bathroom. She squealed with delight at the cold that met her skin. But to her dismay, she was sobering up.
Grabbing a towel from the nearby hook, she wrapped it around her pale skin and stepped barefoot into the rest of her apartment.
With a flick of her wrist, she opened her only dresser and summoned a long nightshirt. And then she fell asleep in her bed with the towel wrapped around her head.
When she awoke the next morning, she didn't feel terrible like she had anticipated. The only reason for her headache must have been from the wet towel still wrapped around her head.
Getting to her feet, she squinted through the only window in the apartment. It was daylight.
She quickly closed the blinds and padded to the kitchen. Her purse was resting on the ground by the front door, and she knelt down and pulled out the cash she had earned from the night before. She looked up at the door.
When had she closed it? Nonetheless, she was glad she did.
And then a knock came, jolting her back. She listened closely for who was out there, but then heard their footsteps retreating. She got to her feet and stared out the peephole.
No one.
She unlocked the door and peered through the crack.
The newspaper.
She sighed, not knowing what she had been expecting, and flicked her wrist to nudge the paper inside. Closing the door, she headed into the kitchen, seeking hydration. After seeing that she had mutilated the kitchen sink, she begrudgingly took the glass with her to the bathroom.
But as she was returning to the kitchen, a loose leaf of paper caught her eye. It was attached to the front of the newspaper on the ground, and it was in print. She leaned over it to read:
Hawkins Daily: Addition to Monday, July 23rd
Warning to all residents on Priscilla and Molly streets. Be aware of your surroundings, and lock your doors. A dead resident was found last night on Marguerita Avenue. More information to follow in tomorrow's edition.
Placing the glass of water on the counter, she searched for some food. While munching on some peanut butter on a slice of toast, she thought back on the night prior.
So she had killed him after all.
A/N: I'm excited for this. Who doesn't love a good Vecna story? Dark themes ahead.
