A/N: Some clarifications on the timeline for this story:

Henry was admitted to Hawkins Labs in 1959—he was 12 years old.

Cora was admitted a few years after, in 1963—she was only 6 years old.

The Hawkins Lab massacre happened in 1979, where Cora was 22 years old, and she is let go.

Eleven was 12 years old during the massacre. She escapes the lab in 1981, two years after she banishes Henry to the Upside Down. Eleven has lost certain memories, but not her ability to speak/interact with people.

The story picks up right then, when Eleven escapes from Hawkins Lab, and we jump into the events of Season 1. But the twist? The gang is in high school.

A lot of the events in the seasons will be accelerated for the sake of my sanity.


By mid-afternoon that Monday, Cora was expected at the local high school. She spent her weekdays volunteering at the library. It kept her mind busy and her hands away from the bottles in her apartment.

For four hours, she would shadow the sole librarian and do as she was told. She would organize and reorganize shelves of books, update their catalog given new arrivals, and help make little posters to highlight recommended reading. Since it was summer break, she didn't get to interact much with children, but there were still some kids who came in following their summer school classes.

"Cora." Marie, the middle-aged librarian, stacked a new pile of books on the table she was working on. "These, too."

Currently, she had a new task of renewing the sheets that were taped on the inside cover of each book. The sheets signified the latest dates that the book was checked out, and they had to be replaced each school year.

Cora was dimly aware that the task would take her less effort if she could just use her powers, but she appreciated how menial it was.

Open, tear, glue, replace, close.

Open, tear, glue, replace, close.

She had gotten through a few of them before she turned her head and noticed that Marie was still standing next to her.

"I just wanted to ask," the woman said, clasping her hands together. "Would you be interested in having dinner with us tonight? I know you're on your own, and it would mean a lot to me if we could have you over."

Cora smiled at her, but the returning smile she got was tight and full of hidden details. "That's very nice of you, Marie. Who else will be there? Ron, definitely…"

Ron was her husband. "Yes, Ron, and my daughter is in town, and…" she hesitated, "…so is my son. I've told you about him, yes?"

Cora turned her attention to the books. She had immediately lost interest in her kindness. "Yes, Marie."

"He works in D.C—some high-government, prestigious job." She chuckled. "He won't share a peep, but he's always in those sharp suits. Harold is just a joy, and I—"

"I'm sorry," Cora said regretfully, though she felt anything but. "I'm sure Harold's a gem."

"Honey." Marie scooted closer, and Cora took a small step away. "You're so young. Twenty-four and unmarried—it's just unseen in Hawkins. You're a sight to behold, my dear."

Cora couldn't help but squirm under her scrutiny, and she hoped the woman could understand and drop the subject. "I don't think I will ever marry, Marie."

She waved a deft hand quickly. "Nonsense."

It was true, Cora thought. She'd make a shit partner, and a terrible wife. She barely cooked, and her cleaning was subpar. She under-ate and over-drank. And she was sure she didn't want any children. She failed any and all qualifications.

Besides, she knew, marriage required intimacy. And she'd be damned if she ever let a man touch her like that again.


"Mike!"

"Hurry, Lucas!"

Cora looked back only to feel two bicycles whizz past her. She put her hand up to her forehead to block the sunshine as she examined the two teenagers on their bikes, beelining for the street ahead.

She watched, and a part of her admired.

Carefree, she thought.

She followed behind them, but they had already turned the block. She hadn't realized that she had been smiling. Their innocence felt unfamiliar and strange.

Her senses tingled and she took a quick step to the left to get out of the way of another cyclist.

"All of this… for a girl!" Another one yelled as he pedaled to reach who Cora assumed were his friends.

Once he was out of her sight, she noted that she did in fact recognize them—but they'd never interacted directly. Though hadn't there been one more in their group?

Cora distanced herself from the school building and headed for the diner two blocks away. This was her routine. She stuck to her routines the best that she could on the weekdays. The later she went home, the less energy she would have to open bottles.

Slipping into a booth, she ordered a meatloaf and vehemently denied the offer of coffee. She needed to be tired so she could sleep as early as possible.

Drumming her fingers on the table, she couldn't help but overhear a conversation.

"Was anything else stolen?" A gruff voice asked, and Cora scooted closer to the edge of the booth to get a better look.

"No," Bill, the owner of the diner, said. "Not that I can see." He swept a rag over the bar, then noticed Cora at the far corner.

"Hey, Coralena," he teased, and Cora scowled inwardly, because it wasn't her name. "Evening, girl. You're staying safe, I hope?"

Cora nodded. "Did something happen?"

Bill leaned against the bar and gestured around. "Someone broke in yesterday, ate half the food in the fridge. I caught her—I think it was a her—but she just bolted."

"Yeah," the man sitting at the bar said. "I was with him. Her head was shaven, and she looked like she just ran out of a freakin' surgery."

Cora stiffened, and then she was startled when the waitress came up from behind her and placed the meatloaf dish down.

"How old did she look?" Cora asked cautiously.

"No more than a teen," Bill said. "But you know how they are from the psych wards—batshit crazy. I trusted none of it. Called the cops, but I don't think they ever found her."

Cora slowly picked up her fork. "Psych ward? How could you possibly know that, Bill?"

"Hah!" He continued to drag the cloth over the bar. "She had that look. Hungry, and insane. Ferocious."

Cora jumped once more when the waitress returned.

"Did you want a milkshake, hun?" she asked, smacking her lips with gum.

"No, thanks," Cora responded in a small voice, and looked down at her meal—but then quickly changed her mind. "Actually, do you have anything stronger?"


The two beers had left her buzzed. When she exited the diner, the world wasn't spinning, but she definitely felt lighter.

—her head was shaven—

—looked like she just ran out of a freakin' surgery—

No, no. No. She shook her head and kept walking. She had heard nothing. It was all nonsense.

The dress she wore came down to her knees, and the cloth felt loose and airy on her thighs. She loved when the skirt billowed, and she felt like she could fly away.

The local bar was only a block down the street, and of course—of course, she stopped by. There was no avoiding it tonight, she decided. And brilliantly, she was the only customer at 7 o'clock on a Monday.

She walked up to the bar directly and didn't even bother with a seat. Beer rarely did it for her, because she could feel its effects fading quickly.

"A shot. Make it a double. Whiskey, if you got it."

The bartender, Robert McNeal, was an older man, and he eyed her quietly, then scolded her with a simple, "Cora."

"Robert," she pressed. "Either I get it from you, or I go to the liquor store in the worst part of town."

With only slight hesitation, the small glass with the delicious amber liquid came sliding towards her. She gave him a smile, then lifted her hand in anticipation, already welcoming the burn, and—

The glass was nowhere to be seen. It had smashed into the mirror behind the bar before she could even touch it. Robert whipped around from the other side.

"Jesus—Cora, are you—?"

The wine glasses that hung on the shelves near the shattered mirror began to slam down onto the ground. One by one, the deafening sound of glass breaking filled the room. It was persistent, and enough for Cora to claw at her ears to try to block it out.

Stop, she thought. Stop this now.

She brought her hands forward and stared at them, willing them to stay put. Why was she doing this?

And then, the smashing stopped, because there were no more glasses. Her heart was racing, and she was faintly sure that she was entirely sober already. She peered over at Robert who was simply frozen in place.

Then, he kicked into gear.

"Okay, okay—get back. Don't cut yourself." He had his arms out as he approached. "What a mess," he was muttering. "Did you even feel the earthquake?"

"I don't know what happened," she said quickly. "I don't know."

He paused, looking down at the shards and shards of glass. He then turned back to the mirror. "The—your shot glass, how did it—"

Cora blinked at him. "I slipped, and it just… flew."

She didn't sound convincing to herself at all, but she was glad that Robert was far more concerned with avoiding the layers of sharp glass on his side of the bar.

"This is why you sit, when you drink." He muttered, then tiptoed around to the back, disappeared, and returned with a broom.

"Can I help?" She offered quickly.

"No, it's alright," he said, but then took a moment to stare her down. "You're not going to Luke's Liquor, you understand me?"

She nodded to him, then quickly threw out a few bills onto the bar. She felt terrible for this.

"No, Cora. Take these back—"

But she was already out the door. She was watching him through the bar's large glass windows when she collided with something. Her head instantly spun.

She turned, an apology instantly on her tongue, but the words fizzled out before they could come.

Strong hands were wrapped around her upper arms to keep her steady, and a distinct blue gaze froze her into place.

"You know you shouldn't be drinking."

She wouldn't scream, she told herself. She blinked once, and then twice, then shrugged the hands off of her body. She took three, maybe four steps away from the bar, and then looked back. And it was stupid to look back, because she already knew that he wouldn't be there.

Her feet were moving her forward as she craned her neck to the spot where she had hit him, and she idiotically stumbled on the sidewalk. But a hand on her arm pulled her back from plummeting face-first into the concrete.

"Come now, you're not that drunk."

She yanked back her arm from his grip and kept walking. Even though she felt her breaths come in unevenly, and her fear begin to grow, she kept her head high as she nodded at the locals she recognized. A warm smile here, a friendly look there.

Because what good would it do if she lost it? What would they think if she ran screaming?

Oh, Cora—she's off with it again. Poor Cora, always frantically manic. Cora—the girl who's just drunk, and alone.

No.

But her heart raced with each step. It was madness to feel eyes on you, and to not be able to locate them for yourself.

Her lungs felt like they were burning, yet the world around her was dizzying—like she couldn't take in enough air, but she was also taking in too much. She was grateful when she saw an empty bench coming up at the end of the street. She sat down, but didn't lean back. She folded her hands on her knee, which she then crossed over her leg. The bench faced a grassy area where a few children roamed with their parents close by—some on benches, some on blankets on the ground. The evening sun was beautiful, and not overbearing.

There was a woman she recognized from the school, lounging on a blue blanket with a man that Cora knew to be her husband. A little baby played by their laps. The woman pulled down her sunglasses and spotted Cora, then called out her name and waved.

Cora smiled back tightly, and raised her hand to return the greeting. Her husband joined in, picking up their child and waving his little hand, too.

"Do you know what they think of you?"

She calmly turned her head to the right, because she knew that he there from his breath on her left cheek. She busied herself by counting the cars that were going by, but her anxiety continued to pound at her chest.

She finally peeked a look to her left, and he was gone. She let out a breath, but then caught herself before she jumped at the sight of him directly in front of her. He stood on the street, where a car was headed straight towards him.

She couldn't help but shut her eyes at the point of impact, but when she opened them again, he stood before her, unscathed.

"They think," he baited, "that you're going to waste."

She then stood before him, but looked beyond, to the woman and her husband. Jill and Brandon, she recalled. She waved again—a goodbye, which they returned—and kept walking.

Her apartment was only a few more blocks away. She could make it in ten minutes, fifteen tops.

"Do you hear me, Cora?" He called mockingly from behind her. "You're going to waste."

She finally saw her apartment building across the street, but before she could take a step to cross, he stood before her.

"No, no. Home is where bad things happen."

She tried to take a step around him, but he stepped into her path again. They played this quick game for a few rounds before Cora looked up and watched the people around her, suddenly conscious of what they were seeing—or not seeing.

"Stop," she whispered harshly, and to her surprise, the road before her was clear. She ran to the other side, and her heart felt like it was beating at her throat when she finally gripped the front doorknob of the building.

But it wouldn't budge.

Of course, she sighed through her panicked breathing.

She took a step back and swept her gaze over her surroundings. The crowd had lulled on the street, and no one was paying too much attention. So, she raised her hand—

But her hand was being yanked down. She stared at the door, but she could feel him standing right next to her. He still hadn't let go of her hand, and—how did he feel so real?

"Let me go," she said calmly, and he did, because he wasn't there. He was never there, she told herself.

The door opened easily the next time she tried. She took one look behind her before walking in. She dug for her key in her cross-body purse, but she was stopped at the stairs.

His hands were deep into the pockets of his white pants as he stood a few steps above her. But this time, he was silent, and his eyes were sharp as he watched her take the stairs one at a time.

She ignored him to the best of her ability, until she felt him stop her again. He clutched her arm—and she marveled just for a moment how closely she could feel the heat of his body, and the strength in his grip.

She didn't look at him as he held her in place. There were no words exchanged, because she knew he would let her go soon enough.

Then she was climbing, and in the next moment, she was finally in her apartment. She closed and locked the door with her wrist. Her hands were shaking, she realized, when she took her purse off over her head and threw it across the room. Adrenaline was pumping through her, and she knew—she knew with such clarity that she was going insane.

She had barely eaten the meatloaf that she had paid for, but she felt like throwing it all up anyway. With a hand on her stomach, she turned to the kitchen, and no part of her was surprised to see him there.

She tried to ignore him again, but this time, he didn't back down. He stood before her, and wouldn't let her pass to access the cabinet she loved the most.

"No," he said, shaking his head firmly. "No more of this."

Cora was frightened—she usually was—but her annoyance and low alcohol level were winning. Her hand twitched, and he noticed.

Eyes narrowing, and face twisting into a challenge, he spoke lowly, "Don't you dare, Cora."

But she did dare, because it was getting late, and she was two shots behind schedule. She sent a paralyzing wave of energy through the kitchen, but to her frustration, he was still standing. The sound of broken glass followed, and Cora looked past him to see that she had blown straight through her window.

He was looking back at her destruction, but he didn't seem fazed. He was just angrier. "You need water, and sustenance, but instead—look at you." He reached up—he was always so tall, Cora mused—and opened up the cabinet. At least six full-sized glass bottles greeted him along with dozens of smaller bottles—gin, whiskey, vodka, tequila.

"Look at you," he repeated, speaking to the bottles. His head snapped to her, and he snarled, "You're killing yourself."

And then the tears came, because they always did. In the quietness of her own apartment, the pressure behind her eyes would finally release. And Cora would be on her knees, in her tiny, pathetic kitchen, ruining her floor mats with salt and liquor.

And then he was there, lifting her face with just the tip of his finger—like he always did, like he always used to do. He would stand, or sometimes he would kneel. His fingers would roam her cheeks, collecting the dampness, and the sorrow. His anger would fade as quickly as it came, but it would reignite when she would inevitably pull herself up by the counters. With sobs of grief, she would hear his threats and his pleas, but she'd become deaf to them soon enough. The time was ticking, and she needed him gone.

On her tiptoes, she could reach the smaller bottles—the ones that were the size of her palm. And then she'd sink down to the floor again, because he would still be there, and she couldn't face him like this.

She eventually crawled into bed—and on nights like these, the bottle came with her. If the alcohol did its job, she wouldn't feel his presence sitting next to her. But she would still hear him as he spoke, though this time, with the gentleness and calm of an evening ocean, and his voice would coax her to sleep.

"Oh, sweetheart," he would tell her as he would time and time again, and exactly the way he used to, "I wish there was another way out for you."


A/N: Rough times for Cora. Rougher times for Hawkins coming up.