Hey, guys! Welcome! I've been wanting to do something like this for a while, and when I came to the decision that it didn't belong in WCA, I realized that I needed to find a different way to tell this story. So here we are. This story is focused solely on Hopper, and what happens to him after the events of season 3. I won't keep you any longer; here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it :)
It felt like his body was on fire. Every square inch of skin was either bruised, cut, scratched, or bleeding. The whole day had been nothing but Hell for him. Not only did he feel like he was about to collapse on the floor from physical exhaustion, but when he came to the realization that he would never see El again…
He couldn't have described the feeling if he tried. His insides had turned into knots and he felt sick. I'm going to die. I'm going to die and I never even got a chance to say a proper good-bye.
The only light in his life since Sarah had been El; ever since moving out of the city after his daughter's death, his life had been nothing but a slow drag that never seemed to get better. It was nothing but dark nights and mornings spent being hungover. Popping pills and smoking cigarettes, trying to lessen the burden that he had constantly felt pulling him down.
But then El came into his life. And then he started to actually enjoy… simply being again. He enjoyed waking up every morning and going to bed every night knowing that he would have someone to care for and provide for and love when he woke up. El was his daughter, his child. It had never occurred to him that the hug they shared half an hour ago would be their last.
And then there was Joyce. He had been pining for her for years, ever since things with the Upside-Down began and they started talking again, more than they ever had since their high school days. But then Bob came into the picture, and, well… Hopper got the hint. And he wasn't a scumbag, either. He wasn't going to try to move in on Joyce right after he died. But now, a connection between them had finally been made. She had asked him on a date, even!
That made her crying face so much harder to look at through the window from where he was standing. Even past the rotating disk of electricity that was blocking his way back, he could practically see every part of her face perfectly. Her piercing dark eyes, her delicate skin, her perfect lips… everything about her was simply immaculate. He made sure to take in everything about her, knowing that this would be the last time he could.
There was no way for him to reach her, not at all. Even from two feet away, he could hear the sizzling heat coming from the machine blocking his path. He'd be melted if he tried getting through it.
Despite how hard he was trying to hold them in, he could not hold back the small tears falling from his eyes. There was no way this was the end. Was there a way out? Something? Anything? There had to be. He looked behind him and stared at the gaping hole across the ravine, the cause of all this madness. There was no way to get to it; it was too far to jump.
Hopper's heart was in his throat. His eyes swept his surroundings, desperately trying to find a means to escape. There had to be something! He was gripping the handrail beside him so tight that his knuckles turned white when he saw it; a ladder.
A small little thing that was directly below the portal drill. His pulse quickened when he realized close he would have to get to the beam of energy in order to climb down it. But he had no choice.
His mind raced frantically, trying to formulate a plan. He could just run down now, but then Joyce would see him. And if she saw him, she would know that he's alive. And then she would come looking for him. Hopper knew that he couldn't have that. If the rest of the group was to be safe, then they couldn't be looking for him miles underground beneath a wrecked mall.
It pained him to do so, but once again, he realized that he would have to throw himself in front of the face of danger to make sure everyone else would be safe. Everyone would believe him to be dead; but at least they wouldn't be in danger.
Hopper turned back behind him, and locked eyes with Joyce. She had used her keychain to get a hold on the second key, and she had both her arms outstretched in preparation to finally pull them and destroy the machine. Her mouth was slightly agape; it was clear that she was barely able to comprehend what was about to happen. Hopper realized that, in a way, he would be asking her to… kill him. To close the gate and turn him into dust along with everyone else in the room and the machine.
But that's what needed to happen.
He gave a final nod, a tear sliding down his cheek. Goodbye, Joyce. He waited till
her eyes closed, and then he sprung into action. As fast as he could go, he ran across the metal platform toward the head of the drill. The noise was deafening. Little bits and pieces of the machine were already flying off of the apparatus, and it felt like the whole room was shaking.
With no preamble, he ducked his head under the beam of light and tried to ignore the searing heat beating down on his head and shoulders. It was nearly unbearable. Once his foot found a stable rung on the ladder, he swung his second leg down and carried on his way down. His muscles were shrieking in protest, but he ground his teeth and resisted.
The entire room was shaking even more now, as if there was an earthquake happening. His heart was thumping so furiously that he thought his ribs might explode. He looked down and saw that he was still probably at least ten feet above the ground still, but he was running out of time. He had to get down, now.
Hopper closed his eyes in a silent prayer before letting go of the ladder and dropping. He was in the air for about half a second before his feet jammed into the unforgiving concrete floor and he heard a bone-crunching crack. Pain exploded from his right ankle and flew through the rest of his leg. He screamed, but didn't stop moving.
His hand grasped a notch in the wall beside him and he pulled himself up, shouting in agony as he lifted his body up from the ground. He knew his ankle was broken, and that putting any more weight than he needed to on it would only bring more damage, maybe even permanently. Using the wall to balance himself, he hopped across the floor toward a large metal door that was open just a crack a couple of feet away.
From above him, he heard a loud bang and a hunk of metal machinery was thrown off the side and he watched it slam into the wall beside the gate, shattering into several pieces. But he wasn't dead yet, so that meant there was still time for him. He pressed on, but his left foot connected with something soft and fleshy on the ground and he tripped. He stuck his hands in front of him to cushion the landing, but only for his left palm to connect with something sharp and pointy.
Really sharp and pointy.
Hopper screamed again when he looked down and saw an inch of shrapnel poking out from the back of his hand. The piece of metal had completely impaled him through his left palm.
His hand was on fire, even with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. With a gut-wrenching cry, he tore his hand upward and felt his flesh get ripped as the stray piece of metal exited his hand. He looked behind him only to see that it had been a body that tripped him in the first place.
Hopper had seen dead people, but given the circumstances, it took a lot of willpower for him not to throw up. Finding himself completely physically spent, he could do nothing but crawl toward the door. The sound from upstairs was only getting louder, and his surroundings were getting easier to see as the light from above him grew more and more intense. When he was about a meter away from the door, he lifted himself up just enough to use his good leg to push himself forward. His body crashed through the door and he was barely to kick it closed before the entire room shook furiously and a deafening explosion echoed around him. Then everything went black.
Hopper coughed furiously and his eyes flew open. He found himself staring at the same ceiling that he had been when he passed out. The flickering white lights above him produced an eerie effect, making the entire room feel like something out of a horror movie. He looked to his right and left and saw cold, concrete walls on boths sides.
With a groan, he rolled onto his side and pushed propped himself up into his elbow. He appeared to be in some kind of safe room. The room was a simple cube, with the door he came in from on one side, and another door on the opposite side. He grimaced when he felt a throbbing sensation in his hand. His blood turned to ice when he remembered what had happened. After hesitating for a moment, he slowly brought his left hand up and looked at it.
It was covered in blood, and a scarlet-colored puncture wound was right in the middle of it. Thankfully, the piece of shrapnel that had stabbed his hand had been thin. The hole certainly wasn't large. It wasn't like he could look through it or anything, thankfully. It looked like it had stopped bleeding, too. But he knew that if it didn't get clean soon, then it would get infected and he'd have an even bigger problem.
Hopper leaned forward and gasped in pain, a sharp sting in his shoulders ripping through his torso. It felt like his skin was being stretched when he moved, like it was too small or something. He looked to the side and saw that the shoulders of the uniform were covered in holes and were charred; they had clearly been burned.
He gingerly tugged the fabric to the side to look at his skin. "Oh, fuck!" he started, his voice betraying a mixture of shock, pain, and fear.
The skin was disgustingly red, even a slightly black in some patches. It was peeling profusely, and he found that his other shoulder was the same. He brought his hand up and gently touched his scalp and he grunted in pain. His hair was patchy, it had been burned off in some places, clearly. He was guessing that his head was in similar shape to his shoulders.
Ignoring the sting, he leaned forward and pulled up his pant leg to examine his ankle. It was swollen and tender, and slightly lopsided-looking. It didn't take a doctor, to know that something was wrong.
In short, his body was royally screwed up. The cogs in his brain spun furiously, trying to figure out what his next step should be. I'm in a safe room, he thought to himself. There has to be some supplies around here somewhere.
The room he was in was barren, so there was nothing that he could use as a makeshift crutch for his foot. He planted his good hand flat and the side of his bloodied left hand on the ground for support, and used his good leg to prop himself into a standing position. Doing his best to keep the weight off his broken ankle, he hobbled to the back door and opened it a crack, peeking through the opening before entering.
He found himself in a dark storage room, barely lit up by only the lights in the next room. It was a small room, probably only a hundred or so square feet. There were shelves lined up along all the walls, and cardboard boxes of varying sizes were scattered all over the floor as well. There had to be something useful in one of these boxes, right?
Keeping his hand on the side of the walls, he limped around, pawing through the contents of each container, desperate for food, water, medical supplies, a change of clothes, anything. A lot of the boxes were empty, but a few did have some things. But he had only searched through a fraction of the room.
He got to the second aisle of shelves and almost laughed when he opened the first book and came face to face with piles of bandages and gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol. "Thank God," he murmured to himself, and through the box to the ground. He continued ripping through the rest of the shelf, chucking anything that he thought to be useful on the ground next to the first box. More bandages, antibiotics and painkillers, a lot of bottles of water… he even found a couple of splints, one of which he set aside for his ankle. Further down the shelf, he found some boxes containing a generous amount of canned food and MREs. Nodding to himself, he threw those in the pile, too.
Hopper sat down on the ground next to the pile of stuff and set himself to work. He knew what he was doing; all that time spent in Vietnam hadn't been for vacation, after all. He was a goddamn war vet.
Starting from the bottom of his body, he positioned two stiff pieces of plastic on either side of his ankle and used the straps to tighten it as much as it could go. He winced in pain when he tightened it, but did his best to block it out.
He scrunched up a wad of gauze and upturned a bottle of water onto it, letting it get wet. He wrung it out and rubbed the cloth over his shins and his calves, cleaning out all the small scrapes and cuts that he was covered in. He moved up his legs and once he was satisfied with the lower half of his body, he moved to his torso. He repeated the process of wetting the cloths and bandages and rubbing them over the small wounds that seemed to be everywhere, until he finally forced himself to look at the disgusting stab wound in the center of his left hand.
His eyes flicked to one of the bottles of rubbing alcohol, knowing what had to be done. He grabbed the bottle and skimmed the label quickly. "Seventy percent," he read aloud. Yes, this was definitely going to hurt.
With shaky hands, Hopper opened up his fingers and poised the open bottle over his hand, ready to pour the contents onto it. Three… two… one... he tilted the bottle further and a splash of the liquid flowed out, dousing the palm of his hand in alcohol. "Fuck!" he grunted, clenching his jaw. "God, dammit…" he muttered to himself as he wiped around the wound and began wrapping a long bandage around his hand, covering up the gruesome hole in his fresh.
He started thinking about the possibility of tetanus, but decided that for his own sanity, it would probably be best for him to not worry about what may or may not happen in the future. He redirected his attention to the nasty burns on his scalp and shoulders, rubbing the inflamed skin with wet cloths and rags. He covered up the exposed skin on both of his shoulders with some bandages, and secured them on by attaching strips of medical tape along the edges of the patches.
"Fucking miracle," he grumbled to himself as he hauled his body off the floor. His luck in finding all this stuff had been… well, he knew what the odds had been. And he was thankful. But he had a feeling that these wounds were going to be the least of his troubles.
He limped to the other side of the room and started tearing apart more boxes, but only to find dozens of stacks of old papers that were written entirely in Russian. At the moment, he was ideally looking for a gun, or anything, really, to defend himself with. And maybe something to use as a crutch to walk with, or a cane, or something. His leg was growing sore from having all of the weight on it.
When he had finally cleared out the entire room and found nothing more besides paperwork, his heart sank. Once again, he paused where he was standing and racked his brain. He couldn't keep up like this for much longer. He had to start trying to find a way to the surface, there was only so long he could hole up in this room. If he was going to find things to help him, he was going to have to expand his search.
Maybe that dead guard had a weapon on him? Hopper had been too scared for his life to look when he had the chance, but he had heard nothing coming from outside the storeroom since he had awoken, and decided that it was probably safe for him to go out. On his way out, he grabbed as many supplies as he could from his pile and threw them into a rucksack he had found (thank God), and slung it over his shoulder. As quietly as he could, he navigated through the staggering mess he had made in the storeroom back into the safe room, where he exited the door he had come from in the first place and stepped outside. The air smelled like smoke and metal.
His eyes fell on the body he had tripped on his way in, and he was next to it in a flash, running his hands all over the corpse in search of anything that he could use to protect himself with. He exhaled a sigh of relief when he felt something remarkably gun-shaped secured to his hip. He pulled up the shirt and pulled out a handgun from his waistband.
Whatever it was, Hopper didn't recognize it. Must have been a Russian gun, and of course, he wasn't familiar with any of those. He ejected the mag to verify that it was full, and it was. He smiled. A loaded gun was exactly what he needed right now. "What else do you have for me?" he said softly to himself as he proceeded to pat down the body.
His fingers grazed across something leathery, and his heart leapt when he realized that he might be touching the scabbard for this man's knife. He fingers grazed upward until he felt the unmistakable handle of a blade. He slid the weapon out of its sheath and inspected it. It was of high quality, the edge was razor sharp and toward the hilt it was serrated. Very versatile.
Hopper yanked the sheath off the guard and attached it to his own belt, and tucked the handgun into his waistband at his hip. After a couple more seconds of patting. he was also able to recover two extra magazines for the handgun, which he thanked his lucky stars for. Of the probably hundreds of pieces of metal and rebar and shrapnel from the destroyed portal drill that were scattered all over the floor, he was able to get his hands on a hollow metal tube that seemed sturdy enough to serve as a cane. It definitely took some of the weight off his leg, that was for sure.
He gazed toward the ladder that he had come down from earlier, and decided in an instant that he would definitely not be able to make it up there. He was carrying heavy-ass a bang full of water, food, and meds. Not to mention he only had one good leg, for Christ's sake. There had to be another way up, right?
His eyes scanned his surroundings, doing a quick three-sixty around his position. The area around him was small, and it didn't seem like there were many places to go. He started to trudge toward the storeroom, thinking that maybe there was another passage that he might have missed when his eyes fell upon a dip in the wall beyond the door that he had not seen on his way initially (with the explosions and all).
In a rather rushed manner, he made his way over to the opposite side of the room to see what he had found. He turned the corner and his face drooped in dismay when he found himself staring down a hallway that he couldn't even see the end of.
Hopper craned his neck back to look back around the corner, and, as he had suspected, there seemed to be no other place to go. He turned back to the corridor and sighed loudly.
"Fuck."
Like I said in WCA... gritty. If any of you are new to me, and enjoyed this chapter, I have another ST fic, called What Comes After. It's the same principle as this fic (takes place right after the events of S3), except it focuses on our characters that are still in Hawkins. It's got 168k words and 38 chapters, and a lot of good stuff going on. If you guys are looking for a good "stranger things fix" as one of my followers calls it... go check it out! I'd appreciate it! Take it easy, guys :)