Thank you for reading! Excited to start getting into season 4 content. There'll be a two-week hiatus (summer), and then regular posting will resume.

"Wind of Change"

The future's in the air

I can feel it everywhere

Blowing with the wind of change

- Scorpions

What Hopper wouldn't have given right now for three inches of open door. He imagined it sometimes—a door carelessly left just a little bit open, charging it, bursting it open with his shoulder, making a run for it …

And then he would remember the metal shackles that held his feet together, the labyrinth of stone and concrete that the prison was made up of, and the miles of endless Siberian forest that surrounded it.

He had just come to the end of that vicious circle again as he shuffled his way awkwardly down the corridor in the line with the other prisoners. Just the way he would every day until eventually the hard work and poor food and lack of adequate rest wore him down. He sighed involuntarily, and the guard walking next to him chuckled.

"Something funny, asshole?" Hopper murmured under his breath. He knew few of the guards understod English, and even though any talking was likely to get him in trouble, sometimes he just had to answer back or forget who he was forever.

"You need to work on your … how do you say it? Your poker face. American."

Hopper nearly tripped over his own shackles, turning to stare at the guard in amazement. He recognized him now—this had been the guard who had come to the door of his cell the night he was put there, telling him it was nothing like the Ritz. Hopper had been so disoriented he hadn't registered that the guard was speaking English until after he was gone.

"Keep walking," the guard hissed. "You want to get us both in trouble?"

Obediently, Hopper did so. "You speak English?"

"Some. I learned from my grandfather."

"Anyone else know you speak it?"

The guard nodded. "They think I speak only a little. A word or two."

"You sound more fluent than that." There was such a relief in simply having a conversation with another person, something that hadn't happened to him since … since that last talk with Joyce, there in the bunker under Starcourt Mall. Hopper didn't want to think about that. "You practice much?"

"Not since my grandfather died."

"Sorry for your loss."

The guard looked at him in surprise. "Thank you."

"The name's Hopper. Jim Hopper." God, it was nice to say his own name again.

"No one cares. You know that by now. Here, you are the American. That is all we are supposed to know."

"What's your name?"

Again, the look of surprise. The guard, a cheerful-looking man with a bushy mustache that made Hopper miss the one they had shaved off him, studied him thoughtfully. "My name is Antonov. Dmitri Antonov. But if you are smart, American, you will call me 'Russian pig' or any of your other colorful phrases." Abruptly, Antonov shoved Hopper, hard, so that he stumbled and nearly fell, while Antonov spat out a stream of harsh Russian.

Hopper was confused, until he looked up to see another guard, a scrawny one with sharp eyes, watching them. He turned back to Antonov. "Russian pig! I'll see you in hell."

He thought he saw a twinkle in Antonov's blue eyes just before his fist connected with Hopper's eye.

The resulting black eye was annoying, but the idea that there was a guard here who spoke English, who had gone out of his way to let Hopper know it, who seemed friendly, was enough to brighten quite a few of the dreary cold days.

He tried not to look out for Antonov as he filed along in line behind the other prisoners. Anything he did to call attention to himself was a bad idea—he had learned that much by now. But he couldn't help paying a bit more attention than usual to the faces of the guards. Most of them were closed off and harsh—this prison took as terrible a toll on its guards as it did on its prisoners. Antonov's was the only face Hopper had seen in a long time that seemed to retain its sense of humor.

On the way back from the railroad tracks one afternoon, a guard fell into step next to Hopper. He held his breath, waiting to be kicked or punched, but instead, he heard Antonov's smooth voice. "You should learn more Russian, American."

"Why?"

Antonov shrugged. "It could come in useful."

"Handy."

"What?"

"The phrase is 'it could come in handy'."

"Ah. That does flow better."

"Why could it come in handy?" Hopper asked.

"You are surrounded by people who speak Russian. You do not see how understanding them could be helpful?"

"How helpful has it been for you to speak English?"

"Up until now? Not particularly. But in the future …" Antonov shrugged. "It is hard to tell what could happen."

There was no sly glance, no meaningful clearing of the throat, no suggestive lilt in the voice. Hopper couldn't have said why hope suddenly surged in his chest. He tried to tamp it down—what was there to hope for, out here in this godforsaken wilderness? But this guard wasn't talking to him for nothing. His instincts, honed over long years as a detective, told him there was something here. But he had to play it slow, and cool, and easy.

He could feel his mind sharpening, with something to focus on for the first time in months. "So how do you say 'Russian pig'?"

Antonov chuckled. "Lazy Americans, always wanting something done for you. Go talk to your fellow prisoners, get them to tell you. Make some friends." He stiffened. "Where do you want it, American?"

"Where do I want what?" Too late, Hopper saw the sharp-eyed guard watching him, just as Antonov's fist landed in his midsection. He overexaggerated the impact, letting himself crumple to the ground, and was rewarded by the sharp-eyed guard turning away.

Antonov leaned over him. "Never lose sight of what's around you," he hissed. "That is how a man gets himself killed. Act like you have something to live for, American."

He walked off. Hopper got to his feet, dragged roughly along by another guard when he didn't move fast enough. As he took his place in line again, he wondered what Antonov had to gain in talking to him. There must be something—no one out here could afford to do anything out of the ordinary for no reason.

Without meaning to, Hopper thought of El, her brown eyes, her shy smile. And Joyce, her fierce determination and her courage. Maybe he did have something to live for, he thought. Maybe he did.