Chapter Text
INDIANA, 1982
HAWKINS MIDDLE SCHOOL
The frigid seams of winter was long forgotten as threads of spring yawned upon the sleepy town of Hawkins around late February. As unhurried and lethargic as this small settlement in the middle of Indiana ever seemed, it was never an exception to the world’s natural cycle;and as verdant evergreen bloomed from branches once brittle and overwhelmed with snow, new beginnings bloomed afresh elsewhere.
Namely, in a particular science period, to which Mike Wheeler was supposed to be paying rapt attention at this point, but instead he was staring down at something not even the wholesome art of science could ever explain with mute horror.
Now, the younger of the Wheeler siblings had alway — as far as memory could recall — had the most bizarre mark on his wrist. His mother had chalked it up as a late birthmark, his sister teased him about it and his dad just didn't care. Honestly, that conversation had been on the backburner of his life for the past however years, but now, it was suddenly the most important memory of them all.
Because in the place of that misshapen ‘birthmark’, was the faint impression of just three numbers: 011. It had been that exact spot. He knew, because he was used to staring at it during his morning English classes.
Why was it there now? What did it mean? It couldn't have been drawn on; it looked too… real, if that made sense. Now, there was a huge possibility that Dustin, Lucas or Will might have stamped it on just to freak him out.
If that was true, it wasn’t cool. But as his eyes scanned the room, they were all paying close attention to Mr. Clarke’s lesson. That wasn't even close to being what he dubbed as suspicious behaviour.
Still, he found himself staring at the newfound mystery that had so chanced itself upon his very skin. It plagued his mind; and even if something was truly bothering him, this class wasn't something he took lightly. M ike enjoyed Mr. Clarke’s lessons, he did. But this was worrisome enough to divert his attentiveness from even his favorite subject.
It was all so— weird.
The freckled-face boy started upon the shrill ring of the school bell, signifying the termination of that specific period. As the rest of students hurriedly filed out of the room, the ‘party’ — consisting of Mike, Will, Lucas and Dustin — habitually gravitated toward the amicable orbit of the teacher’s desk, brimming with inquiries and overall intrigue.
This time, the full-circle supervened around Mike’s desk.
“What?” was the first thing that rolled off his tongue, gaze narrowing automatically in a defensive manner. They were all making him feel like this was some type of intervention, and he was at the centre of it.
“You were totally zoning out, dude,” Dustin said, accompanied by the accustomed lisp due to the dearth of front teeth.
“Zoning out, he wasn't even paying attention,” Lucas pointed out.
“Yeah, like that wasn’t the same thing I was trying to—”
“Boys, lower your voices—”
“I’M at least trying to tell it as—”
“What’s that on your hand?” inquired Will curiously, effectively immobilizing the brewing (unnecessary) argument between Dustin and Lucas, and prompting Mike to attempt covering up the strange occurrence.
“That’s exactly what he was staring at!” Lucas replied, chin nestled into the gap between his thumb and forefinger, as though this just dawned upon him.
Dustin was more direct, however. “Dude, show us! You’re obviously freaked out.”
Mike was freaked out, that was true.
“Mike,” Mr. Clarke started, as coaxing as ever. “Whatever it is, these are your friends, and they’re just concerned for you. We’re all concerned.” This was supported by a vigorous nod from each member of the party.
Mike hesitated; it was clear that he was reluctant, but this was something that pretty much contradicted every single norm. So he explained from the start. About his birthmark.
“But it isn’t here anymore,” he said, fingers peeling away from the writing just under his wrist. His palms were clammy as he stood, arm outstretched. “This is what showed up instead. I swear, I never got a tattoo or anything. It’s just so…”
“Weird,” Lucas breathed out, staring at the triad of letters.
“Cool,” Dustin corrected.
“Weird and cool,” said Will, always somewhat of the ‘mediator’ in the group.
Mike had never appreciated his friends more. A rush of warmth came from within; it was so refreshingly nice, not to be judged about such things.
Still, this strange occurrence was still nagging at the back of his mind. So, he turned to his teacher, perhaps the only one who could have an idea of what all of this meant. Mr. Clarke usually did know most things, after all.
His teacher seemed to interpret what his bearing expressed even before the inquiry could roll off his tongue.
“Now, I know you’re all expecting a scientific explanation,” the bespectacled man started, willowy digits banding together as the foursome looked on expectantly for enlightenment; particularly Mike, the nucleus of this cynosure. “But I’m afraid I can’t offer one.”
A pause ensued, and a wave of confusion rippled through the party. “However,” Mr. Clarke pressed on, aware of a potentially negative response, “There’s only one thing that might soothe your minds; like I said, this exceeds the realm of even science, very curious indeed. There is a belief that if something is marked upon one’s skin, it appears on their soulmate’s.”
There was silence after this explanation.
“So does that mean Mike’s soulmate is some old chick?” Dustin said, successfully shattering the tense quietude that had befallen.
After receiving a particularly nasty look from Mike, his arms rose in the air as some type of defense. “What? She’s getting tattoos! What kid our age gets a tattoo?”
“He has a point,” Will said, much to Mike's evident displeasure.
“I think this whole soulmate shit is bull,” Lucas remarked bluntly, earning a ‘Language!’ from their teacher, who was still present. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was an authoritative figure, at least to them, it was.
“You’re just bitter that me and Mike have one and you don’t,” was Dustin’s unnecessary risposte.
“You don’t! It’s a stupid concept made up by weird girls!”
“Oh, then what’s your mom to me then?”
“DUDE, YOU DID NOT—”
“Guys, shut up!”
The brewing dispute quelled with the exclamation, and everyone turned to see a very annoyed Mike, who was attempting to nurse a steadily growing migraine.
“Lucas is right, I don’t really believe that stuff either. It’s probably just Troy messing with me again.” Even as he said it, Mike found it rather difficult to believe those words himself. They felt wrong and left his tongue heavy with doubt.
“Yeah,” agreed Dustin, turning to their science teacher, who was busy shuffling a stack of papers in a folder as the boys discoursed. “You don’t really believe it, right, Mr. Clarke?”
“Well, seeing is believing, Dustin,” Mr. Clarke responded wisely, packing up. “You boys should be headed home by now. Try not to dwell too much on this, Mike.”
“Yeah,” said boy replied distractedly, followed by an almost compulsive glance at his wrist.
“Do you want to try washing it off?” Will asked, brows knitting in concern. “C’mon, we’ll all go with you.”
Well, that yielded no results whatsoever.
“Dude, it’s real,” Dustin said, staring at the ‘011’ with a blend of curiosity and fascination.
Mike didn’t share this awe.
“My mom is going to freak out if she sees it,” he groaned, turning off the faucet, watching the water swirl down with an expression of resigned fate.
“Not if she doesn't see it,” Lucas pointed out, raising his brows.
“How am I supposed to even cover this up?”
Dustin and Lucas looked at each other and smiled.
This was a stupid idea, Mike thought to himself for the millionth time.
Though, he had to at least acknowledge his luck in this venture. Nancy was at a prep rally (probably there to stare at Steve Harrington, the douche she was crushing on) which gave him ease of access to her room until she was back.
Which was where he was right now, holding a compact container. The powder inside was light brown and pressed into the circular shape of the holder, requiring the gentle brush of a sponge for proper application.
Despite the perturbation that had reigned previously, the speckle-faced preteen found himself tracing a finger against the faint imprint of the triad of numbers against his skin.
At this stage of his life, the most important things in his life consisted of his friends, Dungeon & Dragons and Lord of the Rings. Even the bad aspects were starting to go away; Nancy left him alone for most part, Troy and his goons even seemed to appear less and less, and his mom and dad had stopped fighting for most part.
Still, Mike felt a little incomplete. He found himself pondering on what Mr. Clarke had said. The whole idea seemed far-fetched— a likely interpretation was there was no explanation for this and the whole thing was just fabricated to make him feel better by thinking how ridiculous it was.
But the thought was still drifting at the back of his mind. Well, what if it was? What was she like? Was she here, in Hawkins? Or was she in some country far away, like the Netherlands?
He shook away the thoughts as soon as they came. Him, thinking about girls? They were all really stuck up; if you tried to talk to them, they’d giggle and then whispers would break out in the little groups they appeared to always travel in. He often wondered if they went to the bathroom in groups, too. That would be gross.
Even if she wasn't like them — whoever she was — there was still a high possibility that she wouldn't even be into him, Mike thought to himself miserably, now fiddling with the compact container, finally working on covering it up. It was something mouthbreathers like Troy never let him forget. He looked like a frog, and they weren’t wrong. No matter how much his mom told him how handsome he was, she was just doing what moms do. But Mike knew better.
“Gross!” He exclaimed, almost knocking down half of the things on Nancy’s dresser. So preoccupied with his thoughts, his elbow had slipped on something pencil-like. It left a black, diagonal line running down his inner elbow.
“Nancy? I didn't know you were home!” The sound of his mother’s voice floated up the stairs, followed by the sound of footsteps.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, gaze darting frantically as the boy attempted to shove things back into place. Mike scampered, somehow managing to pull himself into the closet the second before the door handle fiddled, and in came his mother.
“Hm,” Karen Wheeler uttered, brows bunching in perplexity as her gaze swept the seemingly empty room. At the sound of receding footsteps, Mike was able to release a sigh of relief.
That was close.
Not far from the suburbs, where the walls were towering slates of white and morals were high on the questionable side of things; a girl resided in solitude. However, one could barely tell this was a girl. Her name was but a mere number, and her hair was completely shaved off. Nevertheless, a child-like aura radiated from her; it was an anomaly in this height of corruption, yet understandable with the lack of contact with the outside world.
Normal girls didn't spend most of their time in a white little room, with their head full of white little lies.
Normal girls weren’t taken once a week to an experimental room.
Normal girls couldn't control things with their minds.
Normal girls had hair on their head.
Normal girls wore pretty clothes, not hospital gowns.
Eleven wasn't normal. She didn't have a normal life.
One of those two things were about to change.
These walls— they were all she had ever known, and even though this limited and sparse access to what was beyond was a faraway thought, it felt as though they were all she would ever know. Her papa was in danger, at least, that’s what he told her. And that’s what she believed.
It was hard not to believe anything he said. He was so sure, so convincing about everything. It was as though he knew exactly what to do and exactly what to say.
Legs nestled under a slight form, lips pursed in concentration as she sought to draw a straight line with the provided crayons. They were one of few things that offered any type of recreation; a means to keep occupied while she wasn't asleep or helping papa with what he was searching for.
A small smile graced the experiment’s lips, thumb and forefinger pioneering the brown crayon to form a small circle. Suddenly, Eleven frowned. His hair was white, like chalk. How was she supposed to colour it?
Fabric shifted and the mattress was relieved of the additional weight as the girl eased off, bending over to retrieve a piece of chalk.
Line of sight slanted, brows cresting in confusion instantaneously. Out of the corner of her eye, Eleven saw it as it happened. It was the same principle to drawing lines, only the line was drawing itself— upon her skin. It was dark and sloping; it looked so real, she wanted to touch it.
Instinctively, she prodded a finger against the line, attempting to efface the mark from her skin. As efforts proved futile, chestnut brows furled as one, arching gently into a like of fascination as the mark erased itself on its own accord.
Could this be something new? Papa always said she was special. There were things she could do that other people — not even Papa — could do. Yet, there was something different about this feeling. All of her life, this building, and these white walls were all Eleven had ever known. What lay beyond them had never once become so much as a formulated thought.
But this felt like something out of the ordinary. It was a connection wrought of threads of fate itself, unbreakable and indestructible.
Before, her mind had been solely focused upon her papa. A drawing that could have made him proud of her that was in the works was now completely abandoned; transferred to this newfound anomaly.
Eleven traced where the mark was curiously with a marker, curving in a semi-circle then dragging down shortly, followed by a period.
It was a question mark.
Mike cursed aloud, struggling to wipe the mark made by Nancy’s stupid makeup off his elbow. After his mom had left, he had swiped the compact container and left as fast as he could, all the while praying she hadn't checked his room and came to know he hadn't been in there either.
Luckily, that didn't seem to be the case. But, after giving up on the use of paper towels and moving into an actual towel, Mike was finally making some headway into erasing that ugly line from his arm.
Nancy had a bunch of these things, she wouldn't notice if just one was missing, Mike tried to convince himself, a relieved sigh escaping parched verges after success. This mark would face eventually, he just needed to keep on applying until it did. Hopefully his mom or any of the other teachers at school wouldn't notice.
He had decided to put the nature of its origin at the back of his mind. After all, there was no things such as soulmates, right? Lucas was right, it was just something that weird girls made up—
But, the thought didn’t even finish crossing his mind as Mike’s jaw slackened in mute horror. Where the mark made by Nancy’s makeup had been, a new one was appearing. He couldn't even believe his own eyes.
It was a question mark.
The boy had never reacted faster to anything else in his life. Dropping the towel into the sink, he bolted into his room.
Hurriedly attempting to dry his hand against the fabric of his shirt, Mike sought and rummaged through his things. Why was finding a working pen suddenly so hard?!
Prizing the cap off his most capable ballpoint, the freckled prepubescent hurriedly scrawled a simple three words against his arm, right under the numbers. He tried to keep his letters legible, but it was difficult when his hand, and even his arm kept shaking.
His heart was beating faster than it ever had thus far. It hammered against his eardrums like bursts of thunder during a storm, unrelenting and almost vicious. His fingers were still shaking, staring down at what had just been written on his arm.
Who are you?