Chapter Text
You’re a relic of past times. Long overdue, behind in every possible way. A former child of MKUltra, brought in during the last few years of experimentation.
It was 1970. The scientists tore you away from society once they realised your higher cognition could’ve been of use, other than reading kindergarten books to your teacher at a much faster rate than any of the other four year old students. They burned new ideas into your brain, new thoughts and concepts and visualisations, new abilities unlike anything you had ever seen before.
You were just beginning to float a nickel when things changed.
In 1975, funding was lost, a government conspiracy unravelled, and MKUltra was over. Being searched by the FBI as you waited, trembling in your room.
Before, you would think of how to run, to leave quickly, to call out for your teacher or mother or just anyone who could help, but it was too easy for them to break into you. To show that the technicians, doctors, and scientists were all you had.
Now, it was frightening. This was all you knew, and the idea that soon you would have to leave– at the age of nine, no less– it seemed such a burden. You could recall older girls at school, wearing shiny lip glosses and fancy hair ties, and the entire concept felt so alien to you. You couldn’t even be sure what exactly you looked like, let alone be a normal girl, talking to others in middle school, being with your family –
You still wondered if your family was looking for you. If they had given up already, or if they still remembered you.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and you turned, momentarily dazed, thinking of when you used to be called for dinner at home. Instead, it was an older man, with a misleadingly kind smile, nothing behind the eyes.
You were too shy to really look at him to notice that at the time.
“Hello.” He whispered, and you blanched, turning away from him. “No, don’t be scared. I can help you.”
“Help me… find home?” You asked tentatively, your vocabulary still slightly underdeveloped. You wrapped your fist into your gown, sweating.
“Sure.” He looked down at you, thoughts clearly crossing his mind. “What’s your name?”
“...” You were always told not to give your name to strangers, but even now the weight of it felt heavy on your tongue, as if you didn’t have one. It felt like a part of your old self, your childhood, a fake identity that couldn’t be you now.
You were failing to reconcile and articulate this, and the man touched your face gently.
“That’s okay.” He held your cheek, thumb stroking and lulling you into a false sense of calmness. “I’ll save you.”
_____
Now you know better. The year is 1979, and you are thirteen years old. Dr. Brenner– Papa – didn’t intend on saving you, not like how you assumed. He saved you for Hawkins National Laboratory.
You are the last remnant of MKUltra, an experimented child very early on, almost like a precursor to the other numbered children here. You had the most potential at the time for Papa, you were You were meant to be everything he wanted.
Of course, things did not work out that way. Papa does not care for you, no matter how much you plead with him, that you can be a good daughter, you just don’t understand these new exercises.
You’re too old for him to focus on. To put any energy into you would mean sacrificing all the growth he’s made in his new pupils, and that has made you discarded.
Even your number, inked on your wrist only after they realised you couldn’t do anything– anything gifted– indicates what you are. 000 . Zero . Nothing of any importance.
Forever a before picture to the rest of Hawkins Laboratory, an example of who not to be.
Sometimes, when Papa is in one of his better moods, he’ll let you observe the children. But always under his watchful eye, to ensure that you don’t accidentally give them the wrong idea. He wants them to see you as a failure, and you are, because you can’t even do anything against him.
Your hands are weak when you try in your room. When it’s quiet, and everyone else is asleep. You can never move anything, not even an inch. You wonder why they haven’t killed you yet, as you feel the beginning of tears in your eyes.
You’ve grown into the stance of an awkward almost-woman, knees brushing each other as even your gait shows how badly you want to shrink into yourself. Today, you are watching the children in the Rainbow Room, and you are meant to look slow, or stupid, to encourage their own confidence.
Not even the orderly can look at you without a hint of a sneer in his eyes.
You are disgusted with yourself, always feeling hollow except for the heavy pain in your throat and chest. Always on the verge of tears, desperate to be anything else, you hate yourself for proving Papa’s image of a snivelling weakling to be right. Even the tiniest children, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, and onwards, can at least move small things like strands of hair, jewellery, small toys. The bigger ones– just a year or two younger than you– are capable of forcing each other back with eager, casual violence.
You sigh at your seat at the table, drawing random doodles on paper with an indigo crayon, wondering when things will end for you. Eight left a few years prior, and the more innocent children asked if you were taking her place.
Papa laughed at that, really more of a bark, and that was the end of it.
Your drawings grow more aggressive. 0. 0. 0. 0. Over, and over, until they start overlapping and you find that the entire paper is covered in zeroes.
“Zero?”
You turn, and a small, wide eyed child is staring at you.
“Eleven.” You say softly, uncomfortable with the new attention. You know she’s Papa’s favourite.
The fact that Eleven is the weakest among the children is not lost on you. What does she possess, other than the meagre beginnings of telepathy and telekinesis, that Papa would take these chances on her? Could that have been you, if you had just been enough?
Your fist tightens.
“Can I… um…” She swallows. “Use that colour?”
You don’t register what she means at first. “What?”
Eleven blinks, and then points to your fist. “You’re… breaking it–”
You notice too late, and the crayon snaps in your fist.
Oh. Your face crumples, feeling idiotic already that an eight year old, four years your junior, seems more mature than you.
“Now, now. What’s going on here?” The orderly comes over, and he kneels closer to Eleven. His tone sounds like he’s taunting you. “Did Zero break your crayon?”
You’re thirteen. You should know better, but you still feel angry, you still feel the urge to throw the damn crayon at his head. You were using it first, not Eleven, and you came first, before all these other kids did. Where’s the respect, or at least acknowledgement of what you’ve gone through?
No one seems to care about you.
The crayon falls from your hand, leaving a little trace of blue-purple on Eleven’s paper, separating into two pieces. She notices the expression on your face, of a timid sort of anger, of someone who’s just realised how unfair this whole thing is.
A piece of the crayon begins to levitate, before you realise what you’re doing. You think it’s Eleven at first, but you remember what it was like to focus. To push that angry energy outwards, into something usable, tangible, and real.
You’re doing it right now.
“She’s sharing it with me.” Eleven finally answers, and the orderly looks surprised. Shocked, even. You’re excited to see that stupid smirk wiped off his face, even though you know you’re not supposed to associate with the children.
You toss one half of the crayon with a slight movement of your head, into Eleven’s hand, and she happily begins to scribble with it.
Now the orderly pushes his chair back, eyes wide. His expression is unreadable, and for a second you wonder if you did something wrong.
“Well, Zero.” He crosses his arms. “Papa will need to know about this.”
_____
Papa doesn’t seem to believe him at first.
“Really?” He stares you down, into your pupils, as if some explanation is waiting inside them.
The orderly doesn’t seem like he wants to answer. “Yes. Eleven and I know what we saw.”
Eleven isn’t there with you, not right now, as she was sent to her own room. Too much comfort wasn’t allowed here.
You want to prove that you can do it. Something about Papa’s disbelieving glance pisses you off, and you reach forward, hand outstretched in his direction.
The orderly jumps, but Papa shakes his head. He’s curious, about you for once, and that seems to fill you with glee.
Excited to feel some form of affection, you lift his pen out of his pocket. And Papa grins , grins far wider than he ever would in your direction normally, which makes you feel at ease for once.
Maybe you can still win his approval.
Behind you, the orderly is glowering.