Chapter Text
SUBJECT NAME: S. HARRINGTON
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 10:42
It’s nearing the time of night that teeters on too late to be considered evening, but too early to be deemed an all-nighter.
There’s a dead, interdimensional dog (Demo-Dog, a pre-pubescent voice chimes in his ear) in the Byers’ freezer, four voices talking over each other about hive minds and The Party’s Obligation and goddamn fire, and a steady throbbing in his head from the base of his skull that is traveling steadily up. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a mental note to find a way to thank all of the hired nannies from his childhood for their endless patience.
He is too young to be experiencing blood pressure this high. He is also too old to be outvoted by a bunch of thirteen year olds.
Mike is bent over the floor and gesturing wildly at a collection of crayon scribbles, some kind of map. The others follow along with his rambling and they all have this gleam in their eyes. The nerdy kind that means they are imagining something grand that will probably result in destruction, injury, and lots of trouble for Steve.
Dustin says, “The Mind Flayer would call away his army.”
“Hey,” Steve warns.
Lucas talks over him and says, “They’d all come to stop us!”
They being the aforementioned Demo-Dogs, except the very much alive kind, and did he say all of them?
“Guys.”
“We circle back to the exit, and by the time they realize we’re gone…” Mike goes on.
Max cuts in to say, “El will already be at the gate!”
Since when did she get a say in all of this? Steve’s word should mean way more, he’s got a whole year of experience over her of fighting these monsters. He brings his hands together in an echoing clap and shouts, “Hey, hey, hey! This is not happening.”
The kids look at him like he just told them they couldn’t eat ice cream this late at night. Mike opens his mouth and starts to whine, “But—”
“No, no buts! I promised I’d keep you shitheads safe and that’s exactly what I plan on doing. We’re staying here, on the bench, and waiting for the starting team to do their job. Does everybody understand that?”
Like the little shit that he is, Mike rolls his eyes at the continued use of basketball metaphors. “This isn’t a stupid sports game!”
He is a lot like Nancy in that respect. Always arguing with a fire that won’t settle until they are proven right, always ready to talk back but rarely listen. Maybe the wound of being dumped so brutally hasn’t fully scabbed over yet, and maybe the memory of how Nancy looked at Jonathan earlier like he hung the moon and the stars just for her felt a little too much like salt being poured into it. Or maybe he’s just tired.
Either way, Steve’s tone is sharp and unyielding when he flicks the dish towel at the group and repeats, “I said does everybody understand that? I need a yes.”
He makes eye contact with them all one by one, trying to get through to them the real stakes of the situation. Their cowed expressions and drawn out silence has him thinking he has actually won this round, until the moment is broken by the roaring engine of a sports car.
Max moves first, breaking away from their little circle to rush to the front window. Her expression drops with dreadful recognition, and he doesn’t like that at all. It’s the same look he gets when his parents come home early from a business trip.
“It’s my brother,” Max says aloud. Lucas kneels on the couch next to her. “He can’t know I’m here, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill us.”
There’s no room for argument in her tone. Just cold, hard truth. Bright white headlights illuminate the living room and nearly blind him, and Steve knows he’s only got one move now. He takes a moment to marvel at how this night manages to get worse and worse, then heads for the front door.
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 02:30
He’s getting real tired of getting the shit kicked out of him every time the world is at risk of ending.
His ribs ache when he breathes, and his eyes burn from the smoke of Billy’s cigarette. There’s a twinge of pain when he flexes his knuckles, but that one is easy to push down under the satisfaction from punching Billy fucking Hargrove. The guy has been asking for trouble ever since he first moved to town. Now, Steve wants to believe he has turned over a new leaf, leaving the bully of his past behind since his last run in with The Demogorgon. He’s seen some scary shit. The type of stuff that made child’s play out of throwing ragers in his big, empty house and tripping nerds in the hall during passing periods.
That being said, he still can’t stop the blood that roars in his ears when Billy lets out an awful, near-hysterical laugh. It’s not funny, not a single thing is funny right now, but that doesn’t stop Billy smiling at him from ear to ear. It makes Steve want to hit him again.
“Looks like you’ve got some fire in you after all, huh?” Billy goads. There’s blood dripping from his nose now. “I’ve been waiting to meet this King Steve everybody’s been telling me so much about.”
The urge to reel back his arm and go for another right hook is loud. He told the kids that they were on the bench, but the truth is he’s been itching for a fight. He looks at them; sees the way they all cling to Lucas like he’s something precious. The trepidation in Dustin’s frown, the tremble in Mike’s hands, the hatred and pure fear in Max’s eyes.
Steve pushes down that violent urge and shoves a firm hand into Billy’s chest.
“Get out.”
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 00:30
Billy takes a swing at him.
Steve barely ducks in time to avoid it, then pops right back up to land a punch on Billy’s other cheek. The hit sends Billy crashing into the kitchen table with a clatter, and the kids shout and cheer. That blood roars in his ears louder than ever.
“Kick his ass, Steve!”
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 00:15
Billy laughs again, and Steve punches him right in the mouth. Again. And Again.
“Get him! Get him!”
He’s backed Billy up into the sink, knuckles sore and splitting, and he’s winning.
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 00:10
Billy is still laughing. His blood stains his top teeth red.
Then he smashes a plate over Steve’s head.
The pain and shock is disorienting and Steve stumbles, hands immediately reaching up to his head. The kids’ cheers change tune, and Billy’s laughter comes to a stop right at the same time that a horrible screech fills his head. It’s like the storm sirens during the drills at school, but the sirens are right up against his ears and pushing in.
“Billy, no!”
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 00:05
“Steve!”
He collapses to the ground, clutching his ears like that’ll relieve the pressure. It’s worse than anything he’s ever felt. Worse than Jonathan’s fists last year, worse than his first hangover, worse than the time he got a concussion during the final away game in his sophomore year. A shattered plate shouldn’t hurt this much, but it feels like his brain is being both squeezed and shredded at once.
His vision cuts in and out, and he can’t decipher the shouting voices anymore. He thinks he screams.
RECORDED TIME OF DEATH: 00:02
He claws at his scalp, trying to carve out the screeching, and he’s definitely screaming now. Billy stomps over to where he is curled up on the floor, and his vision has gone red — are his eyes bleeding? He has to get up, he has to keep the kids safe, he has to—
00:01
00:02
00:03
Awareness washes over him not unlike waking up after a long night of heavy rain.
His throat is dry, and his muscles are a little stiff, but there’s no pain now. The hard part is over.
00:04
00:05
At the same time he realizes his nose is pressed into a foul smelling carpet, he also realizes he has an audience. “Steve, look out!” A voice yells, and it’s the only warning he gets before a fist comes swinging down towards his face.
He just barely rolls away in time to avoid the hit, and the person the fist belongs to lets out an angry shout as his fist meets floor. He jumps to his feet, gets in a fighting stance, and finally gets a look at his assailant.
Blonde curly hair, blue eyes, near-rabid snarl. The historical record says this is Billy Hargrove.
He spares a glance towards the group watching the brawl. They look relatively uninjured, which is good. He knows what’s to come for them, but right now they’re just kids.
Billy charges at him again and he does a fake out dodging maneuver. When Billy takes the bait, he grabs him by the arm and twists it behind his back. With a cry Billy tries to kick his legs out, and he bends, sweeps a hand under Billy’s knees and throws him across his back like those ancient WWE programs he studied while prepping for his mission. In three breaths he has Billy pinned to the ground and a hand around his throat.
The power is in his hands now. Billy stares up at him with a tomato-red face and blazing eyes, spit dribbling from his mouth as he tries to break free. He has a choice to make. He can feel Billy’s pulse beneath his fingers. He could kill him right now. He knows exactly how to move his hand to crush a windpipe or break a neck for a quick death. For a moment, his training eludes him. He knows all about Billy Hargrove’s past and future, what he is capable of.
Protocol 3: Don’t take a life; don’t save a life, unless otherwise directed. Do not interfere.
His training floods back in, and he orders, “Concede.”
“What?” Billy chokes out, hands flailing as he tries to pry the hand off his throat.
“I said, concede.”
“F-fuck you, Harrington.”
So there won’t be an amicable end to this fight, then. He could beat Billy unconscious, but that would take too much energy and time. The clock has been ticking steadily upwards since he arrived and it isn’t stopping now. He looks around the living room for another way and spots a syringe on a side table. The redheaded girl follows his gaze.
“Maxine,” he calls, and she looks at him funny. Shit. He recovers quickly and continues, “Max, give me that.”
As Max fills the syringe and hands it to him, Billy’s struggling doubles. He sits on Billy’s legs to keep from getting kicked and carefully inserts the needle into his neck. When the plunger is fully depressed, he finally lets go.
He backs up just enough so that he can meet Billy’s gaze without hovering. “From here on out, you’re gonna leave us all alone. Do you understand that?”
Billy’s expression has gone slack. He makes an aborted movement with his hand like he is trying to lift it, or maybe curl it into a fist. “Eat a dick,” Billy slurs.
His frustration starts to rise and he considers kicking the guy in the side of the head when inches from him, a bat with nails swings down and embeds into the space between Billy’s legs. Even he flinches away, and the warning blow is enough to make Billy’s face pale.
Max rips the bat out of the carpet and wields it with a vengeance. “Say you understand!” Max yells. “Say it!”
Finally, Billy grumbles, “I understand.” Then he promptly passes out.
A beat passes while he gathers his bearings. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the simulation to reset. It doesn’t, and reality settles in that in just a few minutes, he has officially changed history.
“Steve, what the hell?” One of the boys exclaims. It takes him a moment to realize he is being spoken to. Responding to his name will come easier with time. He turns and sees the boy with curly hair and a gummy smile looking at him with unabashed awe. According to the historical record, this is Dustin. “You’re a badass!”
His declaration triggers the others into motion. Max drops the bat and starts fishing around in Billy’s jean pocket. The other two boys start talking at once, asking questions like how he learned to fight like that, if he could teach them, what he’s been holding back this whole time for. All questions he can’t answer, both because he doesn’t have the time and because he doesn’t want to.
Max saves him again when she holds a set of car keys up for them all to see. Everyone goes quiet, and she says, “Let’s go.”
No one questions why he is suddenly on board with going down into the tunnels. They are all too happy not to push their luck as he helps them load their equipment into the trunk of Billy’s car. It isn’t until Max opens the driver’s side door that the groove they have gotten into stutters.
“Yeah, no,” he says, snagging the car keys from Max’s hands before she climbs in.
“What the hell?”
“Listen, I’m thankful you helped out back there, but if you think I’m letting you drive when you aren’t even old enough to reach the pedals, you are sorely mistaken.”
Max pops her hip and gives him a nasty look. “That’s bullshit! How are you any more fit to drive than me? You were the one screaming on the floor earlier like you were being axe murdered.”
Of course, he doesn’t remember that part. But he knows how scary it must have been to witness it from the outside. She isn’t too far off about the murder part, but he can’t tell her that. So instead he tells her, “You can sit shotgun and navigate for me, or you can stay behind. What’s it gonna be?”
They are locked in a stare down for a few seconds until Mike Wheeler shouts with one foot already in the back seat, “Would you assholes cut it out and get in? We have to help El!”
At the reminder of their mission, Max gives up and rounds to the other side of the car. She gets into the passenger seat, grumbling under her breath all the way. He rolls his eyes. All those years he spent training and preparing for this moment, and not even an hour into the mission these kids already know how to test his patience.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and takes a deep breath, starts the engine, and pulls out of the driveway. This is his life now.
When all is said and done, the hub burned to a crisp, the gate to the Upside Down closed, and the Mind Flayer subdued (for now), everyone decides to spend what little is left of the night at the Byers’ residence.
The kids are all in Will Byers’ room. With how close they are huddled together on the floor, they are less individual people than they are a collection of elbows and feet, interspersed between a lump of blankets and pillows. Chief Hopper and Mrs. Byers retreat into a bedroom after the kids are accounted for, and Nancy Wheeler goes off with Jonathan Byers into his room. The latter might have mattered more to the Steve Harrington from three hours ago. Now, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all besides the utter exhaustion from a mission completed and a definite concussion that will need seeing to tomorrow.
He lays out on the couch and waits. Minutes pass, then an hour, and he patiently listens until the only sounds in the house are snores from the bedrooms and the dull hum of the heater. When he is sure everyone’s asleep, he pads over to the landline and types in a number he knows by heart.
It rings only once before someone picks up. On the other end of the line, there’s a series of clicks and beeps, binary nonsense meant to dissuade any civilians that might misdial. He waits, and finally a woman drones in a deceptively bored voice, “Send your traffic.”
“Traveler 3512 confirming coordinates 39.9784° North, 86.1180° West,” he says in a hushed voice.
There’s a pause, and then the woman on the line replies, “Coordinates received. Traveler 3512 confirmed.” Then, just before the line goes dead, “Welcome to the 20th.”