Chapter Text

The Childress Family (The Gunslingers)

1975 of November — Indiana, Hawkins

Karen Wheeler was an ordinary woman, married to a boring yet dependable man named Ted Wheeler. Years had passed since she’d moved to Hawkins—she’d been sent there at thirteen to lead a quiet life.

She was born into the Childress family, a lineage unlike any other. Karen had always felt different, separate from her kin. Where her life as of the moment with Ted was suffused with patriarchal normalcy, the Childress family was fiercely matriarchal. Women were revered as goddesses—the powerhouses, the one that holds the power. Even Karen herself possessed this unusual power, yet she shunned it. She preferred to play the part of Ted’s perfect, beautiful wife, denying the part of herself that was strange and strong. That strength—true, raw, and almost mythical—belonged not to her, but to her sister, Noctis Childress.

Noctis was the perfect daughter: six feet tall, long-legged, long-armed, hair as black as their mother’s, a beautiful face and mind, and eyes dark as the night sky. Karen, in contrast, had inherited her father’s features—blonde, soft around the edges, unremarkable—a man their mother had married for one reason: to bear children; children carefully designed to be weapons and killers.

In the Childress family—well not just their family but those who bear the blessing from Gabriel—daughters were destiny. Sons were forbidden. Any boy born was doomed; the woman who bore him was compelled, as punishment, to try again—until she succeeded in producing a daughter.

Karen’s voice trembled as she opened the door, staring up at the sister she’d known since their shared days in the womb, even those days where they stood side by side, holding a gun, practicing, while Karen misses all her shots, Noctis doesn’t. “Why—why are you here, Noctis?” she tried to say, her words catching in her throat. Noctis had claimed all the magic—magic that should have belonged to both. Now Karen stood before her—washed out, powerless, never extraordinary or beautiful or strong like Noctis Childress. Perhaps she was never meant to carry the Childress name at all.

“Sister, may I come in?” Noctis asked softly, her head tilting as she peered past Karen into the house. Karen swallowed hard and nodded, nervously stepping aside.

Hawkins was a place for hiding, not for people like Noctis. The forgotten town in the middle of nowhere, perfect for someone trying not to be found, trying just to exist.

“I—yes… yes, come in. I’ve missed you. It’s been years since you… since you took Nancy to Vatican City,” Karen said, attempting a glare she hoped would remind Noctis of boundaries.

Noctis only laughed, low and amused, as she swept into the house—leaving Karen to quietly shut the door against the world outside.

“It was my mistake—you know I’ve always wanted you back in the sisterhood. You’re still a knight, after all,” Noctis said gently.

Karen only sighed and shook her head. As she led Noctis into the living room, she stumbled over one of Mike’s scattered toys and huffed in annoyance at the riot of colored blocks and cars littered across the floor. She bent down, scooped up a few pieces, and flung them onto the couch before motioning for Noctis to sit in the single armchair.

Noctis offered her a tentative smile as Karen sat down beside her, uncertainty flickering across her face. “I heard…about your son. My nephew,” Noctis said quietly.

Karen’s posture wilted at that. “I’m not part of the sisterhood anymore; you know that. I’m not bound by their rules. I can have a son if I want,” she replied, her voice rising. But before she could say more, Noctis raised a calming hand, and Karen fell silent again—a habit that always frustrated their mother, the way Karen seemed to shrink in on herself.

She certainly didn’t look like someone destined to wield the power that kept the world safe.

“Sorry,” Karen whispered. Only then did she notice the tears threatening her mascara; she wiped them away quickly, careful not to smear her makeup. Noctis watched her in silence.

“Your son could have the blessing,” Noctis murmured. 

Karen flinched. “Not this again, Noctis. You’ve already taken my daughter to see the Oracle. Now you want to involve my son? You know there are no records of males ever inheriting the blessing.” Karen hugged her hands to her chest. Her voice was barely more than a whisper as Noctis sighed.

“You still carry our ancestors’ blood. You're the only one known to have given birth to a son. How could we know for sure? Your boy… he could be like us,” Noctis insisted.

Karen dropped her head into her hands. “You can’t do this to me, Noctis. I know I haven’t lived up to expectations—I’m more my father’s daughter than my mother’s. I mean, look at me. Do you really think I passed anything down to Mike?” Her voice was strained, but Noctis’s expression didn’t change. Karen knew that look: Noctis would not be convinced.

Noctis hadn’t even met Mike yet, but she was certain—the resemblance was undeniable. The boy looked so much like their mother: black hair, eyes the shade of midnight, pale porcelain skin.

A small voice interrupted their tense silence. “Mommy?”

Both women turned. A small boy with mop of black curls peeked around the corner, clutching a toy sword—the one he’d begged for because all the other children had one. Karen softened instantly.

“Baby. What are you doing up? I thought you were doing nap-time?” she crooned, her voice transforming. She scooped him into her arms, and he clung tightly to her hair, waving the sword.

Karen faced Noctis, who watched with a thoughtful expression. “Mike,” Karen introduced with a hint of hesitation.

Noctis stood and approached. Mike regarded her with wide, earnest eyes and let out a tiny gasp. “Witch,” he whispered, filled with awe.

Noctis smiled, kneeling to his level, and gently brushed her fingers across his cheek. “A witch? Is that so?” she said with a light laugh. Karen couldn’t help but smile, watching her sister—Noctis always had a soft spot for children. She, unlike Karen, had never had a child herself; the duties of the sisterhood were always much important.

“What’s your name?” Mike asked, tilting his head.

Noctis caught Karen’s eye, amusement dancing there. “Noctis Childress. I’m your mommy’s sister—your auntie,” she explained.

Mike’s face lit up. “Ms. Noct!” he exclaimed joyfully. Noctis laughed, and Karen smiled again despite herself.

Later, Mike knelt on the wooden floor amid the scattered toys, content with his cars and blocks. Noctis, now seated once more, watched him fondly.

“He looks just like Mother,” she mused, rubbing her chin lightly as Mike created little engine noises under his breath, wholly absorbed in his play. “His hair, his nose—his eyes.”

Karen rubbed her hands together. “I know... I know—” She sighed. “He looks so much like you and Mom. It’s scary. Sometimes, when I look at his face, it’s like I’m staring back at Mom herself. It scares me. I love the sisterhood, I love our sisters, I love you. But I’m not like any of you. I can barely control my abilities,” she said quietly.

Among the sisters, it was always whispered that, because Karen and Noctis were twins, all the blessings had gone to Noctis while they were in their mother’s womb. Karen, they said, got nearly nothing; that was why she could barely wield her own weapon—her sister had inherited it all.

“You’re Karen Childress. You’re not just anyone, you’re my sister. Don’t let anyone talk down to you,” Noctis said, her voice firm. Karen only sighed, lowering her head, shaking it. “Why am I even trying? I don’t care what they think,” she mumbled.

“But you do. If you didn’t, why are you hiding out here in the middle of nowhere?” Noctis answered, tilting her head as Karen looked back at her. Noctis had leaned back on the couch, studying her sister’s face with sharp eyes.

Below them, Mike kept playing, his curls bouncing as he moved. Noctis’s gaze softened. “He has it; I can feel it,” she said.

“But he’s a boy,” Karen whispered. “How can he—? I just don’t understand the logic behind that.”

“Gabriel never cared about gender, and you know that. His blessings are for the chosen, man or woman—it doesn’t matter,” Noctis replied. Karen let out a short, almost-laugh, a half-amused shrug rolling off her shoulders.

“And that attitude will get you killed,” Karen said, giving Noctis a sardonic look. “Mom would have whipped you to death for saying that.” She continue

“They need me. They can’t afford to,” Noctis replied, a hint of smugness in her voice as Karen shook her head.

They both looked at Mike again.

“Nancy doesn’t have it. How can you tell Mike does?” Karen asked.

Noctis only hummed. “Call it a hunch.”

“A hunch?” Karen repeated, incredulous. She would not risk her son’s life, not for one of Noctis’s hunches.

“I’m never wrong, am I?” Noctis said.

“But even so... you can’t take him to the Vatican. What if they—what would I tell his father if something happened? When you took Nancy, I was so scared, and you know that,” Karen whispered. “I still haven’t forgiven you for almost giving me a heart attack.”

“Calm down. I would never let any harm come to your children. I care for them as much as you do,” Noctis assured her, meeting her eyes with a gentle look. “And besides—” She glanced back at Mike, now watching them curiously from the floor. “The Vatican won’t accept him, but I can train him. When the time comes—when he’s older, when his stigmata appears—so will his artifact. He’ll need someone to guide him. An artifact in untrained hands can be deadly, even to him.”

Karen swallowed hard, rubbing small circles into her palms, desperate to warm her clammy hands.

“How old is Mike now?” Noctis asked softly.

“He just turned five in April,” Karen murmured.

“A perfect age. The same as Nancy was when I took her to see the oracle,” Noctis said. Karen nodded, nervous. She knew Noctis was right—if Mike carried Gabriel’s blessings, leaving him untrained was unthinkable. The stigmata at ten, without preparation, could ruin him—or worse.

“I’m scared, Noctis. His life won’t be normal,” Karen admitted after a few long moments.

“When have we ever been normal, Catherine?” Noctis replied, the old name drawing a rueful look from Karen.

“You know I don’t go by that name anymore,” she said. Noctis only smiled, but nodded respectfully.

“I’ll train him. Before the stigmata, before his artifact—he’ll be ready. Do you trust me, sister?” Noctis asked.

Karen met her eyes, then looked at Mike.

After a long moment, she nodded. “I trust you,” she whispered.

Noctis smiled. “Then he’s in good hands. Michael will be cared for—and maybe he’ll be the strongest knight of all someday.”

Karen snorted. “Maybe Mom will finally be proud of me if that happens. Useless Karen birthed a kid that is as strong as her twin sister. See how that will turn out.”

“She’s always been proud of you,” Noctis said gently, and Karen gave a skeptical scoff at that. Noctis's next words were soft and certain: “I know I am.”

1975 of December— Indiana, Hawkins

“Do you see beyond the trees, Michael?” Noctis asked, crouching behind the boy. Mike was fixated on a squirrel darting through the branches, bundled in a thick black coat that dwarfed his small frame, boots nearly double the size of his feet. His hair was pressed flat beneath a large toque, and he gripped a rifle that seemed almost comically oversized in his hands. It was striking—almost absurd—to see a five-year-old cradling a gun.

Yet Noctis herself had started younger. At just two, she’d learned how tightly to clutch her gun, and hers had appeared even more ridiculous.

It had been nearly a month since Noctis began teaching Mike to handle a rifle. For almost that entire time, Karen had lingered close, anxious to leave them alone. Only now did she trust Noctis enough to step away during their lessons.

Mike was a quick study—astonishingly quick. It was obvious he held some special gift. No ordinary child could speak and understand with such acuity at five. Karen once confided to Noctis that Mike had begun to walk at nine months, to talk at fifteen. Always ahead of the curve.

He was, in every way, the perfect vessel for a knight—a fact as clear and inevitable as sunrise. It was a disappointment that the sisterhood would not accept him as one of their own and might even find it against their law and kill him.

“Do I just… hit it?” Mike’s voice trembled, his wide eyes flicking to Noctis, full of uncertainty.

“Yes, Michael. We’ve talked about this,” Noctis replied gently, sighing. “Right now, I want you to get used to aiming. To using the rifle first.” Mike nodded, worry etched in every line of his face.

He turned back to the squirrel, lifting the rifle to his eye, tilting his head with the poise of a seasoned hunter. His hands moved smoothly as he tracked the animal, the barrel following each twitch and leap with unnerving precision. Noctis knew he had the squirrel in his sights. The only problem: he could never bring himself to pull the trigger.

She’d already given him plenty of target practice; at a hundred yards, he could hit anything—if it wasn’t alive. But when there was life in the crosshairs, he always faltered. His heart was soft. Watching him line up the shot, following the squirrel’s every movement without ever pulling the trigger, filled Noctis with an odd sadness.

She watched as Mike slowly exhaled, then let the rifle drop, eyes cast downward. She could feel the shame radiating off him in waves. In just a month, Noctis had learned this much about her nephew: he tried so hard to please, so easily disappointed in himself. At five, he already bore the weight of his own expectations.

“What’s wrong, Mike?” Noctis finally asked. Mike sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t do it, Ms. Noct,” he said.

Noctis hummed thoughtfully, offering her hand. Mike slipped the rifle easily into her grasp. With one smooth motion, she ejected the ammo, popping it out without effort.

“And why is that?” she asked again. Mike fidgeted anxiously, squirming on his feet and looking up at her, eyes squinting with uncertainty.

“Because… I feel sorry for it?” he whispered.

Noctis sighed quietly, her lips curling with faint amusement. Mike was certainly soft—just like her sister had been. He was unmistakably her son. Despite looking like their mother, he carried none of her fearsome temperament. Their mother, after all, had killed her own father for merely raising his voice at her mother. That’s how terrifying their matriarch was.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mike asked, hands clenched together with a sad, wide-eyed gaze. Noctis knelt down to his level.

“Mike, I understand that you value the lives of animals. But what if that squirrel attacks you? What will you do?” she asked gently.

Mike’s brow furrowed as he considered the question. “I—uhm... Squirrels don’t attack people,” he murmured. “Not unless you annoyed it.”

“What if they do?” Noctis pressed. “Would you let it bite you?” She tilted her head.

Mike’s eyes widened at the idea. He shook his head quickly.

“Then you have to kill it, Mike. Do you understand?” Noctis said. Mike nodded, determination flickering in his eyes as he held out his hands for the gun again, but Noctis shook her head, and his face fell.

She stood, smiling. “We’re practicing your curved bullets,” she said, drawing a silver magnum revolver from the holster at her waist and handing it to Mike. His face brightened in anticipation.

“Yes!” he cheered, popping out the cylinder to check the ammo—only to find a single bullet. His smile faltered.

“Just one try. Your mother will be looking for us soon; you’ve done well today—you hit nine out of ten targets,” Noctis told him, her praise warm.

“But I didn’t hit the squirrel. And this is only one bullet. Last time, it took five,” Mike pouted.

Noctis gave him a look. Mike closed the cylinder with a huff.

“Training takes time. You’ve already made remarkable progress in your first month. Soon, we’ll be honing your other senses, preparing you for your coming blessings," she assured him. Mike nodded, resigned but trusting.

The Childress family’s signature ability was the power to curve bullets in any direction—upwards, left, right, downwards—as long as they could see their intended path. It didn’t matter if you hid behind a stone wall; their bullets would curve around it and strike true. With a conventional gun, a headshot meant instant death, a leg wound brought agony—but the Childress never missed. They were gunslingers for a reason.

But with their artifact, everything changed. Its power was anything but subtle; the impact was devastating, the bullets moved faster than the human eye could perceive—one hundred kilometers per second. When those bullets struck flesh, death was instantaneous. It didn’t matter where you were hit; even if it missed your head, the blast tore through flesh, guts, and bone, powerful enough to punch through reinforced cement. It was the perfect tool for assassinations.

“Ready?” Noctis asked.

Mike faced the tree. He stretched out his arms, taking up the revolver. Feet shifted, back straightened. He cocked the hammer and exhaled, white puffs vanishing into the cold air.

“Remember to breathe, listen to your heartbeat, control the tempo—feel it quicken,” Noctis instructed.

Mike tilted his head, swallowing, his face falling into focus. His chest rose and fell rapidly; his hands trembled with adrenaline, struggling for control.

The trick to curving a bullet lay in accelerating your pulse—embracing the adrenaline surge. In that heightened state, everything slows down. You became stronger, faster, your reflexes sharp, every sound and movement clear. For other knights, it was overwhelming, but the Childress family specialized in this art, their blessing different from other families under Gabriel’s lineage—even without the blessing, they could easily use this ability, this was their family’s specialty, Gabriel’s blessing just made it much more powerful than before. 

Noctis remembered when she’d first harnessed the ability as a child and how disorienting it had been, until she’d finally mastered it through sheer persistence.

“Breathe, Mike.” She noticed his trembling hands and frantic breaths, his eyes fluttering open and closed. “You must keep your eyes open. Never close them—ever.”

Mike suddenly stepped back, almost in a blur. He twisted his body, swinging his right arm—the hand clutching the revolver—back, then thrust it forward, squeezing the trigger.

In a heartbeat, the bullet shot from the muzzle. It seemed to fly straight—then, in an instant, it curved gracefully behind the tree, as if guided by an invisible hand, and struck with a sharp crack.

Noctis smiled, applauding. Proud, she watched Mike lower the revolver, breathing hard, one hand clutching his chest as he tried to get his breath under control.

“Bravo, Mike! Perfect!” she called, clapping. Mike stood tall, hands still shaking from the rush, cheeks flushed with pride as he looked at her.

“You curved the bullet on your first attempt. I’m so very proud of you, dear nephew,” Noctis said, her voice warm. Mike beamed, radiant as she offered her hand. He set the revolver in her palm, and she holstered it once more.

“You’re already getting better—you’re a prodigy,” Noctis said, smiling as Mike grinned back at her. “Now, let’s go. Your mother is waiting for us.” She offered her hand, and Mike took it eagerly, his small palm warm in hers despite the snow swirling around them as they walked back to the Wheeler’s house.

Inside, Noctis settled into the chair usually reserved for Ted, while Karen scooped food onto Mike’s plate before passing the bowl of meat pie to Nancy, who watched Noctis curiously. “Your husband doesn’t come home much, does he?” Noctis couldn’t help but ask.

Karen shook her head. “He doesn’t,” she said simply.

Noctis hummed, picking at the peas in her pie with her fork. “His loss, then. Your pie is as good as ever,” she said, earning a huff from Karen.

Nancy snorted, her smile hidden behind another bite of pie.

Karen had already explained that Nancy hardly remembered her time in Vatican City, when she’d been taken to see if she, too, could read the words on the loom—like the other blessed girls chosen to seek the oracle. But Nancy hadn’t been able to, so Noctis brought her back.

Now, as far as Nancy was concerned, Noctis was simply her odd aunt from Italy, an adventurer who liked to climb mountains and was now taking an exceedingly long vacation with them. Mike’s training remained a closely guarded secret between the three of them.

The Sisterhood was itself a well-concealed secret: an order of women, trained as assassins, serving as the Pope’s weapons against threats too great for others. Noctis held a legendary reputation within the Vatican—respected, as all Childresses were. They came from a long line of hunters.

Their ancestors once hunted birds with slingshots, long before the crossbow was invented, selling their catches—until, or so legend said, Archangel Gabriel descended to choose families worthy of his blessing, giving them a sacred duty to protect the world. They were called The Followers of Gabriel. Later, they became The Secret Society, and eventually, the Knights of Gabriel.

While technically independent from the Church, the sisterhood still worked alongside it to ensure peace—by any means necessary. If that meant eliminating corrupt officials—governors, mayors, anyone rotten to the core—then so be it. Here, in the states alone, Noctis could spend a month and hardly make a dent.

But it was their purpose. Their calling.

Later, it was time for Mike’s next lesson: History—the story of the Knights of Gabriel. Each night before bed, Noctis would recount a piece of this secret lineage, intent on grounding him in the reasons behind their actions. Mike already knows all of this, but Noctis always reminds him so he doesn’t forget.

“In the sisterhood, there are only women—no men at all,” Noctis said, pacing slowly in front of an attentive Mike, who sat cross-legged, eyes wide with fascination. “But you’re different.” She continues, looking down at Mike who nodded quickly, preening under her gaze.

Noctis smiled. “You’re a very special boy, Michael. Very, very special.”

Mike’s face lit up. “Do you remember what age you’ll be when you receive your stigmata and artifact?” Noctis prompted.

“When I turn ten,” Mike answered quickly “That’s when I’ll get my stigmata and my artifact.”

“Exactly. And remember—the Childress family tradition. You must shape your artifact into a gun. That’s your legacy,” Noctis said, wagging a finger at him.

Mike’s face grew serious as he nodded, eyes bright with determination. “Okay, okay!”

Noctis smiled.

“Now, let’s get you ready for bed. Come on—brush your teeth,” she says, motioning for Mike to stand. He giggles and offers her his hand. Noctis resists the urge to sigh, taking his hand as she leads him to the bathroom near his room. Leaning casually in the doorway, she watches as Mike climbs onto the little stool by the sink, then brushes his teeth with exaggerated vigor.

When they return to his room, Noctis tucks him beneath the covers, watching as he hugs his worn, tattered bear tightly, smiling up at her. Softly, she hums a lullaby while making sure he's snug and safe from the drafts.

“Have you fought monsters before?” Mike asks suddenly. Noctis pauses. There are many ways to describe those who are corrupt or cruel—monsters is certainly one of them. She has fought and killed more than a few. “Yes,” she answers quietly.

“Will I have to, too?” Mike asks, his eyes searching hers. “Do you want to?” Noctis asks in return. Mike fidgets with his bear’s loose fur, uncertain. “I don’t know yet. But I want to be a knight—I want to help people,” he says, shy and earnest.

“Well. You already are a knight. Gabriel chose you, after all,” Noctis replies.

“But I want to fight like you. I want to protect people, too,” Mike insists, looking up at her, determination in his eyes.

Noctis considers this. “If you earn your stigmata and your artifact, then yes, I suppose you can,” she allows.

“So I really can be a superhero when I’m ten?” he asks, nearly bouncing with excitement. Noctis can’t help but let out a huff of laughter. Despite everything, Mike is still so innocent.

“Not quite yet,” she says. “I’ll be there to watch over you. Don’t forget that.” Mike pouts, sinking back into his pillow, a little crestfallen.

Noctis arches a brow. “You’ve only just begun training. Skills take time to hone, and you haven’t even started knife fighting yet—you’re already dreaming of helping people,” she teases.

At the mention of knife fighting, Mike’s eyes light up. “Knife fighting!” he chirps, excited.

“Hush,” Noctis says, gently placing a hand over his eyes. “Enough for tonight. Off to sleep, Michael. We’ll practice again tomorrow.”

Mike pushes her hand away, still buzzing with energy. “Good night, Ms. Noct!” he declares. Noctis smiles, bends down, and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Mike giggles quietly.

“Good night, Mike. Wait for your mother to give you her goodnight kiss too—and don’t forget to wish her sweet dreams,” she instructs. Mike nods enthusiastically, managing a sloppy salute from beneath the covers.

“Yes, ma’am!” he says, and Noctis suppresses a smile at his earnest dramatics.

1977 of July — Indiana, Hawkins

Footsteps crunch over the dead leaves as Mike sprints through the forest, his breath steady, rifle clutched tight to his chest. His eyes dart through the trees, searching for anything out of place. Lips pressed together, Mike stays silent, finger hovering near the trigger, ready for anything that might leap from the trees.

Suddenly—his ears prick. A whisper slices through the air. He hears a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun.

Time slows. The trees, caught mid-dance by the gentle wind, hang motionless. Birds freeze overhead as Mike’s breath slows, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He twists his head just in time to spot an incoming bullet—hurtling straight for his face.

In a quick movement, he swings up the rifle and fires. His bullet rips from the barrel, colliding with the oncoming round in midair. Shrapnel sprays over the ground. Mike tosses the rifle behind him, the strap snapping against his chest, and draws his revolver in a single motion. Time resumes.

Birds wing through the sky once more. The trees sway. Mike cocks the revolver. With a precise grunt, he squeezes off a round, aiming around the trunk where he’d seen the first bullet fired from.

Almost instantly, another bullet intercepts his, and Mike lets out a low, startled sound as he keeps running.

Today's training is brutal—harder than usual. Ms. Noct is hunting him, each shot, Mike has to parry them all and avoid  getting hit as he races for home. It was a challenge for today to train Mike with one on one fights. The goal: deflect every bullet. Noctis never aims to kill (or even hit him), but still, every shot requires perfection from him.

A bullet whistles past his ear. Mike yelps, stumbling as he falls, the revolver skittering from his grasp. He hears footsteps approaching, soft but purposeful—like she was purposely dragging her feet so he has time to get up and run or maybe fight back. Scrambling, Mike draws a knife from his boot, flipping onto his back and jabbing at Noctis as she reaches him, grabbing the back of his sweater and heaving him up like his weight didn’t exist.

She catches his wrist with ease, stopping the blade inches from her throat. In one motion, Mike twists and kicks her in the chest, sending both tumbling across the grass.

Noctis regains her footing, taking a few paces back with a grunt. Mike rolls, grabs his revolver, and fires. Noctis is just as quick, drawing her own gun and meeting his curved shot with one of her own. Their bullets collide midair, ringing out another sharp crack.

Mike grits his teeth—just four shots left, and no time to reload. Switching to the rifle would take too long. To win, he must at least graze her, but Noctis is fast—faster than human eyes should handle. Still, Mike has his own edge: he can slow time, pump his heart faster, and hyperfocus on every bullet she fires. He wants to win.

He shoots again, the bullets clashing as he dives toward a thick tree for cover. Heart pounding, hands shaking, he fumbles three rounds from his side bag, dropping one. He pops open the cylinder, reloads two rounds, sees Noctis approaching, and ducks back, sweating. He snatches up the dropped bullet, slots it in, snaps the cylinder shut, then peers out and fires at Noctis—who sidesteps and slips behind a tree of her own.

"Remember," Noctis calls, her voice calm as ever, "hiding behind a tree won't save you. I can still hit you."

Mike stepped back, turning as he ran, focusing—he swung the gun, sending a curved bullet around the tree where Noctis was hiding. The shot fell short, striking the side of the trunk.

“Missed!” Noctis called out. “Four bullets left, Michael.” She fired at him again. Mike yelped as the bullet sped his way, ducking behind the trunk, heart pounding and breath coming fast.

He exhaled slowly, then peered over the wood, preparing another curved shot.

But he froze. Noctis was nowhere to be seen.

“You lose. Again.”Mike jumped as a gun barrel tapped lightly against his head. Groaning, he lowered his arm and turned, finding Noctis grinning down at him, pride shining in her eyes.

“I’m never going to win,” he muttered, disappointment thick in his voice.

Noctis sighed, ruffling his hair. “Winning isn’t everything, Michael. Remember that.” Mike slid his revolver back into its holster.

“But it's been weeks since we started one on one’s. I can’t beat you, Ms. Noct.” Mike whined, looking up with those impatient eyes Noctis had grown used to.

What she loved about Mike was his eagerness—his hunger to learn—matched with an uncanny speed of picking things up. He reminded her so much of herself as a child. At times, looking at him felt like staring at her own reflection—a thought that almost frightened her. She hoped the hardships she’d endured would never come his way.

All she wanted was for him to experience happiness. Yet the training was necessary. A child blessed by Gabriel had to be taught, lest their power accidentally harm themselves or others. The blessing was no joke—a rare, powerful gift. It was an honor, being chosen by the Archangel Gabriel himself, the same angel who foretold Mary of the birth of Jesus. 

“Patience is key, Michael. Remember that.” She placed a gentle hand on his back and guided him down the forest path toward the house, now walking home. “Back then, our ancestors—”

“—hunted birds,” Mike finished for her, glancing up with genuine interest. Noctis suddenly realized—he was almost as tall as her shoulder.

He was growing up so fast.

“Yes,” she smiled, “they were bird hunters. They’d spot the birds, then wait—sitting, watching, patient. They didn’t rush in, didn’t just hurl stones thoughtlessly.” Dried leaves crunched under their boots as she continued.

“You must be like our ancestors: cool, calm, collected. Above all, patient. You wait for the mistake—then you strike.”

Mike nodded, excitement flickering in his eyes. “But you don’t make mistakes,” he says softly.

She chuckled. “I’m still human, my dear. Of course I make mistakes. Nobody is perfect.”
Mike shot her an uncertain look. “Are you sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Noctis couldn’t help but laugh again, quietly.

Mike and Karen were so alike—his expressions were always plain on his face, unlike Noctis, who had struggled with emotion since childhood. She could understand others, but showing her own feelings never came easy.

They can finally see the house now—bikes are parked by the garage.

“My friends are here,” Mike says, suddenly anxious as he glances down at what he’s wearing. A vest over his thick sweater, a holster belt strapped around his waist holding a revolver, and a knife holster tightly fastened to his left leg. A bag hangs over his right shoulder, and a rifle is slung across his chest, pushed behind him.

He looks like a boy going to war.

Noctis sighs. “Come on, give them to me. I’ll hide them in the shed so your friends won’t see them.” She extends her arm as Mike nods, hurriedly stripping himself of the weapons. One by one, he hands them over: the vest, the rifle, the bag, the holster belt, and finally, the leg strap. Noctis slings the vest over her shoulder, throws the rifle strap across her chest, and gathers the rest in her arms with practiced ease.

“Is that everything?” she asks. Mike pats himself down quickly, hesitating before lifting his sweater to reveal a smaller revolver tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Noctis lets out a soft snort. She’s taught him well—too well, it seems. She never would’ve guessed he’d go as far as hiding a backup revolver under his clothes. Mike was slick—and smart. “Here you go,” he says, handing it to her. Noctis gestures toward the house.

“Go on. I’ll take care of this,” she says. “And later, we’ll have a short quiz on your history.”

Mike giggles at her teasing, then sprints toward the garage, excitement overtaking his nerves. He pulls open the basement door and bounds down the stairs. Inside, Will, Dustin, and Lucas are already setting up the table for their D&D session.

“Dude! Where were you? We came early, and you weren’t here!” Lucas says.

“I just went for a walk,” Mike replies with a grin.

“At seven in the morning?” Dustin asks, annoyed. Mike only giggles, brushing off the question as he joins them at the table.

“I brought snacks,” Will says softly. He crouches down to unzip his backpack, pulling out chips, chocolates, and candy.

“Oh! I got drinks!” Dustin says, raising a finger before rushing to grab his own bag from the couch. He pulls out six cans of Coke and holds them triumphantly.

As he turns back toward the table, his foot catches on the coffee table. “Shit!” he curses, stumbling and sending the cans clattering against his chest. The small, unassuming box of .357 bullets that Mike had carefully tucked away earlier tips over, scattering its contents across the floor.

“Shit! Shit! Fuck!” Dustin curses again, clutching his foot in pain while hugging the Coke cans to his chest.

“Don’t let Ms. Henderson hear that,” Lucas says without turning around, oblivious to the scattered bullets. Will giggles—until he notices a single bullet rolling toward his feet.

“Oh crap,” Mike mutters under his breath, dropping to the floor in a panic. His face flushes as he scrambles to gather the bullets.

“What’s that?” Will asks, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern. Lucas and Dustin turn to see the bullets on the floor as Mike frantically picks them up, one by one.

“Bullets?” Dustin exclaims, wide-eyed.

“My—my dad likes to, uh, go out and shoot targets,” Mike stammers, fumbling to shove the bullets back into the box. He shuts it tightly and hurriedly places it on a shelf.

“Your dad knows how to shoot?” Dustin asks, intrigued.

Mike nods furiously, avoiding their eyes.

“He uses a gun?” Will asks, his tone uneasy, almost afraid.

“Cool!” Lucas says, grinning. “I want to learn how to shoot too!”

Will frowns at that, his discomfort evident. “He barely does it,” Mike says quickly, trying to reassure him. But he notices the way Will looks at him—the way his unease lingers. Will’s expression is a mix of fear and something deeper, like the very idea of guns unsettles him.

Mike swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. The moment sticks with him, and he tucks it away into a corner of his mind. It feels important—something to remember.

April 7, 1980 — Indiana, Hawkins — Mike Wheeler's 10th Birthday

“O-Oh, I’m so nervous, Noctis. What if something happens?” Karen stammered, rubbing her hands together, rolling her palms nervously, and scratching at her wrist. Noctis watched her closely, placing a steady hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, grounding her back to reality.

Outside the room, the sound of laughter echoed. Mike and his friends were happily chatting, interrupted only by the loud clicks of camera shutters. Will’s brother, Jonathan, was taking photos, and Nancy was urging Mike to open his gifts. Dustin’s mother, Claudia, was snapping pictures as well, her laughter filling the room. Mike blushed, clearly embarrassed by the attention, while Jonathan and Claudia continued photographing him.

Next to them, Sue and Charles observed as Mike tore open their gift, revealing a large toy car. “Woah!” Mike exclaimed, his face lighting up.

“Mom, you never got me that,” Lucas whined at Sue, who immediately hushed him. Nancy stood nearby, rocking Holly gently in her arms, smiling as she watched the scene unfold.

“Jonathan, help me with the dishes, please!” Joyce called from the kitchen. Jonathan lowered his camera, glancing over his shoulder.

“Hold on, Mom!” he shouted back. Turning to Will, who was seated on the couch between Dustin and Lucas, Jonathan whispered, “I’ll be back, Will.”

“Okay,” Will replied softly, his attention drifting back to the gifts Mike was unwrapping on the floor.

Inside the smaller room, Karen’s anxiety was mounting. “It will be painful, yes,” Noctis said gently, his voice calm and steady. “But I’ve told him everything I could. He’s prepared.”

Karen, now on the verge of a panic attack, trembled as she spoke. “Oh, you know how painful it was, Noctis. I couldn’t sleep for days when I got my stigmata. It felt like I was burning—from the inside and the outside.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Noctis, with practiced care, used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to dab at them, ensuring her mascara didn’t smudge.

“I know how painful it was, Karen. I have it too. If the large markings on my back aren’t obvious enough…” Noctis’s voice was soft but firm, and Karen nodded furiously, sniffling.

“It’s going to be a hard few weeks for Mike,” Noctis continued, “but he’ll feel stronger afterward. And I can feel how strong he already is. The days leading up to his birthday… it’s like the air is electrified. You know Mike will be a strong boy.”

Karen swallowed hard, her nerves still raw. “Michael has always been so strong—he’s my strong, sweet boy,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears shimmered in her eyes as Noctis gently dried them again.

“What about Holly?” Karen whispered, her voice trembling. “Do you… do you think she’ll be like you and Mike as well?”

Noctis glanced through the small gap in the door, watching Nancy hold Holly. The child’s blond hair was tied into two small buns, her features mirroring those of Karen and Nancy. Noctis could see the spirit of her mother in her but knew the truth. “No…” she answered softly.

Karen let out a small sob, her relief palpable. “So… it’s really just Michael?” she asked in a whisper.

Noctis nodded. “But if she reaches five, I will still take her to see the Oracle,” she added.

Karen nodded quickly at that. “Yes, that’s fine—just as long as she’s safe.”

“Your children are always safe with me, Karen. You know that very well.”

“Karen?” A loud knock interrupted their conversation. Sue peeked into the room, her face filled with worry.

“What’s wrong?” Karen asked, hastily wiping her eyes to hide her tears.

Sue stepped further into the room, her concern growing. “Mike’s—” she began, her voice faltering.

“It hurts.” Mike’s whimper echoed from the living room.

Karen and Noctis locked eyes, their expressions shifting to alarm. Without hesitation, they bolted out of the closet room toward the living room.

There, they found Mike on the floor, cradled in Charles’s arms. Everyone had gathered around him—his friends, Joyce, and the rest of the others. Joyce looked worried, Jonathan hovered nearby, and Claudia was panicking. Holly wailed in Nancy’s arms, and Nancy’s face had gone pale as she rocked her little sister.

Nancy turned abruptly to see Karen. “Mom! Mike looks sick!” she exclaimed. Karen nodded, raising her hands to calm her daughter as she and Noctis moved toward the circle. There, they saw Mike whimpering—his face pale, his body trembling with pain. Sweat covered him, his chest heaving as shallow, rapid breaths escaped in short pants.

The living room was chaotic, everyone talking over each other. The noise was overwhelming—Noctis could only imagine how unbearable it must have been for Mike, whose senses were likely fried and magnified a hundredfold now that his stigmata was surfacing.

Mike screamed suddenly, a loud, piercing cry, as he clawed at Charles, who barely dodged. Claudia rushed to hold Mike’s arms down.

“Mom... Ms. Noct...” Mike whimpered, his voice strained with pain as he struggled against Charles’ grip. He weakly pushed at Charles’ chest, his legs kicking feebly. Noctis’ eyes widened as she stepped back.

“Everyone out,” she commanded.

“What?” Joyce said, looking at her in surprise.

“Out now! We’ll handle this. Nancy, go with Mrs. Byers,” Noctis said firmly, turning to Nancy, whose expression shifted from surprise to anger.

“What? What do you mean? Mike’s in pain—”

“Nancy, listen to your aunt,” Karen interrupted, taking Mike from Charles’ arms. Mike seized weakly, whimpering and crying, thrashing his head back and forth in agony.

Will stood nearby, looking horrified, his hands raised hesitantly as if he wanted to help but didn’t know how. “Everyone out!” Karen finally screamed.

The urgency in her voice spurred everyone into action, and the room emptied in a hurry. “Mom! What about Mike?!” Will shouted as Jonathan carried him out of the house. Nancy followed, still carrying Holly, but looked back over her shoulder anxiously. Then she closes the door behind her.

Inside, Noctis lifted Mike in her arms with ease as Karen followed her up the stairs.

“It hurts! Mom! Mom!” Mike cried, his voice cracking with pain.

“Karen, take off the sheets and pillows—strip everything from the bed,” Noctis ordered. Karen nodded quickly and began tearing the bedding away. Meanwhile, Noctis placed Mike carefully on the mattress. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he whined, tears streaming down his face. He reached weakly for his back, his body wracked with tremors.

Karen turned to Noctis, panic evident on her face. “What do we do?!”

“Calm down, Karen. We need to take his shirt off. The stigmata will show on his back—it’s likely already forming,” Noctis said, maintaining her composure. Karen nodded and helped her strip Mike of his sweat-soaked shirt, which clung to his pale, trembling body.

“Pants too. Leave him in his underwear. Turn on the fan,” Noctis instructed.

Karen darted to the switch and turned on the ceiling fan. Mike continued to cry. “It’s so hot... I feel like I’m burning, Mom,” he whimpered, rolling weakly to his side. He clutched at his back, where smoke began to rise.

Suddenly, like a brand being burned into his skin, black ink appeared at the center of his back, spreading outward and forming into the shape of a tattoo.

“Mom! Help—it hurts!” Mike screamed, arching his back and collapsing onto his knees on the bed. Karen rushed forward instinctively, but Noctis stopped her.

“Don’t touch him—you’ll burn yourself. Right now, his body is as hot as the sun,” Noctis warned as Karen froze, trembling.

“Mike, you’re getting your stigmata. You have to fight it. Don’t let the pain take over—it’ll be over soon,” Noctis said, her tone firm but encouraging.

Mike nodded weakly, tears streaming down his face as he lowered his head to the bed. His body twitched violently as more smoke and heat poured from his back. The ink-like tattoo began to spread, snaking outward like creeping vines. It climbed up to the back of his neck as he raised his head, panting and sobbing.

“Mike, just hold on—it’ll be over soon,” Karen said, her voice trembling. She turned to Noctis, panic etched into her features. “Why is it taking so long? Stigmata aren’t supposed to be this large, right?” she asked, her voice rising.

Noctis frowned, her eyes fixed on the tattoo. The black lines swirled and stretched, curling into intricate flower-like patterns before branching out further. The design continued to grow, spreading down his back and even onto the sides of his ribs.

The process dragged on for an agonizing hour. Eventually, Karen left to prepare a cold bath and gather ice while Noctis stayed by Mike’s side. His body lay limp on the bed, trembling as his face remained pale and drenched in sweat.

“Is it... done?” Mike asked weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at Noctis, his eyes glazed with exhaustion.

Noctis moved closer, kneeling beside the bed. She placed a hand on his forehead, wincing at the scalding heat radiating from his skin—it was hot enough to fry an egg.

“We’ll put you in a cold bath to speed up the healing,” she said, grabbing a thick blanket from the side and wrapping it around him. Gently, she carried him in her arms toward the bathroom, where Karen had already filled the tub to the brim with ice water.

“Is he okay?” Karen asked anxiously, watching Mike, who had his eyes closed and was leaning weakly against Noctis’ chest.

Noctis slowly lowered him into the tub with Karen’s help. As soon as Mike’s overheated body met the ice-cold water, he winced and whimpered in pain. His body shivered violently, but he remained limp, his head lolling to the side.

“How long until he’s cooled enough?” Karen asked, worrying her lip.

“Half an hour. Let him cool down, and then we can worry about his artifact,” Noctis replied.

“Is it too early? His stigmata spread too much over his body—not even Mom’s look like that,” Karen whispered as they peered over the tub. The flower-like, vine-shaped swirls on his back traveled upward to the back of his neck and extended slightly to both sides of his ribs.

“You’re right. It’s because we’ve never seen a boy receive the blessing before,” Noctis said, her tone thoughtful. “He’s probably stronger than normal. It’s possible his potential is even greater than mine.”

Out of everyone, Noctis’s stigmata was the most pronounced, fully covering her back. Unlike other women, whose stigmata were typically confined to the center of their backs—never larger than the width of an adult human’s head—hers spread much wider. Karen’s was much smaller, roughly the size of a hand, which was considered more typical.

It took almost two hours to finish. The incessant ringing of the telephone downstairs wasn’t helping as they worked to clean, dry, and dress Mike. They left him shirtless, knowing how painful it was to wear one during the first few weeks after receiving stigmata.

The phone continued to ring as Karen made Mike’s bed. Noctis carried him back to his room and laid him gently on the freshly cleaned sheets and pillows. Mike whined softly as Noctis settled him onto his stomach.

“It hurts,” he murmured.

“It’s alright. That’s normal the first time,” Noctis reassured him.

Karen finally ran downstairs, determined to figure out who had been calling nonstop.

Mike looked up at Noctis with glassy, pain-filled eyes. “You’re brave, Mike, very brave,” she said softly, brushing a hand through his hair. “You’ve gotten through the hard part. It’ll be okay now.”

Mike gave a weak nod, his breathing shallow and uneven. For a moment, Noctis sat at the edge of the bed, watching him. His breathing hitched occasionally, and he let out a faint whimper.

“It’s so loud…” he whispered.

“What’s loud?” Noctis asked, though she already knew what he meant. His senses were heightened now. He could probably hear everything—the sheets likely felt like they were burning his skin, and his perception was likely slowed. He could see, hear, and feel things more intensely than ever before.

She could hear his heart pounding as he looked up at her again.

“Everything… it’s louder than usual,” Mike murmured.

“It’s part of it, Mike. You’ll have to get used to it,” Noctis explained gently.

Mike nodded weakly in response.

For an entire week, Mike was bedridden—no training, no history lessons. He remained in his room, under the pretense of being gravely ill. No one was allowed to see him. Nancy, however, suggested to Karen daily that they should take him to the hospital, but she stopped when Noctis gave her a sharp, dangerous look—a silent warning. After that, Nancy said nothing further about it, though she often cooked for Mike, and Noctis would bring the meals to him.

It took four weeks for Mike to fully heal, and another week before he could summon his artifact.

His artifact, much like Noctis’s, was a gun. Hers was a Magnum Revolver, sleek and powerful in shining silver and black. Mike’s, on the other hand, was a Desert Eagle. Larger than Noctis’s gun, it fit snugly in his hand. The same intricate patterns that adorned his back were etched onto the weapon, as if carved with painstaking precision. It gleamed in molten gold, with the swirling designs inked in stark black.

"Your stigmata transforms into an artifact. When you summon it, the stigmata—like the tattoo on your back, as you call it—disappears as the artifact materializes. It can take any form you choose," Noctis explained.

“It’s the Childress tradition to keep it as a gun,” Mike added, nodding as he cradled his artifact to his chest like a baby, a small, happy smile tugging at his lips.

“It feels good, does it not? Like you’re holding a part of yourself?” Noctis asked, watching him closely.

Mike nodded, his face breaking into a bright smile. “It feels... warm. Really warm. I can’t explain the feeling.”

Noctis smiled at his response, tilting her head slightly as she spun her revolver on her finger. With a flash of dark purple light, an identical revolver—same size, same look, same everything—appeared in her other hand. “Naturally, you can summon as many as you wish. But remember, the more you summon, the more energy you’ll need to replenish. The artifact doesn’t require bullets or reloading either,” she explained.

“Like magic!” Mike said, grinning as he looked over at her.

Noctis raised a brow at him.

“Like magic! You know—” he repeated excitedly, bouncing on his feet. “The bullets aren’t real—they’re made from our magic, like a physical manifestation. Infinite bullets... unless you’re depleted. It’s like mana! A sorcerer!” He gasped, clearly thrilled by his own comparison.

Noctis stifled a sigh, watching his excitement with a faint smirk. Mike certainly had the imagination of a child—likely a result of that strange table game he was always playing with his friends, the one that sometimes made him skip training because their “sessions” or “campaigns” took the entire day.

“I suppose... that’s accurate,” Noctis muttered under her breath.

Mike giggled softly, still brimming with excitement.

“Now, I want you to try a curved bullet,” Noctis instructed, pointing to a tree behind the one directly in front of them.

Mike nodded, turning toward the tree. He raised his gun, steadying his hands as he stared at the target. It had been weeks since his last training, but Noctis knew he wouldn’t forget. He was her star pupil, after all. Well, her only pupil.

With a quick, fluid motion, Mike swung his arm and fired. The golden bullet shot through the air so fast that Noctis almost couldn’t see it. At the very last second, the bullet curved around the tree, leaving a noticeable scratch on its surface.

The bullet continued, hitting the tree behind it—and then boom. The second tree exploded, toppling backward. The force was enough to send the trees around shaking and the ground to tremble for a moment, shocking  Mike as Noctis stood tall, proud as hell.

Mike gasped, nearly falling to his knees in shock. Noctis couldn’t help but smirk proudly.

This was her pupil.

She clapped slowly, her smirk widening as Mike turned to her, then back at the fallen tree, then down to his gun.

“I did that?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe.

Noctis smiled softly.

He looked up at her, eyes wide with amazement, his expression brightening into the kind of smile only an excited child could wear—like a kid on Christmas morning.

It reminded Noctis of her younger self, just a little.

“How does it feel, Michael? Does it feel liberating?” she asked.

Mike giggled at that. “That sounds so funny. Who even uses the word ‘liberating’ these days?”

“Americans,” Noctis quipped, smiling at her own joke.

Mike giggled again, finding her humor genuinely amusing.

Now that Mike had been fully blessed by Gabriel, he was just like her—perhaps even stronger. His powers would only grow as he used them. He was faster now, more agile, with sharp reflexes. When he slowed time, everything around him moved even slower than before.

Training resumed once Mike had fully recovered, though he practiced with ordinary guns to avoid damaging anything with his artifact. Whenever he did train with his artifact, Noctis made sure he controlled the strength of his shots. Mike proved to be a quick study—he easily learned to make his bullets quieter, smaller, and almost unnoticeable, ideal for stealth (though Noctis would never approve of him using those skills for assassination). For larger targets, Mike mastered powerful shots that could explode on impact—perfect for obstacles bigger than himself.

Noctis taught him countless techniques, sometimes knocking Mike on the head a bit harder than usual, trying to show him—tell him how crucial it was for him to master his blessings. After all, his life—and the lives of others—could depend on it. The blessing didn’t just amplify their abilities tenfold; it granted them entirely new powers.

This isn’t just a skill or technique passed down through the Childress Family. Even before they received their blessings, their ancestors had already mastered how to control their bodies—an essential part of life and survival. The blessing granted them a small measure—at least 0.1%—of Gabriel’s power. That’s why so many laws govern their lives and why the council remains so strict. By allowing Mike to exist and secretly training him without the sisterhood’s knowledge, Noctis is quite literally risking her entire career—and her life—for him.

“Can I name it?” Mike asked one day, sitting atop a large rock the local teens had dubbed "Skull Rock."

Noctis sat at the bottom, breathing in the fresh air. Hawkins had its charms—clear skies, the smell of trees, and an unpolluted forest.

“What do you wish to name?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Mike swung his legs happily over the edge of the rock. Karen would probably have an aneurysm if she saw her son sitting so high up, but Noctis wasn’t worried. A fall like that was nothing for him now that he’s gotten his blessings from Gabriel.

“My gun,” Mike said, flicking his hand. His molten, golden-yellow weapon appeared in a flash of light, catching the sun’s rays and bathing the area in a warm yellow glow.

“There’s no one stopping you. Of course, you can,” Noctis replied with a nod.

Mike’s eyes widened with excitement. “What should I name it, then?”

Noctis gave him a look, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s your choice, Michael. I have no say in what you name your artifact. After all, you’ll carry it forever—until you have children of your own, and they inherit the same abilities and blessings.”

Mike tilted his head in thought. “How about... hmm... Excalibur!”

“A sword?” Noctis asked, exasperated. Her nephew was naming his gun after a legendary sword. Laughable.

“We’re knights, right? I should name it Excalibur!” Mike huffed, crossing his arms haughtily.

Noctis gave him an amused look, her eyes crinkling slightly. “Yes, but Excalibur is a sword for King Arthur, given by Merlin. Tell me, are you a king? Do you have what it takes to lead?”

Mike lowered his arms, looking down at the gun in his hand. “Do I?” he asked softly.

“It’s not me you should ask,” Noctis replied. “You must ask yourself. Do you have a good relationship with your companions?”

Mike shrugged. “I don’t... really know.”

“Then perhaps that’s a hurdle you need to overcome,” Noctis said simply.

Mike pouted at her, but she ignored it. “Now, come down from there. You must be famished.”

Mike jumped down easily, his artifact vanishing in a flash of light. He landed on his feet with a giggle. “No one says famished. It’s just ‘hungry.’”

Noctis smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they began walking side by side.

“I do. My vocabulary is far richer than the people around here,” she teased.

“And you have an accent too,” Mike pointed out.

Noctis resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He really was his mother’s son. Mike might look like his grandmother, but his personality was pure Karen.

“Will I get the accent too?” Mike asked, glancing up at her. His face was genuine—good lord this child. Noctis thought to herself.

Noctis huffed, shaking her head but wearing an amused smile. Together, they continued their walk home, her warm hand resting on his shoulder.

1981 of August — Indiana, Hawkins

The birds seemed slower to Mike’s eyes as he lay there, calm and maybe a little sleepy around the edges. Around him, he could hear children laughing, playing, chasing each other in the playground. He was stretched out on the faded yellow-and-blue merry-go-round, his hands gripping the metal railings tightly as Lucas spun it. Everything around him grew louder—the chatter of the children, the creak of the ride—and yet the birds seemed to slow, their movements dragging in his vision.

His heartbeat quickened, pounding in his ears like the steady beat of a drum: ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. It grew louder, drowning out the world. The birds stilled, frozen mid-flight in his gaze. The shouts and giggles of the kids became distorted, sluggish, as though time itself was slowing down. Even the merry-go-round seemed to crawl to a halt, despite Lucas’s efforts to keep it spinning.

It was amazing how he could do this—how he could force his heart to beat faster, controlling the rush of adrenaline. A cold pit formed in his stomach, driving his pulse to race even harder. He made himself feel the rush, welcoming the sensation as if it were a power he alone could wield.

And then, like a raindrop falling from a leaf, he exhaled. The birds resumed their flight. Time snapped back into place. The merry-go-round spun freely again, and the sounds of the playground returned to their normal pace. He could hear Will and Dustin chattering excitedly about a new campaign. The laughter of other kids drifted in the background, fading into a gentle hum. Beneath him, the merry-go-round creaked with each turn Lucas gave it.

“Hey!” a voice interrupted. Lucas stopped spinning the ride. Will and Dustin fell silent as Mike lay there, still staring up at the sky, his eyes glazed over, soaking in the warmth of the day. The merry-go-round slowed on its own now, spinning lazily without Lucas to push it.

“Midnight,” a harsh voice cut through the air. Lucas let out a small sound of discomfort, almost a whimper. “Fairy... and Toothless,” the voice taunted. Mike stirred, his senses returning. He sat up slowly, his head turning toward the source of the voice.

Troy stood there, sneering. Behind him, his right-hand lackey, James, stood with his arms crossed, a smug smirk plastered on his face. Troy shifted his attention to Mike, who was just beginning to sit upright. The merry-go-round came to a stop right in front of him. Mike glared weakly.

“And you… Frogface. What are you doing hogging the merry-go-round? Don’t you know it’s for everyone?” Troy mocked, his tone dripping with contempt. Mike sighed and started to stand, but before he could fully rise, Troy grabbed the railing and shoved it hard, nearly knocking Mike off the ride.

“Hey!” Lucas and Will yelled, bolting toward Troy, but James stepped in, effortlessly grabbing their arms and holding them back. He was too strong for either of them to break free.

Dustin stood frozen nearby, his face pale and stricken with fear. Mike let out a startled yelp as the merry-go-round spun faster and faster beneath him, forcing him to cling tightly to the railings.

“Having fun yet?” Troy jeered, laughing as he pushed the ride harder.

“Stop it, Troy!” Lucas shouted, struggling against James’s grip while Will squirmed uselessly beside him. But Troy just laughed louder, spinning the merry-go-round at dizzying speeds, his face alight with cruel amusement. James joined in, grinning as he held the boys back.

The ride continued to whirl and whirl. Mike’s knuckles turned white as he clutched the railings, holding on for dear life. Troy and James’s laughter echoed over the playground until—

BRRRING! The school bell rang, cutting through the chaos.

Troy gave the merry-go-round one last hard shove, sending it spinning wildly before stepping back with a satisfied smirk. He leaned back, watching Mike cling to the ride as it slowed. “Let’s go,” he said lazily, motioning for James to follow. The two of them sauntered off, blending into the mass of kids being ushered inside by Ms. Cali. The teacher didn’t even glance at the group, oblivious to what had just happened.

“Mike! Are you okay?!” Will rushed to him as the merry-go-round finally came to a stop.

Mike stepped off, his movements steady, his expression calm. He didn’t look dizzy—or even shaken. “Shit—ugh, I should have done something!” Dustin blurted, panic etched across his face. His curly hair seemed even frizzier as he tugged at it nervously.

“It’s okay,” Mike reassured them, his voice soft. He tried to calm their worried faces with a hesitant smile.

One thing Mike knows about bullies is this: if they hit him, he can't hit back, because there are some lines he can never uncross.

“No! It’s not okay! We have to tell Ms. Cali about it!” Lucas yells, stomping his foot angrily—until Dustin cuts him off with a light slap on the arm. “Didn’t you see? Ms. Cali didn’t care that Mike was being spun by those dipshits!” Dustin snaps.

Will silently watches them, his eyes darting between Lucas and Dustin, then landing on Mike with that worried expression he always wears.

Mike remembers what Ms. Noct taught him: you must never raise your hand against ordinary people—not unless their names are written in the Loom of Oracle. But how could he know whose names are there, if he’s never even seen it? After all, he’s just a boy; he can’t exactly be escorted to the Vatican by his aunt to consult the Oracle. So he doesn’t know who, if anyone, he’s allowed to hurt. And yet, people hurt him—because they want to, because he’s an easy target, because he’s “dumb” or “slow” or “bad at socializing.”

How could he be any different, when his whole world has always been just Ms. Noct, his mother, Nancy, Holly, and his small circle of friends? He knows the ways of the gun and the names of bones in the body better than small talk. He knows which angles make a bullet curve perfect. He’s strange, and he’s always been oddly proud of that. Proud, in fact, to be chosen by an archangel.

Ms. Noct told him she hunts monsters—she kills those rotten to the core. Aren’t Troy and James just the same as the people she hunts? Why shouldn’t he do as she does? But he knows the answer: Ms. Noct follows the guidance of the Loom and not her own anger. If she killed unjustly, her own name would appear on the Loom.

She’s told him of other knights, killed by their own kind when they used their powers for the wrong reasons. Their names appeared on the Loom, and they were judged without mercy. The message is clear: Mike can’t use his powers for petty things. He would pay the price. It’s terrifying, really—the idea that a knight must remain pure of heart and mind from the moment they receive their stigmata and artifact.

It’s been a year since Mike received his stigmata. Every time he is hurt, mocked, or bullied, he never retaliates or complains. He simply accepts the jeers and laughter, week after week. Everyone knows it—probably the whole town knows it—Mike Wheeler is an easy target, and no matter how badly he’s treated, he doesn’t fight back or even tell an adult.

Today, Mike sits in a wooden pew. The priest’s voice drones as Nancy sits on his left, his mother on his right with Holly in her lap. Ted, leaning back, eyes tired, holds his Bible open without really reading.

Every Sunday since he was a child, Mike and his family come to church, praying to the God whom Gabriel serves. In a way, Mike is praying to the “boss” who gave him his powers. Ms. Noct never joins them; she remains at home, saying she’ll just confess to the Pope when she returns to Vatican City—whenever “soon” turns out to be. Lately, she’s told Mike how much he’s grown, how well he’s done under her training.

It feels like she’s preparing to leave—she’s said there’s not much left to teach him, other than history lessons or how to hurt someone until they tell the truth (which is, as Mike understands, technically torture). There are other skills, too, but ones he’s not sure he’ll need. After all, as a boy, he isn’t supposed to be accepted by the Knights of Gabriel; their laws only recognize girls for the blessing.

Mike, though, is an exception. His mother left the sisterhood before Nancy, Mike, and Holly were born. Officially, she’s beyond the law’s reach, never suspecting that the blessing would pass to her son—even if her own bloodline was considered weaker than her sister’s.

“How was church?” Noctis greets him at the door as Mike enters last, her hand keeping it open. Mike shrugs, letting out a small sigh.

Earlier, he had gone into the confession booth to speak about the bullying—the laughter, the jeers, and the way he sometimes feels self-conscious about his face. The priest told him that beauty is subjective, that the opinions of others do not define him, and that he should keep faith in God—this hardship, Father Peter explained, is a hurdle that Mike must overcome. The conversation was brief, the priest keen to keep the line moving, but Mike refused to leave until he’d put all his burdens into words, all the things he’d never said aloud.

“Can I confess something to you?” Mike asks as they make their way up the stairs toward his room. Noctis shoots him a look—almost worried, though her face is usually stern and calm.

“You know I cannot grant sacramental absolution,” she replies.

Mike sighs, hunching his shoulders as he nods. “I know. You’re no priest, no pope, no bishop.”

“But you’re a Knight of Gabriel,” he continues as Noctis sits beside him. The bed dips a little under her weight.

“What troubles you, my dear nephew?” she asks, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Mike shrugs, self-conscious. “I… I don’t really know. People, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes downcast. Noctis’s gaze softens; she almost seems to understand already.

“Are those boys bothering you again?” she asks, her voice dropping.

Mike looks down, nervously rocking his feet. His black Converse are dirty—Troy and James had stepped on them earlier that day at the church. His parents hadn’t noticed. Nor had Nancy.

He remembers watching the boys crush his freshly cleaned shoes, his feet throbbing as they walked away toward their car. “Maybe,” he mumbles, his voice small.

“They’ve been giving me and my friends a hard time. But mostly me. I think they see I’m… easy. And I— I don’t really want to fight back.” His last words are almost a whisper.

Noctis lets out a soft hum. “And why not?”

Mike turns to her, suddenly serious. “What if my name ends up on the Loom?” he asks, chewing his lower lip.

“That’s what’s on your mind? You’re afraid that standing up for yourself might get your name written on the Loom, just because you fought back?” Her voice borders on incredulity, and Mike bristles a little at her tone.

“It’s not just that! I don’t… I don’t want to hurt anyone—with my abilities,” Mike admits quietly, clasping his hands together as he leans forward.

Noctis’s expression softens. “And you won’t. You’ve got perfect control, Michael. You’ve trained under me for six years now. Do you really have so little trust in yourself?”

He glances at her with uncertainty.

“Do you doubt my teachings?” she adds, teasing, as Mike self-consciously scratches his wrist.

“I do trust you…” he says.

“But?” Noctis prompts.

“But what if Father Peter is right? What if this is God’s plan for me? That I’m meant to go through this so I’ll grow stronger?”

Noctis rolls her eyes. “Oh, bullshit,” she mutters. Mike flinches, startled. “What?” he squeaks.

“We follow Archangel Gabriel, not God himself. The Knights are an independent order—we help the Church, but we don’t serve God directly. We serve Gabriel,” Noctis explains.

“But Gabriel follows God,” Mike points out.

“Yes, but his beliefs are a bit looser. God… God is a deranged old man, and Gabriel knows it better than anyone.” Noctis smiles wryly as Mike gasps.

“Don’t say that! What if you get your name written on the Loom for saying such things?” Mike’s face goes pale.

Noctis simply squeezes his shoulder. “It’s not that easy. The Loom is an oracle—it sees the future. Your name is written for what you might do, not what you think or say. Not because you said Fuck does not mean you deserve to get your name placed in there.”

“But you said some knights were punished just for thinking about using their powers for harm.”

“And are you planning to use your powers for harm?” she asks.

Mike shakes his head firmly, a small frown creasing his face.

Noctis cups his cheek, her thumb gently brushing his skin. “Then stop worrying. Now, tell me where these boys live, and I’ll have a word with their parents.”

Mike instantly flushes, pulling back and shaking off her hand. “No way! That would just make things worse!”

Noctis sighs. “Trust me, Michael. Don’t argue about this. I will speak to them.”

He lets out a small, reluctant nod. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Noctis gives him a reassuring smile.

1981 of October — Indiana, Hawkins

Mike collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, his grip on the rifle loose and trembling. He was shaking from exhaustion, sweat running down his face, as Noctis loomed over him with a smug, calculating smirk.

“That was longer than last time—you lasted almost five hours being hunted.” Noctis’ voice was edged with approval. “You’ve used nearly all your ammo.”

Gasping, Mike forced himself upright, trying to gulp down enough air.

“Peace,” he panted. “I surrender.”

Noctis watched him in silence as he caught his breath. Finally, she spoke, “Most knights last a month—fighting every day, every night, no rest. I understand you’re still young, but one day your endurance will save your life. You have to last the entire day.”

Mike nodded, bracing himself with the rifle’s butt against the ground, awkwardly climbing to his feet. He staggered back, wiggling his aching arms and legs, trying to get feeling back. His hair was wild, a small stick tangled in it, bits of leaves clinging to his uniform. He plucked a dried leaf from inside his bulletproof vest and tossed it away with a sigh.

“But tomorrow is Halloween. I want to go trick-or-treating with my friends,” he whined, glancing up at her, lower lip jutting out as he hugged the rifle to his chest, hoping to look convincing.

It wasn’t that he hated the training. What he hated was losing the precious time tomorrow—time he desperately wanted to spend with friends. He hadn’t seen them in weeks. Noctis’ training had grown harsher lately, more forceful, pushing him relentlessly through the tangled woods outside Hawkins.

Sometimes, Mike felt like prey—like a deer chased by a tireless hunter. And when Noctis got serious, it was nothing short of terrifying.

But Noctis, for her part, was satisfied. Pushing Mike to his limits had honed his skills faster than she ever expected. Now that he had his stigmata, she no longer needed to coddle him; a normal bullet couldn’t even break his skin, though it might leave a welt or bruise. Today, he’d evaded every single shot—matching her pace, step for step.

They hunted each other, over and over, a constant back-and-forth. She couldn’t deny it—she was creating another monster. And it had been a very long time since anyone had come close to her skill. That it was an eleven-year-old boy only made it more impressive.

“You’re always so eager to ditch training,” Noctis observed.

“I—I’m not!” Mike protested, a small, strangled sound escaping his throat. “But… you know how much Halloween means to me! You made me skip it last year,” he complained, stamping his foot like a petulant child.

Noctis paused. It was true—she’d unknowingly kept him from Halloween before, which had led to Mike’s friends growing annoyed and a brief rift between them. The importance of holidays was still lost on her; the sisterhood had never celebrated, not even Christmas. Every day was just another day. She sighed, and Mike’s eyes lit up with hope—he knew her sighs, every single one. This was the “all right, you win” sigh.

“Fine,” she said at last.

Mike's face brightened instantly. “Yes!” He bounced on his heels, beaming. “I’m going as Luke Skywalker!” he announced as they started walking home.

“Luke Skywalker? The movie with the telekinetic boy?” Noctis asked. She hadn’t actually seen it, but Mike talked about it enough for her to know who he meant.

“It’s called the Force!” Mike corrected her, and Noctis stifled another sigh.

“They move objects with their minds. It’s essentially the same thing, my dear,” she argues, as Mike pouts at her. “Yeah, but it’s not!” he protests. “Telekinesis is just… a power. The Force is sentient. It’s like a being.”

They walk together down the wooded path, Noctis silent, letting their conversation drift as they near the house. The place is empty, just for the two of them; Mike wastes no time dashing to his room to retrieve his Halloween costume.

A moment later, he reappears. “Does it look good?” Mike asks, beaming, showing off his costume. Noctis sits in Ted’s usual recliner, only half-watching TV, the remote loose in her hand.

“It looks decent, I suppose,” she says distractedly.

Mike’s pout deepens as he realizes she isn’t even looking at him. He moves to block her view. Noctis finally looks up, their eyes meeting.

“Ms. Noct, please…” he whines, fidgeting like an upset child.

Noctis sighs. “Perhaps you’d look better as something else––like that walking dog from the movie.”

“Chewie?!” Mike exclaims, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Noctis raises an eyebrow as Mike crosses his arms, pouting furiously, and stomps out of the living room.

Noctis sighs, watching her nephew disappear down the stairs to the basement, shoulders slumped. She leans back in the recliner and closes her eyes… until the phone rings, breaking the quiet. She stands and picks up the receiver.

“Noctis.” The voice is familiar.

“Mother?” Noctis asks, gripping the phone tighter as her eyes flick quickly around the empty house. She pulls the cord tight, stepping into the corridor and making sure all the doors are shut. Satisfied, she moves to the kitchen and closes the blinds with a snap.

“Where have you been? You’ve been MIA,” her mother’s disappointed voice comes through the line. “Do you know how dangerous it is for us to talk on phones? But you gave me no choice.”

“I’ve been busy,” Noctis replies, leaning on the counter. She hears her mother hum thoughtfully.

“Just because I’m the head knight doesn’t mean I’m always needed,” Noctis continues. “There are plenty of sisters willing to serve.”

“Yes, but we need you,” her mother insists. “You have to come back home. To Vatican City.”

Noctis pinches the bridge of her nose. “Now?”

“Yes, now. It’s been years since we last spoke, and then you said you wanted to see Catherine. What have you been doing? Have you found a husband?”

“A husband? No, I’ve just… been honing my skills and using my time wisely,” she says, choosing her words carefully.

Her mother lets out a knowing laugh. “Honing your skills, is it? Fine, I’ll ask no more. What you do is your own business. But be sure to be here by next week. The council needs you.”

The call ends. Noctis lowers the phone with a long sigh.

Suddenly, she hears heavy footsteps: Mike reemerging from the basement, back in his usual dark polo and pants, wrapped in a thick cotton jacket.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, wide-eyed.

Noctis turns, arms crossed. “You’re quite the eavesdropper, aren’t you? Didn’t I tell you to lower the phone the moment someone else picks it up?” She tries for a teasing tone, but Mike doesn’t smile. His eyes are sad.

“You can’t leave, Ms. Noct. My training isn’t done yet.” He tugs at her sleeve like a child desperate to stall time. “You’re not just going on a short mission, are you? Last time you told me your missions take months to finish—sometimes even years!”

Noctis studies his worried face. “Unfortunately, when the council calls, I must answer. That’s my duty. I can’t turn my back on them.”

“But what about my training?” Mike pleads. “I’m not ready. I can’t go a whole day without help, I’m not good enough yet…”

“Mike,” she says as he breathes harshly, swallowing hard.

“You’re my best student—”

“I’m your only student,” he interrupts, frowning. Noctis drops her arm, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“I’ve taught you all I can,” she says gently.

“It’s not enough, though,” Mike mutters.

“You’re right—it isn’t. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve learned enough to grow on your own,” she replies.

Mike’s frown deepens. “You sound like you’re not coming back.”

Noctis gives him a knowing look. “Being part of the sisterhood is no easy matter, you know that, Michael. If I’m sent on a mission—well, there are a lot of rotten men in this world.” Mike seems to wilt at her words, hurt and sad at the thought of her leaving. Seeing him nervously rub his hands together makes her heart clench.

“How long will you be gone?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Noctis admits. Mike exhales, looking at her with mournful eyes.

By the next week, Noctis is ready to leave. She meets Karen’s sad gaze and Mike’s as well.

“When are you coming back?” Karen asks, her eyes shining uncertainly. Noctis hugs her twin, rubbing her back reassuringly before pulling away.

“I’ll try to return as soon as I can,” she promises.

“Can we at least call you?” Mike asks hopefully.

Noctis turns to him, gently stepping away from her sister. “No, you can’t call, but you can send letters to the post office. I’ll be there every three or four weeks, so send as many as you like and I’ll get them,” she says.

Mike nods, tears in his eyes, then rushes forward to hug her tightly. Noctis runs her hand through his hair as he buries his face in her stomach, clinging to her.

“I’ll write you lots of letters,” he whispers.

“I know you will,” Noctis says softly.

“I’m going to keep training,” Mike vows again.

Smiling, Noctis gently peels him away, kneeling down to meet his eyes.

“Michael, I have to tell you something,” she says quietly.

Mike nods, and Noctis glances at Karen, who gives her a somber nod.

“Now, Michael, your mother and I have discussed this,” she begins.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asks, his voice wavering.

Noctis sighs. “I forbid you from using your artifact, or any of the teachings I gave you,” she says.

Mike’s eyes go wide. He looks at Karen, who averts her eyes, staring at her feet before turning back to Noctis. “What? You taught me for years! Now you want me to do nothing with it?” he cries, furious.

Noctis sighs again and stands, but before she can fully rise, Mike grabs her sleeve.

“Ms. Noct,” he whimpers, face wet with tears.

She gently takes his wrist and pulls him a little further from Karen, who stands by the doorway, wringing her hands and frowning.

“You know I don’t agree with all the nonsense your mother says,” Noctis murmurs. Mike’s eyes go round as he hastily wipes his tears.

“But—you said—”

“Karen and I decided it’s safer for you to hide what you can do,” Noctis says gently.

Mike blinks at her, waiting for more.

“I agree with her. This isn’t the place for a child like you—especially one not under the sisterhood’s protection—to show your skills,” she explains, watching his face fall.

“But,” she continues, and he perks up. “I believe everything I’ve taught you will be useful one day. I agree with your mother, but that doesn’t mean you should turn away from someone in need. Remember, Mike: don’t chase danger. Let danger come to you, and when it does, seize that moment—and annihilate it.” She clenches her fist in front of him to make her point. Mike swallows hard and nods.

“You’re almost twelve, Mike. I trust you to watch over your mother and your sisters. You’re strong, Michael—stronger than most. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t hide yourself.” Noctis’s voice is gentle, but full of conviction.

Mike nods.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. While I’m gone, you’ll take my place in looking out for them,” she continues.

“Okay… okay,” Mike murmurs, nodding again as Noctis grips his shoulders firmly.

“Stay strong, Michael,” she says. Mike’s nod is shaky.

“I will,” he whispers. “Be careful,” he adds quietly.

Noctis nods, then gives him a knowing look. “Do you remember that hole in your closet?” she asks.

Mike blinks, surprised by the sudden change in topic, but nods slowly.

Noctis leans in, her voice barely more than a whisper in his ear. “I hid my gifts there for you. Don’t let your mother know. She thinks I confiscated all your weapons.”

Mike’s eyes go wide, his worry giving way to excitement. Noctis grins and winks at him. “Don’t waste the ammo, Michael. You won’t be able to get more. No sane man would sell those to a child after all.”

Mike grins back, energy returning to his face.

Later, after Noctis drives away in her black Mercedes, Mike races to his room. His mother doesn’t stop him—she assumes he just wants to be alone to cry. But inside, Mike locks his door, rushes to his closet, grabs a small chest box from the side, and stands on it.

There, overhead, is a small square crack in the ceiling—just where Noctis made it years ago, so he’d have a hiding spot for his guns that Noctis lends him. He never thought he’d get to keep anything. He pushes it open, a puff of wood dust falling onto his face. He mutters a small sound of disgust but keeps going.

Inside is a rifle, a revolver, and four large boxes of ammunition, two of each—plus a small folded piece of paper. He grabs the letter and unfolds it. It was her writing—the cursive is neat and pretty.

Dear Michael,

Here are your guns. I hope you remember: these are the two you first practiced with, and I understand how much they mean to you. That’s why I left them here for you.

Your trusty rifle and revolver are yours now, and four boxes of ammo—for emergencies only. If it ever comes to it, use these weapons to protect your family. And if left with no choice, use your friend Excalibur.

If I don’t come back in a year, don’t fret. Missions like mine can take longer than a year—sometimes much more. Don’t miss me too much, but if you do, it’s all right. I’ll miss you too.

Don’t take your guns out in front of little Holly, and don’t show anyone at school that you have them.

Always listen to your mother. I love my sister dearly. Protect her and look after her, and most of all, don’t talk back. Your mother knows what’s best for you.

Your loving auntie,
Noctis Childress

Mike smiles as he folds the letter and slips it into his jacket pocket. He runs a hand gently over the guns, then closes up the hiding place, jumps down from the box, and carefully moves it back into place. For a moment, he just stands in the quiet, feeling both loss and comfort—knowing Noctis trusted him enough to leave these behind. And he trusted her that she would come back.

Then the news of her death came. 

November 7, 1983 — Indiana, Hawkins — “The Vanishing of Will Byers”

Will was gone—Will Byers. Mike’s best friend was missing. Taken, kidnapped… Mike didn’t know for sure. All he knew was the gnawing pit in his stomach—a terror that bordered on desperation. Worried didn’t begin to cover it; he was frantic. And worst of all, it felt like his family didn’t care. Not even his mother.

It started last night, when Mike watched Will ride away on his bike, the garage lights flickering like a warning. A strange coldness crept over his shoulder, making him shiver. Now, in the harsh brightness of morning, Will was missing. Somewhere between their ride home, he had vanished without a trace.

Mike only learned the news from the Chief of Police, who’d come to find them all gathered in the AV Club room.

“Mom… Will has to be out there somewhere—I want to help search,” Mike insisted, pleading with his mother as she rocked Holly on her hip and sighed wearily. 

“We have to trust the Chief to find Joyce’s son,” Karen said, her tone tired but resolute. Mike’s heart hammered as he paced the basement, shaking his head in frustration.

“What if it’s too late?” he muttered. “He could have come back here, but… he didn’t! Maybe he tried to get help—”

Karen’s eyes narrowed. She shook her head, slow and stern.

“No, Michael. I know what you’re planning.” Her voice was sharp, edged with anger Mike rarely heard. “What have I told you?”

Mike flinched. It was strange and almost frightening to see his mother like this. Even if she always claimed to be weaker than her twin, Mike knew there was a force in her that lingered beneath the surface.

 “Mom—Ms. Noct would have wanted me to look after Will—” Mike began.

“No! Absolutely not.” Karen was nearly shouting, her voice trembling with rage and grief. “Do not use my sister as some kind of reason. My sister died because of that—just because she trained you doesn't mean you can handle adult dangers! No. Never. If I hear you talk about Noctis again, or think about going out searching for Will, I will make sure you regret it.”

Shock made Mike’s words falter. It had been a year since the letter came from the Vatican—declaring Noctis Childress missing in action and, eventually, dead. At first, Mike refused to believe it. He still didn’t. Noctis was strong—stronger than anyone he knew. If anything could best her, it had to be Gabriel himself.

He still imagined her walking back through their door, wrapping him up in the kind of embrace only she could give. But months had passed, each one making her absence sharper. He’d waited by the door, by the woods at the edge of the yard, never willing to give up. He wrote letter after letter, but every one came back, stamped with the same message: the addressee no longer listed.

He had always sent his letters under her alias—Maria Petunia—to the Vatican City post office where she used to pick up his notes. She would always reply, postcards marked with stamps from all over the world, always addressed from "Petunia." The photos she sent—pictures from places he never dreamed of—he kept them all in a shoebox, hidden in the ceiling of his closet, beside his rifle and revolver.

It was impossible to believe she was really gone. His mother seemed to accept the loss so quickly, especially after the letter—signed by the Pope himself—and a confirming call from Grandma. Noctis Childress, the family’s “Chosen One,” was dead. Sometimes, late at night, when she thought no one could see, Karen drank. But Mike always noticed, watching from the stairs, quietly trying to look after her. Ms. Noct would have wanted that.

His mother’s sorrow was hidden well. Ted and Nancy never seemed to notice, but Mike could see how deeply it hurt her—even the sight of her own stigmata, or his, made her flinch. She made him wear an undershirt, always, so no one would see, not even by accident.

Something had broken inside her. Any mention of the Sisterhood or even his blessings made her eyes narrow, her voice fill with pain and anger. Eventually, Mike stopped talking about it. He even left Excalibur hidden away, it always feels like it’s too much to even look at. He can’t even summon it anymore without feeling like he’s lost everything.

But today, everything snapped.

“Mom, you can’t just… stay like this! Just because Ms. Noct is gone, doesn’t mean you have to as well, you’re still here! You’re still alive, it’s not too late to help Will, we—we can go out together!” Mike said, voice breaking. Karen stared at him, wide-eyed, the weight of unspoken grief between them. “We can find Will—”

In her arms, Holly sniffles—her eyes watering, as if she somehow understands the weight in the room. Karen's voice trembles with fury. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mike. You have no idea how it feels to lose your own sister because you believed some angel gave us these—these fucking powers just so we’d end up slaves to its commands!”

Mike grits his teeth. “You’re being a coward,” he spits back, and at that, Karen’s eye twitches.

“If you summon your artifact again, I’ll bring you to the Sisterhood and have it taken away. Don’t ever test me again.” Karen whispers the words—her voice barely above a hiss, shaking with rage. Mike freezes. It’s the same threat his mother used to utter in her worst moments of anger, words he always hoped she never really meant. Yet, part of him always fears she does.

If the council takes him, if they see the stigmata, there's no "wiping" it away. There’s only execution—swift and simple, he gets killed in the most painful way possible. And that she’s willing to threaten him with death wounds him more than he can express, yet he still tries to understand her. Maybe his mom is right: Mike doesn’t really know what it feels like to lose a sister, and he prays he never will. He loves Ms. Noct—maybe more than he loves his own mother. Ms. Noct felt like safety itself, the one person who truly protected and cared for him.

“Go to sleep, Mike. We’re never talking about this ever again.” Karen stares down at him, then stomps up the basement stairs. Mike watches her go, his lips trembling with hurt. He lingers by the table, sits heavily in the chair, tears brimming in his eyes. Why can’t she understand? He doesn't want to lose anyone else he loves. He'd hoped, just once, she might trust him—like Ms. Noct always did.

Karen knows what loss feels like. Mike just doesn’t want to go through the same agony. The stigmata on his back burns—a fierce, recurring pain for weeks now. Ms. Noct isn’t here to explain any of it, so Mike is left with only theories.

One: his light magic, or blessing, or power—whatever is acting up because he’s barely summoned his artifact lately. Maybe the artifact is a physical manifestation of that power, a channel of sorts. So, in a way, he’s more of a sorcerer than a paladin—which, he thinks, is kind of cool. But the less he uses it, the more the energy builds up inside him. Sometimes he feels like he’s overheating. Sometimes, it’s just pain.

He’s never told his mother. He doesn’t want to hurt her more, or remind her about Ms. Noct. 

Still, some nights, he stands in front of the mirror and studies his stigmata. The lines fade, ever so slightly, as if he’s losing his power by not using it. The possibility terrifies him. Yet, using it might get him killed—if Karen finds out, she might make good on her threat (even if he knows she probably won’t, but still—he’s scared).

That night, Mike radios Lucas and talks about Will. Lucas asks him to meet up. Mike rushes to his room, climbs inside his closet, stands on his old chest, and eases open the hole in the ceiling. He grabs the revolver, checks the cylinder—six bullets. He tucks it into his waistband, crams the essentials into his backpack, and seals up the closet. Slipping out of the house, he spots Steve Harrington climbing the side pipes towards his sister’s window. On a normal day, Mike would scare him off, but not tonight. Will needs him—might be in danger. He shakes his head at Steve and pedals into the storm, racing to find Lucas and Dustin.

That night, the rain falls harder than he’s ever seen, drenching them all.

And that’s the night he meets a girl who calls herself Eleven. A girl with a power that can move things with her mind.

Days pass—weeks, then months. Eventually, Mike wakes up one morning to find his stigmata gone. He can no longer summon his artifact. The feeling is like a hole gnawing in his chest—a piece of him, stolen. Something has changed, irreversibly, within Mike Wheeler.

The spark inside him is simply… gone.