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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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086: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Series

Chapter 001: I Wouldn't Remember Me, Either

Summary: A new patient arrives at the lab unable to recall his past. With a parallel universe seeping into the real world, you've been assigned to pull his memories to the surface, but what you remember threatens everything.

Warnings: dark themes, mostly canon-compliant (Eddie lives), violence, blood, restraint, amnesia, abduction

WC: 3k

Divider credit to @saradika

He awakens with a jolt, heart pounding in his chest. The room is bathed in a fluorescent haze that pinches his retinas and has him squinting as he adjusts to the light after days spent asleep.

“Wh-Where…” His throat is raw, and he coughs up blood, spattering his chin and the top of the hospital gown he’s tied into. He tries to wipe it off, but metal digs into his wrists as he realizes he’s cuffed down. He gives another yank, one handcuff clanging against the gurney’s rail. Pain rips through his torso at his sudden movement, so fierce and intense that his vision blurs. He swallows the bile inching up his esophagus and lays back down in defeat.

A group of men in head-to-toe white surround his bedside within thirty seconds of him waking up, clipboards and charts clutched tightly in their hands. They jot down his vitals that pulse on the nearby monitor, and murmur amongst themselves. One of them must have just come in from a smoke break; the scent of tobacco wafts past 086’s nose and elicits a craving for a pull from a cigarette.

He shakes it off and musters up all of the energy he can to try and make his voice heard. “What’s going on?”

Only one of the men acknowledges his words, turning to him with a blank, stoic expression. “Patient 086,” he addresses him, the heels of his Oxfords clicking against the hard tile, “we are…pleased to have you here with us.” He lets out a singular heh, a pathetic excuse for what passes as laughter.

086’s stomach twists at this; he takes a deep breath that heightens the ache radiating behind his torn flesh.

“Why am I…handcuffed?” he grunts out, teeth digging into his lower lip in a grimace.

The man ignores his question yet again. “You will answer a series of questions before we can determine where to place you.” He glances down at his checklist, pen perched atop the paper, ready to write. “Question one: what is your name?”

A grin appears on 086’s lips, cracking where the thin skin is chapped. “My name? It’s…” He trails off, smile faltering as quickly as it came. “It’s…” No. I have to know it; it’s my goddamn name. He wracks his brain, a throb pulsing against his temples as he struggles to remember the most basic detail about himself.

“Date of birth?”

Days, months, years fly through his head. Maybe April; that seems right. Or is it August? He mouths the word, rolling it over his tongue to see if it brings back a familiar feeling, but it doesn’t sway him in either direction. “I don’t know.”

He can only offer the same response to the questions about his hometown, his parents, his school. Each missed answer draws an amused expression from the man in white, his eyebrows nearly reaching his salt-and-pepper hair when the patient before him fails to recall his own life history.

086 watches as the man nods at one of his colleagues, a short man with a crew cut, who promptly pulls a small key from his pocket. In one swift motion, he unlocks the cuffs, still standing guard in case 086 tries to lash out and attack.

And though 086 feels the urge to fight, to demand answers he should already know, all he can do is bring his left hand to his right wrist. He massages where the handcuff has indented his pale skin, taking note of the three digits etched just below his palm.

086

“Is this…did I…” On the same arm is a small collection of bats; recognition burns in his brain, but he can’t bring forward the memory of why the tattoos are there.

“You already had a host of markings before coming into our care,” Salt-and-Pepper remarks brusquely, “but the numeric identifier is our way of keeping track of patient whereabouts and achievements.”

Confusion furrows 086’s brows and creases his forehead. “My…achievements?”

“Your achievements,” Salt-and-Pepper confirms, his mouth pressed into a straight line. “Once you are healed enough to participate in lessons, we can begin determining what assets you bring to our project.”

“Project?” he repeats dumbly, disorientation morphing into ire at the lack of answers. His fists clench instinctively; the older man’s eyeline flickers towards the slight movement, but he doesn’t order him to be re-cuffed.

The already frigid air chills even more as the man offers a horrible smile. “You have an awful lot of questions, don’t you?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth with another unnerving laugh. “An inquisitive one. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to provide those answers.” He nods at the colleague holding the keys, who promptly slides the handcuff around the patient’s wrist once again, his brief moment of freedom slipping away as quickly as it came.

“After I help with the project…then I can go home?” The patient looks at the men before him, scanning their faces for some inkling of a response. “When can I go home?” he asks more forcefully, body aches be damned.

Salt-and-Pepper crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And where is home, 086?” His voice is soft, but his eyes are steely with malice. “Tell you what: give us your address and we’ll take you there right now.” He waits a beat, smirking with the knowledge that his patient won’t be able to remember. “That’s what I thought.”

He pivots on his heel and walks out the door. The group of men follow him without another word, their footsteps disappearing down the hall.

086 lays back down and breathes a terse exhale of frustration. Tears sting at his eyes as the realization of his state of utter helplessness sinks in. He wants to call out for someone, anyone, to save him, but he can’t think of a single person.

This is Hell, he thinks. Numbness overtakes his body as he begins accepting his defeat. I’ve done something to royally piss off God, and now I’m in Hell.

Fingers from his unchained hand reflexively fly to his scalp, a nervous habit that penetrates the fuzziness coating his sense of self. He’s met with no resistance, no tangles, no snags; his hair had been buzzed down while he was unconscious.

A neuron fires: this isn’t right. I don’t know what it is, but something is very wrong. It’s the final straw that sends him hurtling over the edge.

“Goddammit! Let me go! LET ME GO!” He thrashes against the restraints, ignoring the pain ripping through him. A stitch on his abdomen pops with a ping, fresh blood seeping through the thin hospital gown.

Three of the white-clad men rush into the room. One holds down his free hand while another pins his head to the stiff cotton masquerading as a pillow. 086 leans over and bites the nearest man’s wrist until he can taste metal on his tongue, spitting red. The bleeding man holds strong, almost unfazed; it’s clearly not his first time having teeth sunk into his skin.

The third man is Salt-and-Pepper. He stands to 086’s left and plunges a needle into his neck without a moment of hesitation. The syringe’s serum leaves him warm and tingly, eyelids weighed down. “Good night,” the man whispers in sing-song, his malicious chuckle warped as the patient floats into a sedated slumber.

The last thing 086 registers before sleep pulls him back into its embrace is the voice of the man with the now-empty syringe.

“He’ll learn.” A pause. “C’mon, Snell. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Snell. The man who I bit is called Snell.

And then he’s out.

270 days. You’ve been here for 270 days, each one identical to the last. Wake up, attend hours upon hours of training, sleep, repeat. Every morning brings the sinking realization that escape is impossible and freedom is a far-off dream; your new destiny is that of a lab rat. Even the hands of the wall clock have stopped ticking by, their batteries petering out some months ago at exactly 2:17.

If only you’d ignored the phone when it rang that evening. If only you’d run the other way. If only you hadn’t quite literally bumped into Dr. Snell as you’d bolted through the woods, desperate to avoid the evil looming over your ill-fated town. If only–

“055.”

Your head snaps up from your worn copy of Of Mice and Men when Dr. Moseley calls out your identifier—you refuse to consider it your name—from the doorway. He offers a half-smile that has you shriveling inward. Ever since Dr. Brenner’s untimely passing days earlier, Dr. Moseley has been increasing your training, trying to make you the secret weapon that would allow him to step into the late scientist’s shoes.

“Yes, Dr. Moseley.” You force a chipper tone, swallowing your fear and dog-earing your page. You’ve read this book so many times that you could rewrite it from memory, but it serves as your only source of entertainment. It’s rumored that the scientists have access to a small television set, but none of the patients have ever seen it.

He crooks a finger, gnarled with arthritis, to beckon you over. You stand up from your cot while his eyes bore into you, smoothing the nonexistent creases in your hospital gown. The tile floor is frigid against your feet; you have no socks to serve as barriers against it. Every square inch of this place is always cold.

The doctor fixes his posture and peers downward, an assertion of dominance that does not go unnoticed. “Your…expertise is needed.” His nose twitches slightly. “Come.”

You and he both know that he doesn’t even have to tell you to follow him; obedience has been ingrained in you well before you’d been brought to the lab. Before it was the doctors, it was your friends. Before your friends, it was your parents.

A semblance of a smile flutters across his face as you comply with his order. “We have a new patient,” he explains, keeping his volume to a minimum as the two of you make your way down a dimly-lit corridor. “Like you, he was raised on the outside, but there are two major differences between you and him. Number one, he’s not a good listener.” Dr. Moseley chuckles, clammy thumb and forefinger gently perched underneath your chin in a display of affection that leaves you wanting to retch. “I had to sedate him earlier today after an…outburst. And, number two, he cannot recall a thing about his past. Not even his name. That’s where you come in, my dear.”

Another unnecessary statement; besides subservience, your only real use is memory pulling. It’s what you’ve been training for since arriving here last summer.

“We need to know why he was in The Nether, what he did, and anything he may have altered,” he continues. “It’s also highly unlikely that he was alone, and we need to know who else was with him. We can’t have people with this knowledge going unmonitored.” He pauses and makes unwanted, harsh eye contact. “You will find out this information for us so we can ensure everyone’s safety.”

“Of course,” you murmur, nodding your head and casting aside the doubt you harbor over the truthfulness of his words.

Dr. Moseley pushes open the door to the new patient’s room, where Drs. Snell and Cavendish are already awaiting your entrance. You note the beige bandage wrapped around Dr. Snell’s forearm but refrain from asking questions.

“This is 086,” Dr. Moseley reports, gesturing to the gurney where the young man lay sleeping on his side, arm crossed over his face in a makeshift shield. Bits of dried blood still stick to his exposed cheek despite the attempts to clean him up. His chest rises and falls rhythmically; if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was in the midst of a peaceful slumber. But there is no peace here. There never has been.

“Is there anything we do know about him?” The more information you have, the easier it will be to access his memories.

Dr. Cavendish clears his throat. “I was part of the team that rescued him from The Nether,” he ventures hesitantly. “I can allow you into the memory so you will know what to look for.”

You nod, but Dr. Moseley puts out a hand to stop you before you can even begin. “If she does that, will she have the stamina to access 086?” His voice is clipped, not wanting to waste more precious time.

“It’ll just be a moment,” you reassure him. Memory retrieval is much easier when the person brings it to the forefront of their brain; the challenge occurs when memories are tucked away as though being stored for safekeeping.

When Dr. Moseley says nothing, you take a step towards Dr. Cavendish. “Tell me to stop if it hurts at all,” you say, taking his hand in yours. Your eyes meet his steeled blue ones as you pull the ribbon that unravels his thoughts.

The night isn’t pitch-black, but is submerged in a bluish gray that permeates the atmosphere. Thick, tentacle-esque vines snake along the ground, and you—Dr. Cavendish, rather, since you’ve wormed into his perspective and don his skin—carefully avoids stepping on them with Hazmat suited feet.

“I’ve got one!” An urgent voice calls from a distance. “But if he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon.”

Dr. Cavendish spins to face where his colleague stands, striding over to the crumpled body lamely laying in the dirt, surrounded by a flock of dead creatures. The victim is covered in blood; it’s smeared across his face and oozing from punctures along his abdomen. It mats his frizzy hair, tints the ground maroon, and fills the air with the smell of iron.

“I’ll get his legs, you get under his arms.” Dr. Cavendish commands, already bending at the knees and bracing his back to lift the young man. “On the count of three. One, two—”

“That’s enough.”

Two words from Dr. Moseley drag you back to reality. You swipe at the blood that’s gathered under your right nostril and sniff, steadying yourself on the gurney rail. In front of you, Dr. Cavendish massages the bridge of his nose to quell the inevitable headache that follows memory accession.

Your journey was brief, but you’ve gathered sufficient information to delve into 086’s history.

“Okay,” you breathe, grabbing 086’s cuffed hand. This is a much different set-up than you’re accustomed to. For one, there’s no way to make eye contact, not while 086 is asleep. Everything prior to this has just been practice with scientists with the goal of eventually infiltrating the minds of Russian nemeses.

A tattoo peeks out from the patient’s drooping collar, an insect’s spindly legs emerging from a soft tuft of chest hair and fresh scars. There’s a familiarity to the faded ink, but Dr. Moseley does not afford you the luxury of uncovering it.

“055.” His voice is stern. “Please begin.”

Your open eyes find 086’s closed ones as you try to ignore your nagging conscience. This is a person; someone who, as far as anyone knows, has only committed the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything within you screams no, that this is a violation, but another brusque throat-clearing catapults you into compliance.

Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood. You grasp onto the image from Cavendish and let yourself into 086’s mind.

You wade through darkness for a bit, hyper focused on finding a resembling memory. Your temples throb as you concentrate on your search. Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood.

Nothing.

Squeezing his hand a bit tighter, you will the wave of remembrance to crash over you. You’re pouring out every ounce of energy you possess, a draining battery, as you stand alone in utter darkness.

Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood.

You latch onto something and pull yourself into it. The visual is hazy, likely because of 086’s own inability to recall it naturally, but you can hear it all.

Unidentifiable screeching objects–possibly the bat-esque monsters you’d seen in Dr. Cavendish’s memory–shriek and thwack against metal in rapid succession just as a scream roars over the clatter. It’s not one of terror, but of vengeance, and you feel your physical self tense up with a rage you didn’t know you held.

“Come on!” bellows 086, the challenge rising up from his diaphragm and rattling his whole body.

The next sounds happen almost simultaneously: fabric tearing, fangs hungrily sinking into flesh, and an unmistakable cry of pain.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand to listen to this man wail in torment as he’s ripped apart, teetering on the brink of death. The cry becomes strangled as though his throat is being compressed, and it allows you to hear a far-away shout, a boy’s voice thick with anguish.

“EDDIE!”

At this one word, you stumble out of the memory and nearly fall to the tile floor. Your breathing becomes shallow as the present infiltrates your psyche, too distraught to keep your nosebleed from snaking down your lips. You’ll be reprimanded for not remaining in the memory longer to identify the mystery boy, but you can’t bring yourself to find it again.

Dr. Moseley catches you by the crook of your elbow, keeping you upright long enough for you to get a better look at 086. His hair is shaved down to the scalp, patchy in places where his curls were particularly knotted and hard to remove. He’s added a few more tattoos to his collection since you’d last seen him almost one year ago, including a swarm of bats trailing up his arm. His fingers are naked without his signature rings; the base of his knuckles are tinged green from the costume jewelry. But it’s him; it’s definitely him.

Patient 086 is Eddie Munson, and for good reason, he absolutely despises you.

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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086: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Series

Chapter 002: The Devil Has Come to America

Summary: Following orders and toeing the line is your specialty, but when Patient 086 tries to bargain with the doctors, you're tempted to step out of your comfort zone.

Warnings: dark themes, mostly canon-compliant (Eddie lives), violence, blood, restraint, amnesia, abduction, that scene at the end of S4E9, flashbacks, drug/alcohol use

WC: 5k

Divider credit to @saradika

October 30, 1984

“Have you seen the new guy?” Heather giddily asks you and Carol through a mouthful of macaroni salad. A soft blush creeps into her cheeks as it often does when she gets flustered.

Carol nods enthusiastically. “He sits in front of me in algebra.” She offers a smarmy grin as she tucks into her own lunch. “Let me tell you, I might actually show up to class every day if I get to stare at his ass all period.”

Heather laughs, covering her lips with a manicured hand. “Don’t let Tommy hear that,” she jokes.

“Don’t let Tommy hear what?”

Carol swats at her boyfriend as he sits down next to her, giggling as she explains the situation. “We were just talking about the new kid, Billy…something-or-other.” She waves it off; clearly, the shape of his butt is more important than his last name. “I think he’s from California.”

Tommy nods knowingly. “Yeah, I have phys ed with him. I was gonna see if he wants to go out for basketball this year. He’s pretty damn good.”

“Better than King Steve?” Carol snickers, reaching onto Tommy’s lunch tray and swiping a French fry. “Or should I say, Mr. Nancy Wheeler?”

Heather laughs at this, too, but you can tell by her unnatural lilt that it’s forced. She’s been doing that a lot more often lately–pretending to be amused by Carol and Tommy’s antics just to fit in with them.

Tommy throws a letterman jacket-clad arm around his girlfriend. “And, uh, speaking of dudes who are totally whipped,” he says under his breath, eyes sweeping to the corner of the cafeteria where the Hellfire Club sits. You know exactly what he’s looking at; sure enough, when you drag over your own gaze, there’s Eddie Munson, staring longingly at your table.

“Ooh, I’ll bet he’s gonna be selling at Tina’s party tomorrow!” Carol flashes you the grin you only get when she needs a favor. “Can you talk to him? You know he’ll give you a discount.”

Never mind the fact that you didn’t smoke, or that the last time you’d done this for her, she hadn’t paid you back a single cent. The question is a simple formality: you will get cheap weed from Eddie, whether you like it or not.

“Y’know,” Tommy breaks in smarmily, eyebrows raised like he’s offering classified information, “I heard he flunked last year on purpose so he could keep selling at high school parties.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. He could’ve graduated and still swung by to sell.” The retort spills from your lips before you can stop yourself, but it’s true. It’s not unheard of for recent grads to pop in to snag some beer or jungle juice.

Your words are met with glares from Tommy and Carol; Heather’s foot brushes your own with a dual meaning of are you okay and don’t get us in trouble.

“Sorry,” you mumble, desperate to avoid the unwanted social consequences that await you and Heather if you mess this up. “I can, um, talk to him at the party tomorrow.”

Flirting with him for discounted pot doesn’t sit right with you. But since Heather is your only friend, and she’s now friends with Carol, you can’t risk losing her.

You let yourself look over at the young man who’s been harboring a crush on you since this school year began, feeling a pang in your heart. This is the last time, you tell yourself, and then I’m done leading him on. Carol can buy her own shit, full price.

But when you hear Heather laughing again, you realize that you’re only lying to yourself. The only thing worse than high school is enduring it alone, and if that means temporarily turning into someone you hate, then so be it.

March 30, 1986

“EDDIE!”

The shouted word reverberates around Patient 086’s skull as he wakes up suddenly, body trembling from the nightmare and from the headache forming behind his temples. He winces when he opens his eyes, the overhead lighting only enhancing the pain.

“Eddie,” he whispers to himself, letting it melt on his tongue. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” He smiles despite having every other reason not to.

I’m Eddie. My name is Eddie.

His joy dissipates when he fails to recall whose voice was calling out for him. It’s a balloon that keeps getting whisked away in the wind, just out of reach.

Eddie grits his teeth, overdue tears streaming down his scarred cheeks. I know this–it’s…it’s…

“Fuck.” The swear is all exhalation, hardly any force behind it. His shoulders shake as sobs wrack through him, his quest to remember seemingly still fruitless. He’s so close, but still too far away.

The door to his room swings open without warning, one of the doctors from his earlier scuffle standing in Eddie’s line of vision. It isn’t the one he’d bitten–Dr. Snell–but the one who appeared to be the leader. His mere presence unsettles Eddie, like there’s an invisible evil seeping from his pores.

“086.” An unfriendly grin stretches his lips. “I take it you’re feeling rather…well-rested, yes?” He takes immediate notice of the way Eddie’s hands clench into fists, one by his side and one still cuffed to the gurney. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, 086. Perhaps we should start fresh, now that you’re aware of our non-compliance protocol.”

“Eddie.” Eddie grunts, not daring to make eye contact. “My name is Eddie, not 086.”

The doctor’s eyebrows furrow in momentary confusion before he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Yes, right. I forgot that 055 accessed that memory.” His signature smirk returns as though it never left. “We use numeric identifiers here. Easier to keep track of our patients. So while you may have been Eddie, you’re now 086. Understood?”

But Eddie’s mind remains trained on the doctor’s previous statement. “Someone…accessed my memory?” He curls inward at this privacy violation. A person he didn’t even know was able to see his memories–yet he still couldn’t.

“Very briefly,” the doctor confirms. “It was more difficult than anticipated because you were sleeping. We will require your cooperation for this task.” His arched gray eyebrow informs Eddie that this is not up for discussion. “Be aware that while it is challenging for 055 to access your memories while you’re asleep, it’s not impossible. If you choose to behave as you did earlier, the consequences will be the same.” He holds out a water-filled paper cup and a small container of two pills, chuckling at Eddie’s ambivalence. “Just some ibuprofen for the headache. They’re standard after memory accession.”

Every muscle in Eddie’s body tenses, his already-dry throat feeling like sandpaper. He gulps down the medication, utterly defeated. “C-Can I just ask…why do you need my memories?” What secrets could he possibly hold that interest them enough to steal them from his unconscious brain?

The doctor sighs, weighing the options of honesty and deceit. He speaks after a moment with a carefully curated response. “The place we rescued you from was nowhere you should have been. Nowhere anyone should ever be.” His lips purse in concentration. “We need to know who, if anyone, was with you to ensure their safety and wellbeing.” The doctor lowers his voice as though revealing priceless information. “What if they’re trapped there, 086, just as you were? We can’t know unless you allow us to see.”

Eddie doesn’t miss the faintest smile, disappearing almost as soon as it forms, as though the doctor is proud of his presentation. Like he’s telling an elaborate fictional story rather than insinuating true mortal danger.

“Okay,” Eddie pauses but agrees, despite the nausea pooling in his stomach. There may have been people with me. Family or friends or anyone links to my past. To who I am, or who I was. “I’ll do it, but I want to see more than just the end. I want happy memories pulled, too. Can 055 do that?” He keeps his voice as insistent as possible, vaguely aware that he just may be making a deal with the Devil himself.

“Of course she can.” He eyes Eddie’s singular restrained wrist; for a second, Eddie thinks he’s going to let him go, but the man just continues speaking. “I’ll bring her in as soon as she’s ready.”

He’s too quick and too smug in his response, but Eddie has no choice but to believe him. It’s the last bit of hope that he has.

October 31, 1984

You can hear music blaring before you and Heather even pull up in front of Tina’s house. She’s meticulously checking her lip gloss in her compact mirror, one manicured fingernail scraping around her mouth to remove any nonexistent excess.

“How do I look?” She asks, eagerly awaiting your opinion. It’s a seemingly stupid question; she always looks gorgeous. It’s almost unfair how beautiful she is, not to mention an impossible comparison standard to which you’ll never measure up.

She’s truly outdone herself tonight, dressed as Wonder Woman. The corset amplifies her cleavage and the blue barely-there shorts showcase her long legs. Diana Prince’s signature crown is perched atop her hair.

“Amazing. Billy’s gonna lose his shit.” You smile as she blushes and gets out of your car, excitedly slamming the passenger door behind her. There’s no point in fielding her the same question; she’ll placate you with an untrue compliment that won’t do anything to boost your ego.

You adjust your black mask and step out, cautiously teetering in your high heels. It was Heather’s idea for you to be Cat Woman, claiming that she couldn’t dress sexily without you, but you feel like a fish out of water. The latex suit just doesn’t look right on your body, or maybe the problem is that your body doesn’t look right in the suit.

Heather waits as you get your bearings, hooking her arm with yours and bringing you an immediate sense of comfort. This is the Heather Holloway you’ve grown up with, the one who’d encouraged you to face your fears and ride a two-wheeler bike, the one who’d used her own allowance to buy you a new pair of pants when you got your first period in the middle of Sears, the one who’d let you sleep over whenever simmering arguments with your parents reached a boiling point. Regardless of her newfound affiliation with Carol–and Tommy, by default–she’s still your best friend.

Someone lets out a low wolf-whistle as you two walk through Tina’s house and to the backyard. Heather holds her head high while your gaze stays glued to the ground, unwilling to make eye contact with the perpetrator. It’s highly unlikely that the flirtation was intended for you, anyway.

Outside, the crowd is chanting as Tommy stands beside the keg, propping up a guy in a leather jacket. Heather squeals and tugs on your sleeve excitedly. “That’s Billy!” she exclaims, discreetly pointing to the man currently upside down, guzzling beer like his life depends upon it.

After twenty-two seconds, Billy motions to be lowered back to the ground. Foam spews from his mouth and drips down his chiseled abs, slick with sweat.

“We got ourselves a new…keg…CHAMP!” Tommy announces, slipping a lit cigarette between Billy’s fingers.

Billy takes a triumphant drag, exhaling smoke as he declares, “That’s how you do it, Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” He looks around the party with a squared jaw, assessing who is impressed by his feat besides the Tommy Hagan-shaped puppy yipping at his heels.

You turn to Heather, trying your best not to roll your eyes while she outwardly swoons. “There’s your Prince Charming,” you mutter, stomach curdling as Billy’s blue eyes flicker up and down her body, a predatory smirk crossing his ale-drenched lips.

Heather saunters over to him with a confidence you haven’t seen from her before. One hand wraps around Billy’s bicep, pulling all of his attention to her. “That was really cool,” she says breathily, biting her lower lip and peering at him through mascaraed lashes.

Billy shakes his mullet of curls, inhaling from the cigarette again before he speaks. “Yeah, well, someone had to breathe life into this shitty excuse for a party.” He sighs and stretches, causing his muscles to ripple underneath his jacket and snaking an arm around her waist to tug her closer. “But it looks like it just got a lot more interesting.”

He’s a walking cliché, the absurdly attractive new kid obnoxiously strutting around like a proud peacock while girls fall at his feet. You can’t blame Heather for being entranced; you just wish she could see through the shiny exterior and realize that, to him, she’s just another pair of panties on his bedroom floor.

An impatient tap on your shoulder draws you from a disbelieving stupor. Carol stands behind you, arms folded across her chest as though she’s irritated with you before you can even say a word.

“Freak’s here,” she reports flatly, shoving a crumpled bill in your palm. “Whatever twenty bucks can buy.”

Right. The second reason you’ve dragged yourself to this party, in addition to being Heather’s loyal sidekick, is to awkwardly flirt your way to a weed discount.

You shuffle back into the house, spotting Nancy Wheeler sloppily ladling jungle juice into a cup, swaying with the beginnings of tipsiness. Your heart sinks; it seems like everyone is enjoying themselves at this party–or is trying to, at least–except for you.

Why are you like this? Why can’t you just be normal and fit in? It was simple for Heather; Mrs. O’Donnell had assigned her and Carol to be lab partners, and within a week, she’d begun her ascent up the social ladder. But you were resistant, remembering Carol’s constant barrage of snide remarks hurled your way, never trusting her the way your best friend did.

“C’mon, don’t you want to be popular? To finally be noticed?” Heather had pressed, eyes shining with the prospects of landing on Hawkins High’s proverbial A-list. “You can’t just let people trample over you for the rest of your life.”

And so you’d tagged along for the ride, only to find that you’d graduated from punching bag to doormat. You did what they asked because they had the power to obliterate your already meager social life, and they knew it.

That’s why you currently find yourself looking over at Eddie Munson as he digs through his tin lunch box. He takes a handful of bills from Linda Becker and gives her a pre-rolled joint, shoving the cash in his pants pocket. He shakes his mop of curls out of his eyes and moves onto his next customer, a junior who just crushed a Miller Lite can on his head.

Eddie only sticks around these parties long enough to sell whatever’s in his stash before he slips away; if you put this off any longer, you risk pissing off Carol, which will upset Heather and further strain your friendship.

You take a deep breath. It’s just some harmless flirting; you’re not proposing marriage, or even sleeping with him. Bat your lashes, tell him he looks nice, ask him about his day, and get some weed. Yeah, you can do this.

Here goes nothing.

One hundred eight…one hundred nine…

The squeak of his door opening disrupts Eddie’s meticulous wall tile counting. Annoyance prickles under his skin when he loses focus. He tries not to let it show, keeping up the cooperative façade so the scientists will be willing to give him what he wants–a glimpse into his past. Not just the parts of 086 they deem important, but the smaller moments that comprise him. The parts that make up Eddie.

The man he’d bitten—Dr. Snell—stands in the doorway with what appears to be another patient. She wears a hospital gown identical to his own, and her hair is also cropped close to her scalp.

Dr. Snell speaks first. “086, this is 055,” he says, gesturing to the young woman to his right. Eddie tries to get a better look at her, but it proves to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. She doesn’t allow her gaze to meet his as though she’s afraid to be seen; ironic, considering she’d infiltrated his mind just hours earlier.

“Um, hi,” Eddie sputters awkwardly, not quite sure how to navigate this unique introduction. Thanks for uncovering my memories? Sorry for whatever you find in there? Also, if you could look past the bloody mess and let me know who the kid screaming my name was, I’d really appreciate it?

He sighs when you offer only silence in response, using his untethered hand to scratch a spot on his scalp where his hair is shaved a bit too close. Impatience gnaws in his chest. “So, uh, we gonna get started on this memory pulling thing?”

Dr. Snell nods, hesitantly making his way to Eddie’s bedside. “086, I am going to remove your restraints. When I do, I expect you to continue giving us your full cooperation. Is this understood?” He conspicuously fiddles with a button hanging from a cord around his neck; Eddie can only assume it’s used to page the other scientists in an emergency.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” The doctor pulls a key from his pocket and plunges it in the slot that joins the clamps together. The metal digs into Eddie’s wrist before the pressure disappears altogether, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Now,” Dr. Snell continues, turning to 055, “you will continue revealing 086’s memories of the Nether. You’re going to determine who else was there and what they may have seen.” He ticks off the two agenda items on his pointer and middle fingers as though it’s a simple task.

Eddie watches as 055 pulls up a chair across from him, still avoiding making eye contact until it’s absolutely necessary. “Sit up.” It’s an order, but a polite one, and Eddie follows it without a second thought. “I need you to take the memory I pulled and think about pushing it to the surface of your mind. Do your best to focus only on that, and it’ll make my job a lot easier.”

There’s a familiar cadence to 055’s voice, her last sentence laced with both honesty and a hint of humor. Eddie’s surprised to find himself relaxing a bit, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. He reflexively closes his eyes.

“N-No…leave them open.”

His eyelids flutter open, embarrassment pinkening his cheeks as though this was something he should have known. He concentrates on the already-fading memory of the boy shouting for him, biting into his lower lip so hard that it draws a bit of blood. The metallic taste stirs something within him, his ribs suddenly aching where they’re scarring.

An earthy scent overtakes his next inhale, a stark contrast from the sterile lab environment. Eddie’s moving too fast to be on foot, the bicycle wheels spinning across dirt and sinking into the mud as he frantically pedals. Something weighs on his back, but he can’t reach back to feel what it is.

He leaps off of the bike without warning, faintly hearing it clatter in the distance, but it’s quickly drowned out by violent shrieking. The sound tornadoes around him as he grabs the items from behind him: a makeshift spear and a garbage pail lid with nails driven through it.

Clang! Clang!

The flying objects ricochet off of the lid, the spikes not impaling them enough to do much damage. The shield begins to bend under their impact, but Eddie continues swinging with all of his might. His grunts are barely audible over the screeching bat-like creatures. His chest tightens as he musters up his remaining strength and courage, bellowing into the wind.

“COME ON!!!”

The scream provides no intimidation; it only further depletes his already-limited energy. He pauses for a second to take another breath, but his air supply is cut off by a barbed tail wrapping around his throat.

Eddie instinctively drops the spear to unravel the beast’s grasp from his neck, but he knows it’s too late. He’s done for. While he wrestles with the bat, others latch onto him and drag him to the ground to feast on his flesh.

“EDDIE!”

The boy.

Eddie hears him over the blood pounding in his ears, willing him to stay away, go back to safety, but shock has rendered him wordless.

And then the shrieking stops, leaving only the sounds of his own ragged breathing.

“Eddie!” The boy’s voice is quieter but still panicked, his face coming into view as he tends to Eddie’s wounds. Shiny braces adorn his teeth and mucus muffles his speech. “Oh my God, Eddie.”

Eddie can only look straight into the misty darkness, unable to move his body. “‘S bad, huh?” he manages through terse lips.

“No, nononono, you’re gonna be fine,” the boy sputters, trying to convince himself more than Eddie, “we just gotta get you to a hospital, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees too easily, feeling the fight leaving him with each passing second.

The two of them grunt in frustration and agony as Eddie uses his friend as a crutch, but he knows it’s no use. There isn’t any sense in this kid wasting his precious energy saving him from his inevitable demise.

“Just give me a second, okay?” Blood pools in Eddie’s throat; he swallows it down and forces a small smile. This is it. He has nothing left to give.

His gaze meets the boy’s, and they share an understanding glance. There’s nothing that either of them can do: Eddie is going to die.

“I didn’t run away this time, right?”

“No, nonono. You didn’t run,” the boy reassures him with a swift shake of his head, his curls held in place by a thick band.

Eddie grabs his hand, shiny eyes flitting over so he can drive home his point before it’s too late. “You’re gonna have to look after those little sheep for me, okay?”

“No, you’re gonna do that yourself!”

“Nah, man.” He needs this; he needs this promise fulfilled before he can fully let go. “Say you’re gonna look after them.”

The boy almost starts to deny it again, but Eddie’s steadily loosening grip informs him that his time is limited. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna look after them…” he chokes out, no longer able to look Eddie in the eyes.

“Good.” Haziness engulfs him, blurring his thoughts into a swirl of memories that has no beginning or end. “Because I’m actually gonna graduate…” He punctuates the statement with a small snort as he laughs through the pain.

The boy lets out a strained cry, pity and sadness and the early stages of grief rolled into one small sound.

“I think it’s my year, Henderson. I think it’s finally my year.” Eddie’s eyes glaze over; with his final breath, he ekes out a promise of his own. “I love you, man.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s the last thing he hears before the world goes black.

Eddie’s eyes snap open now, the dull roar of a headache barely affecting him. The present bleeds into the past, tile and disinfectant replacing dirt and overgrown moss. He blinks a few times to adjust.

“H-Henderson,” he stammers, looking between you and Dr. Snell. “My friend—Henderson—he was with me there. Dustin Henderson!” He snaps his fingers excitedly, pushing away the discomfort from the rapid movements. “I think we go to school together. Oh, my God, Dustin Henderson!” He laughs aloud, beaming from ear to ear. He remembers Dustin Henderson’s name, which means other memories of him can’t be far behind.

Eddie turns back to you as you wipe away the trail of blood under your nose, speaking so eagerly that he’s tripping over his words. “Okay, I’m gonna—I’m gonna keep thinking about him, and you pull more memories.” He looks you directly in the eyes, emotion written all over his own. “His name is Dustin Henderson. Got it?”

Before you can answer, the doctor cuts in. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today, 086.” He doesn’t seem apologetic in the least, practically baring his teeth in a sinister grin.

“N-No, he said—he promised,” Eddie sputters, feeling increasingly pathetic.

Dr. Snell shakes his head. “Who’s ‘he?’” he sneers. “I don’t recall making any promises to you.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“The other doctor—he said that she,” Eddie glances at you, “could pull more memories. Good ones.”

Your blood runs cold; this is the first you’re hearing of this, and you suspect it’s one of Dr. Moseley’s many empty promises designed to foster compliance and break spirits.

Eddie’s throat goes bone-dry and his stomach curdles as the doctor says nothing more, cuffs him back to the bed, and leads you away from the room. You look back for a split second, briefly making eye contact with him, but quickly turn around.

Please, Eddie begs silently, please help me remember. There had to be some good in my life, and I need to know what it was.

Cynicism chips away at his waning hope as you get farther down the hall until he can no longer hear your clipped conversation with the doctor, your presence becoming a memory in itself.

Your time in the lab thus far has been spent obeying orders and doing your best to remain inconspicuous whenever your services are not needed. Your allegiance, coupled with your refusal to make waves, is what’s kept you from experiencing the scientists’ wrath. Silent unless spoken to.

Guilt gnaws at your insides, churning bile in your stomach, and you know what you have to do.

“Dr. Snell, I have to use the restroom.” You push the words out in a single breath, lungs tightening when he actually stops in his tracks and faces you. Skepticism is written all over his face, and with good reason, but you double down on your statement with the three words that fluster nearly every man: “Got my period.”

Sure enough, his cheeks turn magenta as he sputters, “Yeah, yes, of course.” He steps aside as you rush back towards the bathroom, your urgency very much real though the excuse is a blatant lie. You stand behind the door and silently count to five, peering out to ensure that the coast is clear. There’s no sign of Dr. Snell–or any of the scientists, for that matter–so you make your way to Eddie’s room, cursing the soft noise your bare feet make on the tile floor.

Turn back. Don’t risk your safety to play the hero.

If you’re caught, there will be repercussions. You could easily find yourself strapped to the bed or thrown in isolation for days on end; all of the trust you’d built up with the authorities will be tossed in an instant.

Something propels you forward; perhaps it’s the desire to do what’s right, but you know it’s mostly the guilt of what happened between you two, whether he remembers or not.

“Ed—086,” you quickly amend, your voice barely louder than a whisper. Eddie looks around, disoriented and fighting the post-accession headache.

“Y-Yeah?”

You tiptoe closer to him, doing your best to ignore how vulnerable he looks right now. If you think about it too much, you might cry. “You need to obey the doctors, especially Dr. Moseley,” you say.

“Why?” Eddie spits back. “I tried, and they fucked me over. Why should I help them?”

You lean over and tug on the handcuff. “You see this? Notice how I don’t have one?” You shake your free wrist to emphasize the point. “That’s because I do as I’m told and fall in line.”

“This whole place is a goddamn prison,” he retorts, rolling his eyes. “Who cares if I’m strapped to the bed or not? Where the hell am I gonna go?”

“You’re not hearing me.” You want to scream, and it takes everything inside you to hold back. “The less trouble you give them, the less they’ll watch over you, and the more I can access your memories. The ones you want to remember.”

This throws a temporary wrench into his anger, scowl softening until he recalls how he’d recently been tricked. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”

You cut him off, grabbing his one free hand without warning. Staring into his fear-filled eyes, you pull a memory, though he doesn’t know that it’s easily accessible because it’s one of your memories, too.

That’s a conversation for another day.

The smell of stale beer and unfiltered cigarette smoke clouds the bar while a band of four boys plays onstage. Eddie has one ring-clad hand wrapped around the electric guitar’s neck and the other strumming intensely as he launches into the song’s chorus.

For whom the bell tolls Time marches on For whom the bell tolls!

He turns around and faces the drummer, grinning headbanging along to the beat. The kid behind the drumset is a bit younger than he is, and considerably more nervous, but Eddie’s encouragement allows him to lose himself in the music.

You end the memory before present-day Eddie can hear the applause; you know you were the one cheering the loudest that night, and you can’t let him recognize you.

“There will be a lot more of that if you fly under the radar and give them a reason to back off,” you tell him, plucking a thin tissue from a nearby box to clean your nose. “Trust me, they don’t want to watch over you 24/7. They have bigger issues they need to deal with.”

Trust me. The last time he trusted you, it destroyed him, whether he remembers it or not. This is your chance to make it right.

“Just think about it,” you plead, adrenaline waning and anxiety drawing you back to your room. “Help me help you.”

You leave him with even more questions than he had before. Hopefully, that’s incentive enough.

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