A small, warmblooded body creeps out from the shadows, its eyes like little gleaming seeds in the dark. A wormlike tail trails through the dust behind it. Claws like minuscule thorns click click click on the brushed concrete of the cavernous space. It stands on its haunches, sniffs the air, cleans its whiskers with a twitch of paws. It is looking for food. It will not find any here - save, perhaps, for the stray insect that may have made its way this deep under the earth, away from the sun. This is a strange place - even for the rat.

Footsteps reverberate through the floor - a giant, to the rat, and its hairless tail whips into the shadows without a sound. The perpetrator: a figure in a white lab coat, tall, moving with purpose. Across the amphitheater, over the yellow-and-black lines painted on the floor that warn CAUTION! DO NOT CROSS! in blocky capital letters, straight into the heart of the goings-on. In the center of the amphitheater sits the Key, imposing on its concrete platform. Scientists swarm around the machine, every inch of skin hidden away under stark-white hazmat suits and hissing oxygen masks. They move about the mass of shining metal as though it was a bomb. Handling it delicately, almost nervously. The paint dried several days ago, but they still avoid touching the American flag that's been carefully stenciled onto one side. The man without a mask moves through the crowd calmly, putting out a hand to run his palm along the cool, glossy surface without fear. Fluorescent bulbs blaze in the dusty air, lending light but no heat, turning the hub of activity into a lurid swirl of white and silver.

It will work, this time.

He looks up, admiring the neatly organized spiderweb of cords and cables bolted along the walls and ceiling. They all converge here, at the center of the amphitheater. Yes. This time, it will work. Today's the day. Preparations are wrapping up; gears and pistons oiled; tick marks jotted into checkboxes; safety measures double and triple checked.

He pats the barrel of the metal monster, regards the scene with a single nod, and turns to depart. The crush of hazmat suits parts to clear his path.

Dustin

Dustin's duffel bag thwumps onto the mattress, bouncing slightly.

Home sweet home.

He punches a button on his radio and flops down onto the edge of his bed, rubbing at his eyes as the local radio personality announces Small Town Boy by Age of Consent. He takes a big breath - in and out. It is eight hundred and nineteen miles from Camp Know Where to Hawkins, Indiana, and Dustin just spent the last two days travelling them in a small car with his mother. Which was fun at first. Impromptu sing-alongs with his mom have been a staple of driving to and from summer camp for years. They got Frosties in the drive through, they talked about camp, they played the alphabet game while they made their way across three states... Good times. He didn't even mind being stuck in a confined space with a parent for their mini-road-trip - much. That part wasn't so bad. It's just the last leg of the drive that got a little bit less than awesome. Mainly because it would seem that his friends have forgotten about him.

Eight hundred and nineteen miles, and the Party should have been in range of his supercomm for at least two or three of them.

You know, he always kind of forgets what his home town smells like until he's been gone for a while. It's like the way you don't realize what your own house smells like until you get back after vacation. Granted, it's no bed of roses. Hawkins tends to have a sort of... aroma. Like the farms on the outer edge, and like the forest that grows thick and green during the summer, and dusty, cracked asphalt in need of repairs, and humidity, and hay, and old brick buildings. It's not exactly a scent you'd find in a candle. But it's not bad, per se, and moreover: it's home.

"This is Gold..." he starts to say, but halfway through the hail, his voice stalls.

This new hat isn't quite molded to the shape of his head yet, like his old one is, and he keeps reaching up to adjust it. Tugging it down over his forehead, then pushing it back. This time, when he reaches up, he snags his headset and tosses it onto the bed. What's the point?

He drove his mom up the wall during the last fifteen minutes of their journey, trying to get in contact with the Party.

"This is Gold Leader returning to base, do you copy? Over."

He must have said that at least two dozen times. He could feel his mom glancing at him as she drove, but he just ran his tongue over the rough string of braces on his lower teeth and leaned forward anxiously, as if tilting forward in his seat would help him see around the curve. The bobblehead cat on the dashboard headbanged along to the oldie on the radio as he tried again.

"I repeat. This is Gold Leader returning to base. Do you copy? Over."

Silence. Silence, and static, and the car radio bopping along to the beat. Come on. Come on. He jammed the talk button hard enough that the plastic edge dug into his thumb.

"This is goddamn Gold Leader -"

"Dusty!" his mom chided, and he slapped the supercomm into his lap.

"What?"

"Relax. For goodness sake."

"I'm in range, they should be answering."

"You've been away a whole month, honeybun, maybe they just..." She wiggled her shoulders with a tilt of her head. "Forgot."

She didn't mean him. Of course she didn't mean that they forgot him. She meant the radios; she meant they forgot what channel they're supposed to be on. Or that they forgot what day he was coming home. She didn't mean that they forgot about Dustin himself.

It's just, it's not exactly reassuring, you know? It's the middle of summer already. All the roads are lined with tall, dark weeds. In a few days, everything will smell like sparkler smoke and kettle corn from the annual 4th of July fair. When he left it was barely June, and the weeds along the roadside were little more than sprouts. What else has happened since he left? What else has changed?

A muffled little tink draws his attention to the vivarium on his left, where Yurtle is bumping against the side, stumpy little legs flailing as he fails to comprehend glass. Dustin grins at him.

"At least someone's happy to see me."

Yurtle continues his mission to pass through the solid glass wall, unperturbed by his complete lack of success. Determined little guy. Never gets very far, but he tries.

Dustin isn't worried about it - the Party, that is. Honestly, he's not. It's not like they've all been acting weird for the past few months anyway. It's not like ever since El reappeared Mike has been MIA more often than not, visiting her at the cabin for as long as Hopper will allow. It's not like Max and Lucas have developed their own little language and routine together - not just boyfriend and girlfriend, but best friends. It's not like Will has been a slightly different person since... well, since everything. It's not like he misses how the Party used to be.

But Dustin doesn't like to mope. He slaps his thighs and stands up, reaching into the vivarium to turn Yurtle around. Yurtle lumbers off towards his pool, apparently assured that his ability to move is due to his own success, and Dustin hums along with the radio as he unzips his duffel bag with a flourish. Who is he to complain? He just got back from possibly the most amazing summer camp ever. He's got the whole rest of the summer ahead of him. He's got things to do. Places to go. Popsicles to eat. (You know what they don't have at Camp Know Where? Otter pops. Unbelievable, right? Three hundred acres, over five hundred campers and dozens of counselors, and not a single person could produce even one pack of sugary, brightly colored frozen goodness.)

He's got plans. Specifically, an invention to get up and running - and he has the perfect place in mind. He bets he can get the gang to help him set it up - if they'd just answer.

Okay, maybe he's a little unsettled. The Party doesn't just go radio silent on each other, okay? Because when a Party member goes radio-silent, it usually means that something is wrong. Really wrong.

His eyes slide over the stain in his carpet. It's a barely-perceptible rusty brown, now, blending in with the striped carpet unless you know just where to look. He had to tell his mom it was spaghetti sauce.

His toy robot starts marching out of the corner just as Dustin turns away, chattering unintelligibly in its perpetual-low-battery fizzle, red eyes glowing.

Wait.

What.

Dustin turns back, slowly, and this time the robot is joined by a toy tank and R2D2.

Now, he's no expert, but in Dustin's fourteen years of experience on earth, toys don't come alive. So he's understandably befuddled when he closes his eyes, counts to five, opens them again, and is met with a small crowd of miniature robots, vehicles, and one small mechanical dinosaur all moving with apparent purpose towards his bedroom door.

Okay. Cool. So either he's dreaming, or he has to burn the house down and salt the earth. He's seen Poltergeist. He knows how this ends.

Hopping carefully over a hotwheels car, Dustin grabs the first weapon he lays eyes on: a heavy, solid can of Farrah Fawcett hair spray from his dresser. R2D2 whistles cheerfully, as if beckoning - and, like the idiot that dies first in a horror movie, Dustin follows.

His hat slips down a little too far over his forehead, and he shoves it back as he creeps along in his socks. He has got to adjust the band on this thing.

"It's just a dream," he mutters to himself. The shiny plastic robot at the head of the small army bumps into a wall, adjusts its trajectory with an affronted little grumble, and leads its followers across the hallway. Through the house. Into the living room. "You're dreaming."

The feeling of being watched makes his skin crawl. He swears, in about five seconds he's gonna punt one of the little -

They stopped.

Dustin freezes, eyes flicking over the now-inert toys. Then he darts forward to scoop up their leader, turning the robot over in his hands, inspecting it. An electrical disturbance, maybe...? He picks at the battery panel. That still wouldn't explain the -

Fweep!

The shrill blast pierces the air directly behind him and he screams, spins, and deploys his weapon - directly into the eyes of his best friend.

Lucas screams. Dustin screams. Lucas screams louder. Dustin realizes he's still spraying the hairspray and abruptly lets go, dropping the heavy can on Lucas's toe. Lucas screams again, hopping sideways, one hand over his eyes and one still clutching the Welcome home Dustin! sign that Dustin has just taken note of. Lucas then trips and hits the floor with a thump. The rest of the Party, who Dustin now sees behind him, gawks - and then explodes into guffaws.

Mike and El are holding hands, El hiding behind Mike's shoulder from the spray of Farrah Fawcett, laughing around the noisemaker in her mouth. Max's hair blazes down around her shoulders, the burnished-copper-red slightly frizzy with the humidity, her face screwed up in helpless bouts of belly laughter as she holds her stomach and watches her boyfriend roll around on the floor. Will's hair has grown out maybe half an inch since Dustin last saw him, the straight line of his bangs creeping towards his eyebrows and the fringe of his hair warped slightly where it gets caught on his ears. For a split second it gives Dustin a sinking feeling - like that's just one more thing that's changed since he left. But then Will laughs, that exact same chortling laugh he's had since they met in the fourth grade, and Dustin's face splits into a grin.

"Guys!" he yells, throwing out his arms, and they dogpile him.

From the floor, Lucas groans, "Welcome home, asshole."

"Ow, ow, ow, ow."

"Hold still."

"How am I supposed to hold still when you're waterboarding me?"

"Shut up, you're fine."

"Ow!"

Lucas and Max's voices filter through the house from the kitchen, where she's not-so-gently helping him rinse hair spray out of his eyes. The rest of the Party is still gathered around Dustin, hounding him with questions, chattering at him all at once about everything he missed while he was away.

It was Will and Max's idea, apparently. Mike organized it. Will made the sign. Lucas gathered the noisemakers. Max planned out the logistics of their arrival and hiding spot. El secured special permission from Hop to stray so far from the cabin. Oh, she's allowed out, now - he gave up trying to keep her in the cabin months ago. It's just, she's not really supposed to be in town where a lot of people might see her. But the Henderson house is pretty removed from the busy part of Hawkins, so it should be fine.

"Better?" they hear Max say.

"Still stings," Lucas pants, his voice muffled through the wall, and Dustin grimaces. He really does feel bad for chemical-bombing his best friend in the eyeballs. That is, until he hears Lucas say, "Is that a new zit?"

"What is wrong with you?" Max demands, followed promptly by the sound of the sink turning on again and Lucas howling, "I was just asking!"

"What's that?" El asks, completely ignoring the scene of violence that they can all hear unfolding from across the house. Dustin can't tell if her hair is just a tad longer now, too, or if that's just his imagination. It touches her shoulders now, the curls stretched into waves by their own weight, and she brushes a strand away from her face as Dustin moves to scoop up the item she pointed at. The mass of popsicle sticks, perforated strips of metal, hot glue, screws, and odds and ends is about the size of a bread box.

"I call it -" He presents the device on one palm, turning the crank with the other hand until the rotor twirls with a papery clatter. "The Forever Clock!"

She oohs appreciatively.

El is a good science-buddy. She's whip-smart, despite her limited formal education, and forever curious. She's one of the few people who will sit through Dustin's impromptu scientific lectures for hours on end - in fact, she may be one of the only people he's met that actually seems to enjoy it. Maybe now that he's back they can start working on building that solar system model for her room like they talked about.

"All right? Yeah? Powered by wind. Very useful in the apocalypse."

He hands the device off to Will, who gives it a whirl for himself. Dustin digs into his pack again, pulling out another invention. "And then, I give you... The Slammer."

He's showcasing the little ones first. Because, well, the Forever Clock is pretty nifty, if he does say so himself - but he's saving the best for last. Just wait 'till they see.

Tak-tak-tak-tak goes the head of the hammer, pistoning back and forth on its freshly mechanized handle. El squishes her cheek into Mike's shoulder, drawing back with big eyes as Dustin brandishes it at them. She's unreasonably cute sometimes. Will peers at The Slammer with interest. Mike, meanwhile, is doing that annoying thing where he acts like he's too cool for whatever's going on. Right. Dustin kind of forgot about that. He didn't used to do that, and honestly, it's a load of bull. Nothing against Michael, but cool is not the adjective that Dustin would choose to describe his friend. Smart? Yeah, definitely. Creative? Yes. Loyal and headstrong? Check and check. Kind, brave, and everything a Paladin should be? You betcha. There's a reason he's the President of the AV club. But, cool? It's a no on that one, chief.

Nevertheless, Mike lets a smile slip, and Dustin grins back.

"Pretty neat, huh?"

It's time. Time to unveil what he so carefully ferried all those eight hundred and nineteen miles home.

"But this."

He hefts the duffel bag off the bed. Wait 'till they see. Wait 'till they hear. He can't wait to see their faces.

"This is my masterpiece." They kneel on the carpet, following his example as he peels back the cover. "I would like you to meet Cerebro."

A switchboard. Wires. Knobs and dials. The shiny mesh of a microphone. Plastic and metal, oh-so-carefully stowed away in an organized chaos of pure potential. Dustin rubs his palms together brusquely, looking up to see his friends' reactions.

Mike is the first to speak. "What exactly are we looking at, here?"

"An unassembled, one-of-a-kind battery-powered radio tower."

They're still not getting it. Will starts poking at the contents of the bag, shifting a coil of blue and yellow wires to see the switchboard underneath. "So... it's a ham radio."

Dustin's eyes roll towards the ceiling. "The Cadillac of ham radios. This baby carries a crystal-clear connection over vast distances. I'm talking North Pole to South." There we go. Now they look properly impressed. Which means this is the moment. He sits back on his heels and drops the bomb. "I can talk to my girlfriend whenever and wherever I choose."

He was waiting to deliver the news specifically for this reaction - and he isn't disappointed. El's eyes go huge. Her head snaps around to look at Mike, who's mirroring her expression. Mike looks at El. Will looks at Mike. El looks at Will. Then they all look back to him, at once, and at the same moment exclaim, "Girlfriend?"

Will

Will likes the summer.

Winter used to be his favorite season. The holidays, the cozy sweaters, the food, snowball fights, fireplaces, making presents for people. As the carols say, Christmas was the best time of the year. But now the first signs of cold weather always make his hackles rise, and the snow just looks like spores.

The mid-summer heat is reassuring. And stifling. Especially with this unwieldy bag full of antennas, umbrella handles, and PVC pipes weighing him down. Everyone's arms are full - except for Mike and El, who are too busy being a perfect, adorable, useless couple. Will's bangs stick to his forehead as he climbs, the nape of his neck wet with cooling sweat and -

Will slows. Grasses brush around his ankles, a fat ladybug crawling over one of his tennis shoes. For a second there -

He turns, facing down the hill. Weathertop is carpeted with clover and switchgrass. The rolling hills tumble down towards the treeline, which is swollen with summer growth, the shifting branches bright and juicy-green and hard to look at because of how much sunlight the leaves reflect. Clumsy bumblebees bop around between the clover blossoms. Starlings trill from the forest. Grasshoppers leap out of their path as the Party ascends. It's a perfect summer day, complete with the smell of sunbaked greenery and the beginnings of a sunburn warming on his cheeks and the back of his neck. But Will stands on the slope, gazing around at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and feels a prickle of phantom cold make its way up his spine.

Did he hear something? He's not sure anymore. Some little flag went up in the back of his head, just now - like when you have headphones on and you suddenly feel as though you hear someone calling your name from across the house.

"Will?"

Will spins. Mike is looking over his shoulder, holding nothing but El's hand.

"You comin'?"

"Yeah." Will hefts his own pack, flicks the ladybug into a patch of wildflowers with a small kick, and starts up after the others. El watches him curiously for a moment, trying to meet his eyes, but he strides on past the happy couple without looking at them. He doesn't need anyone worrying about him. He's not five. He doesn't need somebody watching over him all the time.

"Aren't we high enough?" Lucas is griping, and Dustin replies without turning around. His new green and yellow Camp Know Where '85 hat bobs as he trudges upwards. It is downright weird seeing him without his old cap on.

"Cerebro works best at a hundred meters."

He's inexhaustible, it seems. He's been grinning to himself ever since he broke the news.

Their quest: to assemble Cerebro at the tallest point of Weathertop so that Dustin can talk to his girlfriend.

Yeah. Girlfriend. Apparently, Dustin went to science camp for a month and came back with a girlfriend. It's a bit rude, really. Now Will is the only member of the group that's not paired up with someone. Which sucks. Not because he wants to be, mind you - just because at least pre-science-camp he had Dustin to commiserate with. They could look at Mike and El and Max and Lucas and shake their heads at each other, silently communicating, ugh, couples, right? Now Dustin won't shut up about how not-single he is. Which means Will is on his own.

On the other hand, this girlfriend - according to Dustin - is not only a genius, hotter than Phoebe Cates, and the exact right type of nerd, but - alas! - she lives in Utah. And she's Mormon, so her parents would never approve of her dating Dustin. Oh, and her name is Suzie. Suzie-with-a-Z.

Will is not fully convinced that Suzie-with-a-Z, the beautiful, genius nerd with the disapproving parents, is... how do you say... real.

Not that he doesn't want to believe Dustin, but c'mon. He can't just call his lady-love on the telephone because her parents wouldn't approve of him because he's not Mormon, so they all have to lug a hundred pounds of equipment up the tallest hill in Hawkins so he can contact her via the Cadillac of ham radios? In Dustin's own words, it's all a bit Shakespearean. The thing is, Shakespeare wrote fiction.

But Will's not complaining. (Much.) The Party is back together, after all. It's what he's been waiting for practically all summer. The six of them are together - all together - for the first time in what feels like months, laughing and teasing and speaking in increasingly complex and self-referential inside jokes. It's almost like old times. Like when they were kids, before... well, before. Before two years of their childhood were yanked out from under their feet.

And he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how everyone else can so easily toss aside the few shards of their old lives that they have left.

Like the chalk. He had been so happy to rediscover that old bucket of powdery sidewalk chalk in the tool shed. He had hauled it all the way to the Wheelers', because they actually have a sidewalk outside their house. He presented it with aplomb, so sure that he would be greeted with gratitude and excitement. And the others... Well, El liked it. She had never drawn with chalk before, and she got smudges of color all the way up her elbows as she worked on her doodles. But Mike got bored right off the bat, and Max and Lucas didn't even try. They just tumbled around in the front yard, trying to do cartwheels, and then started making plans to go off somewhere else.

They ended up leaving the bucket of chalk for Holly. At least she appreciated it.

Will can tell he's scowling, but he doesn't bother smoothing out the expression. He can blame it on the sun shining in his eyes. The summer is half over already, and it's not fair. He never agreed to this. He never gave his consent for time to drag him inexorably along towards another school year, another anniversary, another winter. Pretty soon the temperature is going to drop, and it's all gonna start all over again. At least, that's what he can't help but be afraid of.

But it won't. The Gate is closed; the lab is dark and empty. It's over.

Will shakes himself, pausing to stretch out a cramping muscle in the back of his leg. A few feet away, Lucas tilts the contents of his canteen down his throat. Max stops to stare at him, cheeks flushed from exertion, expression incredulous. Strands of hair cling to her face and neck with sweat.

"Did you seriously just drink the rest of our water?"

Lucas looks at her, the neck flap of his sun hat flopping in the hot breeze. Then he lifts the canteen to his mouth again, spits his last sip back into it, and holds it out to Max with a proud smile.

Max's eyes meet Will's over Lucas's shoulder.

In the past half year, Max - and El, to a lesser extent - have caused Will to revise some of his opinions about girls. Namely, that girls don't play video games; girls don't read comic books; girls don't wrestle; etcetera, etcetera. Of course, it's possible that these two girls in particular are the exception. El hangs around with guys all the time, and Max is very much a tomboy, in many ways. Will would honestly be more weirded out to see Max in a poofy dress than he would be if he discovered she had joined the football team.

Will is trying not to laugh, but Max is very clearly not amused. She shakes her head, ignores the canteen, and turns for the crest - only to turn back when they hear El scream.

Everyone whirls - but it's only Mike. He's got El hoisted up against his hip, spinning her around in a clumsy, unsteady circle - and as they watch, he loses his footing. They collapse into a heap in the grass, both giggling like mad, El giving a reproachful cry of, "Mike!"

When they struggle upright, Mike lays a hand on her arm and leans in. Something pangs in the pit of Will's stomach. It's a distant, hollow kind of hurt. He's so used to it by now that he can almost convince himself that he doesn't notice. It was worst a few months ago, when El was first allowed to venture out of the cabin. Back then, he would look away when Mike kissed her. He'd pretend not to notice. Now he just watches with that familiar cold ache twisting somewhere below his diaphragm.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dustin watching them too. Will uses it as an excuse to look away, turning to send an eye roll in his direction.

"It's been like this all summer."

"It's romantic," Max says, and Will promptly counters, "It's gross."

"Well, you know what they say about love," Dustin says cheerfully, bouncing on his toes to shrug his load more securely onto his shoulder. "It makes you crazy. C'mon. Onwards and upwards. Suzie awaits!"

Will, Max and Lucas groan in unison.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is visible: they're almost at the crest.

Mike

It's a perfect summer day.

Especially since Mike is, right at the moment, sitting in the grass in the sun, kissing his girlfriend.

He's strong enough to lift her. Really, he is. He may not be a jock, but he's not the wimpy little kid he was two years ago. It's just, this hill is really steep, and it makes for some pretty uneven footing, and he may have gotten a little too cocky and decided to spin her around - and he fell. Thankfully, she fell on him instead of the other way around. And hey, it worked out, right? Because now he's skimming one hand from her shoulder down her arm, nudging her nose with his own so he can tilt into a quick kiss.

Okay, maybe two quick kisses.

Three?

"Mike," she laughs, and breaks away.

Four.

"Mike."

Okay, okay. Hey, look, it's not often that they get an opportunity like this. Usually when they're together, Hopper is breathing down their necks, nagging them to keep El's bedroom door cracked open "Three inches!" It's rare that they're able to sneak kisses without keeping a wary eye out for parental figures.

He pushes himself to his feet, grinning, and she pulls him along by the hand. Both of their hands are sweaty, from the heat and the hike, but they stopped caring about that months ago. "Come on," she urges. "Look!"

She means the top of the hill. It's in sight.

He drags a wrist over his mouth, trying to wipe off the lip gloss that rubbed off on him. El doesn't usually wear makeup, except for special occasions, but she likes the strawberry-flavored gloss that Nancy bought for her. She uses it when her lips get dry. It's been a few hours since she put it on, though, and it's gone all tacky. He doesn't know how she goes around with that stuff on her mouth all day. The stickiness is just weird.

El pulls them the rest of the way to the top of the hill, the proximity putting a spring in her step, and only stops when she reaches the peak. There she stands, eyes big and hair blowing in her face as she stares down into the basin. Mike puts his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, but he lifts one hand long enough to gesture and pant, "There. See? That's Hawkins."

Her eyes roam over the scene. The roofs of buildings scattered amongst treetops. The streets that appear here and there between buildings and trees, dotted with multicolored cars the size of beetles. The trembling reflection of sunlight off of glass windows. It's a miniature town - like the model train station Mr. Clarke brought to school once for a chemistry demonstration. (That poor little train station didn't reckon on the clay volcano.)

Behind them, Dustin is wandering back and forth, muttering about flat ground. Max and Lucas have collapsed in the clover, leaning against each other as they catch their breath, and Will is looking back the way they came, one hand shading his eyes as he squints down the hill.

"That's home?" El says softly, and Mike straightens to go stand beside her.

"Yup. See, that's..." He orients himself and points. "That's the school, way over there with the grayish roof. And that's the mall, over on that side."

That mall is an easy landmark to find. It's off on its own on one side of town, for one thing, and for another it's the biggest building for a mile around. At night it would be even easier to spot, all lit up by blazing lines of pink and blue neon, but for now it's just another big, blocky tan building surrounded by a glittering swarm of cars.

"So Hop's cabin would be..."

But El's head has turned. At first Mike thinks she's looking at the Hawkins National Laboratory - gathering dust, now, the whole thing locked away behind signs that read, Warning, Restricted Area! But instead, she points to the mass of skeletal structures being erected at the edge of town.

"What's that?"

"Oh. That's the fair. They put it up every year for the 4th of July."

She frowns at him. "Fair, like... equal."

"Different kind of fair. It's this thing they do every year where they set up this theme park with rides and games and junk food and stuff. It's like a little tiny version of Disney World."

Her eyes glitter. She knows about Disney World from Mike's stories of the Wheelers' family vacation there, years ago.

"Can we go?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. I dunno. There's gonna be a lot of people there, and -"

Her face falls into a frown. He makes a don't look at me gesture.

"I dunno. Ask Hop."

"Here," Dustin's voice rings out, and they turn. He's several yards away, feet planted, and as they watch he drops his duffel bag decisively. "There's a flat spot here." He nods, once, the matter decided. Then he claps his hands together. "Let's boogie."

And so it begins. They get to work, hot and sweaty and still panting but invigorated by the success of their climb - and by Dustin's boundless enthusiasm. The hilltop is filled with noise and voices as they set about their task, scaring away birds and squirrels from the nearest treeline. Equipment jangles and rattles as they pour it out onto the grass. There are spider-like antennae to unfold, PVC pipes to snap together, a long coil of wire to wind around a metal pole, tin foil to shape, duct tape to rip with sweaty fingers, clothes hangers to affix, mosquitoes to swat, cables and cords to arrange. At one point an antenna snaps off, and Dustin makes quick work of a tree branch and some duct tape to secure it back in place. They have to backtrack several times when they realize they've skipped a step or misassembled a piece.

"Here," Mike says, as El struggles to tear off a piece of duct tape, "Let me he-"

"I can do it," she snaps, jerking it away from him, and he retreats with his hands up.

"Okay, jeez."

He goes back to his own task of wrapping tin foil around a clothes hanger with Will. Will meets his eyes for a moment, his lifted eyebrows meaning, everything okay? Mike rolls his eyes and nods - yeah. Just El being El. You know her.

She can be so mercurial, sometimes. It's impossible to know what he's supposed to do. Sometimes she gets frustrated with him for trying to guide her when she doesn't need help; sometimes she's mad at him for leaving her to her own devices when she apparently needed a hand. How the hell is he supposed to know which is which? It's not his fault he can't read her mind. One second everything is fine and the next they're mad at each other and he has no clue why. Sometimes he's pretty sure she doesn't know, either.

Today's been a good day, though, for the most part. Her mood has been mainly sunny, and after a few minutes she comes and headbutts his shoulder, signaling forgiveness as they jiggle a support beam into place.

And then, just when Mike is sure he couldn't be any more sunburned or sticky with duct tape residue, it's done. They give one last push, lifting the branching antlers of metal skywards, and the device settles on its platform - and stays there. It's up.

"Hey!" Dustin exclaims, giving the spindly tower an experimental push and clapping when it stands firm. "Pretty impressive, right?"

"Yeah," Will agrees, hands on his hips as he stares up at their creation.

It's makeshift, improvised, jimmy-rigged - and, yes, pretty impressive.

Dustin is already reaching for the microphone, settling down on the trampled grass. "Now. You ready to meet my love?"

They all gather around, flopping down in the grass to rest as Dustin fiddles with dials, tuning in to the right channel. An expectant atmosphere hangs over the Party as he clicks the talk button experimentally, cueing short bursts of static. With ceremony, he lifts the microphone to his mouth and clears his throat.

"Suzie. This is Dustin, do you copy? Over."

They wait, swatting at bugs. Dustin wiggles one sneaker, making a tall blade of grass whip side-to-side. He lifts a finger. "One sec, she's probably... She's still there. Suzie, this is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

Static hisses gently from Cerebro's speaker. The Party sneaks glances at each other. Dustin catches them making dubious expressions and says, "I'm sure she's there, it's just - you know, maybe she's, like, busy, or..."

"Yeah," Lucas agrees.

"It's around dinnertime..."

"Mmm."

"Yup."

"... here."

Of course, in Utah it's only about mid afternoon. No one says that, though.

"Suzie, do you copy? This is Dustin, over... Suzie. Do you copy? This is Dustin. Over."

And so it goes.

While they wait, they rest. Propped up on their elbows, legs kicked out in front of them as they take in the view of the early evening sunlight slanting over Hawkins. Max and Lucas tear up handfuls of grass and toss them into the wind, watching them flutter away towards the town below. El is cuddled up to Mike's side again - a barnacle, he teases her - and on Mike's other side, Will is sprawled out in the grass, chewing on a stalk of it like a farmer in an old cartoon. And Mike almost laughs at the sight - almost. But he doesn't. Because right when he's about to snort, Will's head turns, and the slant of sunlight hits his eyes, lighting up the starburst of greens and browns that together make hazel. Mike grins instinctively. It's one of those moments where he's just quietly, immensely glad to have his best friend beside him. Living this moment with him. The smell of crushed grass and clover; the summer heat that presses against their cheeks and arms like tangible hands; the spindly shadow of Cerebro stretching out on the ground in front of them; the view of the town, laid out in miniature way down below. Will is lying close enough that the toes of their sneakers bump together if they let their ankles fall a certain way, and when he shifts, his arm brushes Mike's. It's reassuring. Those little touches. They've always been comfortable in each other's space - a byproduct of practically growing up together - but ever since the November before last, it's become a sort of unspoken language. Nuding shoulders or bumping arms means, Hello, I'm here, and you're here, and all is well.

Will sits forward a little. "So, tonight we're gonna start that new campaign, right?"

From a couple feet away, Lucas says, "No, tonight we're going to the movies."

"Is that tonight?" Max says, and then squints at the angle of the sun. "Are we gonna make it?"

"If we head out soon, yeah. Steve's on shift tonight, remember? We were gonna see that one about time travel."

"Suzie, this is Dustin, do you copy? Over."

Mike pulls a face. "I dunno if we can make that, actually."

"We will if we go," Lucas says, and stands, offering a hand to Max. "Up and at 'em, Madmax."

Mike shakes his head. Hair sticks to the back of his neck with sweat and he reaches up to push it away. "I mean El. She's not really supposed to go into town."

El's warm weight disappears from his side. "I want to go." She pushes herself upright, brushing dirt and grass off of the oversized blue shirt that swallows three quarters of her entire body. It used to be Hop's, once upon a time, until she decided she liked it and it became hers. "We'll be careful."

"The mall is super busy. And it'll be past your curfew. You're gonna get in trouble."

He can see her digging in her heels, a scowl developing between her brows. "You always get to go to the movies. I never do. I want to go."

Mike sighs, gearing up for an argument, but then Max cuts in.

"She'll be fine, Mike. What are you, her parent? Anyway, she'll blend right into the crowd."

"I'll blend right in," El echoes.

"Suzie, this is Dustin, do you copy? Over."

"She does look pretty normal now," Will offers, and Lucas says, "Yeah, and we'll protect her, right?"

Lucas chucks her on the chin and she snaps her teeth at him playfully.

"She's been in town before and it was fine."

Mike hefts himself to his feet, shaking his head. "Okay, fine. Just don't expect me to explain to Hop why you're late, okay? I'm not having that conversation again. You get to field that one. Deal?"

El thrusts out a hand before he even finishes talking. "Deal."

"So," Will says from the ground, "Tomorrow for D&D, then?"

"I can't, I said I'd -"

"Hang out with El tomorrow," Will finishes for him, his voice going a tad flat with disappointment. Mike shrugs uncomfortably and Will stands. "I thought you said we'd play this week."

"I know, but..." His arms flop at his sides, helplessly. "Maybe next week, okay? I just haven't had a chance to work on it. I'll finish making the campaign this weekend."

And by finish he means start. He just hasn't had time, okay? He's been busy. He didn't see El for like a year, and then she was locked away in the cabin for the winter. Now he actually gets to spend time with her regularly. It's not his fault that he hasn't had time to sit down and plan a whole campaign. And anyway, they have other things to do. It's summer. They should be outside, or at the pool, or the mall or something.

And speaking of -

"Hey." Lucas thumps Dustin on the shoulder. "We gotta go, man. Daylight's fading. We're gonna miss the movie."

Billy

Chlorine is a shitty excuse for saltwater.

Like everything else in this town, the Hawkins Public Pool is a pathetically small, second-rate, wannabe imitation of the real thing. But it's the closest thing they have, and he's stuck here.

Anyway, it does have its perks. He gets paid to work on his tan and play the hero, doesn't he? And the lifeguard chair provides a splendid view of all the best sights that Hawkins has to offer.

Here comes one such sight now.

Heather Holloway is a sweet little number. Nothing to write home about, and her cherry-red lifeguard suit does her figure no real favors. But she smirks at Billy as they pass each other, twirling her whistle around one finger, and her tits jiggle just slightly in her suit as she sweeps through the crowd towards the locker rooms. A wave of coconut sunscreen and some sparkling, expensive perfume washes past him in her wake.

She's the kind of girl he would have taken for a midnight swim, back home.

Then again, maybe she'd be interested in a midnight swim here. They're staff, after all - and Billy just happens to have a key to the pool. Maybe she's into skinny dipping. He might just find out what's under that shapeless swimsuit.

Billy sticks the whistle between his teeth and gives a sharp blast.

"Hey, Lardass!"

The tubby kid on the far side of the pool screeches to a halt, eyes comically wide. Like a deer in the headlights. A fat, fat deer.

"No running on my watch," Billy says, sternly. He doesn't even need to yell. The pool has gone respectfully quiet. "I gotta warn you again and you're banned for life. You wanna be banned for life, Lardass?"

The kid's head shakes back and forth.

"Didn't think so."

Another blast of the whistle, and the chatter starts up again. Beach balls bounce high into the air. Pool floats knock together like lethargic bumper cars. Some kids near the shallow end are playing chicken, and Billy feigns casting a protective eye over them as he passes the row of lounging middle-aged mothers. They adore him. They think he's just the sweetest young man, always keeping an eye out for the kids in the pool, playing big brother.

He climbs into the lifeguard chair with a practiced hop, settling in to survey his domain. It's his last hour on shift, before the pool closes for the day, and the sunlight slopes through the chain link fence, tinted ruddy-gold from the approaching sunset.

He despises this town. But he's practically a king here, so what can he say? There are worse ways to pass the time.

A bike bell draws his attention away, through the fence, to the street beyond the parking lot.

Well, whaddya know? Maxine. He'd recognize that tangled mess of hair anywhere. She's coasting down the street beside her hick friends, the wheels of her dumb little-kid skateboard roaring obnoxiously in the middle of a small crowd of bikes. He dares her to look his way. To meet his eyes through the fence. But she's oblivious to the death threats he's beaming into the back of her skull, and after a moment they swing around a curve in the road and vanish from sight.

He turns back to the pool.

Somebody oughta knock that little bitch down a peg. He's tired of her running around town like she owns the place.

Will

Shoppers yelp and dodge out of the way with indignant reprimands as the Party sprints through Starcourt Mall. They leave a trail of hey!s and watch where you're going!s as they maneuver through the crowd, and Will lifts one hand of apology, shouting back, "Sorry! 'Scuse me!"

His backpack knocks against the small of his back with every step, heavy and rattling with their haul. If they hadn't stopped at the convenience store to get snacks first they wouldn't be late - but what fun is a movie without twizzlers, skittles, and soda that may or may not explode when you try to open it?

They skid past a sunglasses kiosk, around a corner, and tumble down an escalator packed with people. The mall is a shiny blur around them. Glossy floor and glass skylights. Blue and pink tubes of neon, spelling out STARCOURT on the sign above the food court - as if they could possibly forget where they are. The pots of lush greenery, fronds and leaves straight out of the Amazon; the shining round lights dotted along the ceiling like a runway; the ten-foot-tall advertisements full of impossibly perfect food and hair and athletic men and women laughing and holding up their products. It really is like another world, like another planet. They pass the Camera Repair shop, the jungle-safari-like front of Banana Republic, the Gap, and hurdle through the front entrance of their destination: Scoops Ahoy, lower level, just past the food court.

Will tilts his watch to see the time. "Made it."

Mike makes a beeline for the counter, tapping repeatedly at the bell despite the long-suffering girl standing behind the counter. She takes one look at the Party, rolls her eyes, and calls, "Hey, Dingus, your children are here." Behind her, the frosted glass partition slams open.

Even Steve Harrington himself can't make the Scoops Ahoy uniform look good. In the navy blue sailor suit, red sash, and the white cap pulled down over his trademark hair, it's hard to believe he was once loved and feared on the grounds of Hawkins High. There's a smudge of chocolate on his jaw, which he swipes at ineffectually as he sighs.

"Again? Seriously?"

Mike looks at the Party. The Party looks at Mike. Mike turns to Steve, reaches out, and gives the service bell one more cheeky swipe.

That's when Steve's eyes move past Mike and land on Dustin.

In about two seconds flat, he's sliding through the back room door, hands lifting into the air like he just shot the winning basket. "Henderson." Dustin laughs, throwing up his own arms in a celebratory greeting, and Steve repeats, "Henderson!" with a leap into the air, swinging around the counter. "He's back!"

"I'm back! You got the job!"

"I got the job!" Steve plays a fanfare on a small imaginary trumpet, then dives in for their secret handshake, which devolves immediately into a lightsaber battle. Steve loses, dramatically miming his guts falling out, and then gives Will's hair a teasing tousle when he notices him watching. The same way Jonathan does, sometimes.

Steve helped the Party last November. Will was - well - a bit out for the count, at that point. But he's heard about it from various members of the Party, his mom, Jonathan, Hopper. Bit by bit, he's stitched together a complete picture of what happened that night. The lab. The trap. The tunnels. Bob. The shed... He remembers the shed.

He's standing directly under a flow of air conditioning, and the frigid air seems to crawl down the back of his shirt, making him wince.

She shed, and the phone ringing, and the Mind Flayer's army, and waking with a start with his wrists and ankles chafed raw, bound to a cot as he burned alive and they were in the tunnels, he saw them, he knew, in the now-memories, Steve and Mike and Dustin and Max and Lucas, they were in the tunnels and they set him on fire -

Stop.

Breathe.

Focus. The mall. He's at the mall. With his friends. They're about to sneak into Back to the Future and eat candy and enjoy the air conditioning. Normal teenagers doing normal teenage stuff, on a normal summer day.

Will tunes back in to the conversation, glancing around to see if anyone noticed him zoning out for a second there. Thankfully, they're all still focused on Steve. Dustin is saying something about his ambiguously-existent girlfriend and Steve is nodding along with interest, twirling his ice cream scoop like a weapon. There's an old Patsy Cline song playing softly from the Scoops Ahoy store radio. Max is teasing Lucas about something. El is looking around at the ice cream shop, seeming particularly intrigued by the rows of colorful frozen dessert behind the glass display case. Mike is giving Dustin a skeptical look, clearly not entirely convinced that his science camp girlfriend could possibly be hotter than Phoebe Cates. Will's heart rate starts to go down again.

Yeah. It's good to have the Party together again. Maybe now that Dustin is back, things will start going back to normal.

The girl behind the counter leans forward, quirking one eyebrow at her coworker as he's swarmed by the small crowd of teenagers. "How many children are you friends with?"

Lucas, checking his own watch, has started to poke and prod the Party in the direction of the door. "C'mon," he urges, "We need to get going. Catch up later. Let's go, hustle!"

It's as they're passing through the back room, ducking through the door into the staff access corridor, that Steve suddenly notices the girl attached to Mike's hand. He points at her as she passes.

"Are you even supposed to be here?"

Mike tugs El through the doorway. "Just let us through, we're gonna miss the beginning."

Steve shakes his head, waving them through like they're soldiers sneaking across enemy lines.

"I swear," he calls after them, "If anybody hears about this -"

"We're dead," Will, Mike, Max and Lucas all finish in unison.

"Uh," Dustin says as they half-jog down the narrow white hallway, "Are we allowed to be back here?"

"No," Will and Mike both say, and exchange a grin.

Mike hit a growth spurt a few months ago. Will did not. Well, his mom insists that he's been growing like a weed, but apparently he's never going to catch up to his best friend. Mike, as always, stands a few inches over him. It seems he hasn't quite gotten used to his gangly limbs, though; his movements are clumsy, awkward. He nearly trips over his own shoes as he half-turns, trying to run backwards for a moment as he counts heads, making sure no one got left behind. His bangs flop in his eyes, and he flicks them back with a jerk of his head.

Mike's hair has, if anything, gotten wilder over the years. It was wavy before, sure, but now it's like it's caught halfway between wavy and curly. And the heat has not helped. A day in the summer humidity has turned it fluffy and unkempt, strands curling over his ears and getting caught on his eyelashes where they fall over his face.

"Here," Mike instructs, mostly for the benefit of Dustin and El, and the Party comes to a halt at the back door to the theater. Mike cracks it open and pokes his head out. "All clear."

They make it just in time.

The theater is packed, so Max, Lucas, and Dustin end up one row down and a few seats to the left. Will, meanwhile, spots three conveniently empty seats near the middle, and he steers Mike and El towards them. They clamber over people's feet, muttering apologies. El has wedged herself firmly between Mike and Will, as if trying to use them to physically shield herself from the eyes of the crowded movie theater. She's not used to being in a place with so many people, and it's making her a bit shy as they finally reach their destination.

"God, I love air conditioning," Mike sighs as he flops into the middle seat.

Will groans, "God, I love not standing."

Mike leans forward, stretching out a hand to poke Lucas in the back of the head. "See, Lucas, we made it."

"We missed the previews."

"Still made it," Max counters.

Dustin, beside Lucas, takes off his hat to fan himself with before jamming it back down over his curls.

El is all big brown eyes, watching the pre-movie concessions advertisement like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Will opens up his backpack to distribute candy to the Party members in the row below, and Mike digs in without waiting for permission, choosing Reeces Pieces for himself.

Softly, as if speaking to herself, El says, "That is a big TV."

Will leans across Mike to offer her a choice of candy. She takes skittles - probably because she knows that twizzlers are Will's favorite, so she's leaving those for him.

He's happy she's here. No, really, he is. He's happy to have El with them. He's happy to see her happy, out in the world, having fun. But as the lights dim and the low chatter dies down into an expectant silence, Will can't help but feel a little twinge of irritation. This is supposed to be their thing. His and Mike's. They've been going to movies with Lucas and Max all summer. This is their ritual. It's supposed to be one of the few El-free times Will has left with Mike, when Mike isn't single mindedly focused on his girlfriend. It's not fair. Mike is supposed to be leaning over to too-loudly whisper commentary to Will as they watch. He's supposed to rest his arm on the armrest between him and Will, nudge Will's pinky with his own to get his attention, sneak pieces of Will's candy.

He can't be mad at El - actually, scratch that, yes he can. He just knows that he shouldn't be. El is half the reason he's alive. And besides that, they understand each other. To the mystification of the Party, they can just look at each other and be on the same wavelength. It's been that way since their first official meeting, days after the Gate, when El walked straight into the weak hug that Will offered. He recognized her, of course, and not just from the Party's stories. He still remembers a halfway-tangible hand in his own, the blurred silhouette of a pink dress phasing in and out of existence in front of his eyes, the soft, distant voice -

Will? Your mom - she's coming for you.

And his answer, pressed out from aching lungs between cracked lips - Hurry.

Just... just hold on a little longer. Will. Will?

"Will?"

He turns. El's eyes flick from his own down to his twizzlers, and he throws one at her with a playful scoff. She catches it and sticks it in her mouth, content.

The movie is starting.

Will ranks movies based on how easily they can make him forget the outside world. A score of one means, what movie? and a score of ten means, what real world?

This one is an eight.

Will gets swept up in the story, delighted by the clocks and the Delorean and all the old-fashioned '50s stuff and Doc Brown's exaggerated facial expressions - and captivated by Marty McFly's skateboard, turned-up collar, guitar, and handsomely rumpled hair. He's even able to mostly forget how crisp the air conditioning is, in here. The air smells like buttered popcorn; his tongue is probably stained red with artificial strawberry; and for the first time in a long day of hiking and racing across town, he's sitting down in a comfy chair. A good end to a good day.

His mood is dampened just a tad when he glances over and happens to see Mike's fingers linked with El's, as per the usual.

"Whoa. Whoa, Doc, stuck here?" Marty says from the screen. "I can't be stuck here, I got a life in 1985! I got a girl!"

"Is she pretty?"

"Ah, she's beautiful."

Will looks back to the screen, because he doesn't want to see the meaningful, affectionate glance that Mike sends his girlfriend.

"She's crazy about me. Look at this. Look what she wrote here, Doc, I mean, that says it all. Doc... You're my only hope."

Crazy about me.

Yeah, crazy -

"Marty, I'm sorry. But the only power source capable of generating 1.21 gigawatts of electricity is a bolt of lightning."

At first Will thinks that the sudden darkness is part of the movie. And then, when the audience groans and he sees that even the exit signs above the doors have gone dark, he realizes what happened.

"Aw, c'mon," Lucas gripes from somewhere in the darkness.

There's a general muttering and shuffling as the packed theater protests the blackout.

Spreading.

Where his hand rests on his thigh, Will's fingers twitch.

It's spreading.

The blackout.

Sweeping across Hawkins in a powerful, silent surge. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does. He can feel it. Hot bulbs going dark; buzzing wires falling inert, lifeless.

Everything inside of Will drops. A horrible, sick, sinking, numb-cold swoop that starts to spiral somewhere in his gut, tingling up his spine and at the base of his skull, prickling at the back of his neck until one hand twitches up to press at the skin there.

It's moving.

The knowledge comes to him unbidden, imparted to him with a sinuous, papery, reverberating flutter - like the sound of thousands of insect wings all beating at once, and Will wants to scream, he wants to bolt out of his chair, but he's frozen.

His fingers are shaking. Something at the pit of his throat is shaking. His whole body feels like it's sinking through the floor, leaving itself behind, his limbs going cold and weak as if he's about to faint. His head swims.

Sluggishly, as if in a dream, he drags his hand off of his neck and gropes for the seat next to him. His mouth is already forming the M, voice ready to croak out one single syllable, when his fingers rake through thin, cold air.

There's no one in the seat beside him. There's no one in the whole theater. The air-conditioned, popcorn-scented air has gone frigid and sour, and Will is on his feet. Turning in circles. Scanning the dilapidated space wildly, shoes fumbling and slipping over slick, fleshy vines.

No.

No, no, no, no, no no no -

His eyes haven't adjusted to the dark, but the blueish gray palette of shadows is so horribly, cruelly familiar. And the fluttering - that dry, hissing, grinding flutter seems to spike through his whole body, shooting through him from neck to fingertips to toes, making him grimace, driving his feet forwards in a panicked, instinctual stumble towards the door.

It's not real.

He tells himself that as he shoulders open the swinging door, coughs into his hands at the sting of toxins in his lungs. The coughing is as sharp as gunshots in the dead silence, echoing harshly through the darkness as he propels himself through the theater lobby. Spores drift listlessly in the stale air, bringing back a thousand memories, a thousand deeply ingrained instincts to run and hide and -

It's not real. I'm not here. Not really.

He's twelve years old again. Cold and alone and scared, the soles of his sneakers skidding on sludge. Jerking away with a half-swallowed sob as a fringe of dangling vines comb over his cheek.

The lobby opens up into the mall, and Will comes to a halt. Starcourt is hollow. Storefronts devoid of products, of people. A few lights waver to life here and there as he passes, faint and blue-tinted, their meager glow smothered under softly rustling tendrils. He's acclimating to the silence, the quiet pressing in against his eardrums like a high air pressure, and now his ears are picking up on the barely-detectable whispers and chitters of the Upside Down. The sound of vines growing, moving, shifting. The sound of creatures skittering into the shadows, somewhere unseen.

Like Dart, something in the back of his mind whispers.

The back of his throat opens, a call for Mike rising instinctually, but he bites down on it before it reaches his lips. He shakes his head, hard. Like he's trying to wake himself up after nearly nodding off in class. He's not a little kid anymore. It's not real. It can't be real. The Gate is closed. Nothing has happened since November. It's just in his head. He can snap himself out of it.

His eyes squeeze shut. He clenches his fists at his sides, splays out his fingers until the tendons ache, breathes five long breaths. His throat scratches with the cold, acrid air, but he forces himself to breathe smoothly. The chittering grows louder, darting past him, coming close enough that he can feel something brush past his shoelace. But it's not real. He won't cringe away. He won't let these memories control him. He won't.

When he opens his eyes, he's still there.

His skin crawls. His eyes trace up, over the shadowy silhouettes of the food court, over the vine-choked space above, past the neon STARCOURT sign that gutters and flares in sporadic bursts. And beyond the great glass skylight, there's a shape. Dark - dark as the void of space, like a hole cut out of the universe. Looking at him. Watching him. The numb-cold swoop drains through him again, stronger this time as the Mind Flayer's featureless head lowers towards the skylight.

A broken whimper twists in Will's chest. Fear takes over. His mind goes blank, body reacting on animal instinct as his feet shove him back, away -

No -

No, please -

Lights flare at random, strobing, flickering across the length of the mall, static popping in Will's clothes, and oh god he sees him, he knows Will is here, he's looking at him -

Will can feel him beckoning. Calling to him. He's getting closer, pressing down towards the glass, and Will can hear the whooshing, rumbling roar, muffled through the roof, and he's still backing up, back into the theater lobby, lungs pistoning behind his ribs - Go away! Go away! Go - dread and powerlessness and panic cutting through him in sharp, icy waves, and not again, please not again, it's not real it's not real it's not real, please please -

An abrupt grip on his upper arm makes him sputter, his scream getting tangled up in his mouth before it can come out, and Mike's dark eyes go even wider with worry.

Mike.

Mike's oh-so-familiar features, lit by the warm gold-and-pink glow of the lobby displays. The smell of buttered popcorn. A curious glance or two from the people milling around, who doubtless just witnessed Will's erratic flight.

Relief swells so abruptly in Will's chest that it bubbles up over his lips as a watery laugh.

Not real.

His head whips up, scanning the skylights that are just visible beyond the overhang of the second level. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. He's not there. Will's heart is wobbling hard between his lungs, adrenaline pounding at his temples and fingertips, and his -

His shoes. They're wet. The soles slimy with the residue of... of...

Soda. He must have stepped in some soda. Yes - yes, there. There's a banana-yellow caution, wet floor! sign propped up a few yards away. He just stepped in something as he crossed the lobby, that's all. He breathes hard, consciously slowing the push-pull of his diaphragm, clearing out the phantom chill from his lungs.

He registers all at once that Mike has been saying his name. Will focuses in on the face of his best friend - the tapered cheeks, nearly devoid of the baby fat that used to round them out. The smattering of freckles over his sunburnt nose. The dark half-curling waves falling over his forehead, one strand just barely brushing the eyelashes of his left eye. He's staring down into Will's face with an expression of alarm, and when their eyes meet, he repeats, "Are you okay?"

Mike

Deja vu is making Mike's head spin. It's a sick, sinking feeling, like realizing all at once that you've forgotten something important. Like thinking that there's one more stair than there is, and stepping into empty space with a disorienting jolt. Because Mike has seen Will like this before.

Will is gasping for breath, his body trembling under Mike's palm, his eyes wild. The skin of his arm is chilled from the air conditioning, peppered with goosebumps.

"Will? Are you okay?"

But Will doesn't seem to hear him. His chin is tilted up, eyes flickering over the ceiling like he expects to find something there.

"Will?"

His breath begins to even out. His head turns, scanning the lobby of the movie theater.

"Will?"

Finally, Mike's voice seems to filter through whatever haze is surrounding him, and hazel eyes meet Mike's.

"Are you okay?"

Something strange happens then. As he looks over Mike's face, Will's eyes lower for a moment, like he's glancing at Mike's mouth. And for a fraction of a second, it sets off an automatic response in the back of Mike's brain. He shuts down the impulse as soon as it rears its head, but it was there: for a split second, Mike was about to tilt forward and... Well, no, not really. Of course he didn't really think about kissing Will. It's just that he's been with El all day, so he's still in boyfriend mode. It was automatic.

Still, the impulse startles him enough that he drops his hand from Will's arm as Will opens his mouth to answer.

"Yeah," Will mumbles. "I'm... yeah. Fine."

Mike can't help it. He pushes. "Are you sure?"

He's expecting Will to be mad at him. To roll his eyes or snap a retort or turn away, because he hates when people fuss over him, and Mike knows he hates it. But instead, Will just looks back out at the mall for a moment. He's rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. This must have been a bad one.

"'f course," Will mutters eventually. He scuffs one foot along the carpet, like he's trying to wipe something off his shoe.

It was the blackout that must have done it. Will's panic attacks sometimes come on with no obvious rhyme or reason, but when there is a trigger - say, for example, abrupt, total darkness - they can be twice as bad. He seems better now, though. Calmer. More grounded. Mike decides against throwing an arm around Will's shoulders, in case he gets shoved off with an annoyed bark of, I'm fine, but he risks an elbow bump.

"C'mon," he coaxes, "They're about to get the movie running again."

Will turns at Mike's nudge without complaint, and they fall into step side-by-side as they make their way back to their seats. The Party greets them with anxious stares and whispers of, "Is he okay?" and "What happened?" Will waves off their concern, putting on a mask of nonchalance, and tosses off a line about fresh air.

Before they can question him further, the film reel sputters, and the movie kicks into gear again.

"A bolt of lightning!" Doc Brown exclaims. The audience cheers as the film resumes. Will sticks a twizzler in his mouth and Mike makes himself look at the screen. "Unfortunately, you never know when or where it's ever gonna strike!"

Marty slaps the Save the Clock Tower! flyer and thrusts it at the mad scientist, suave and handsome in his denim jacket with its popped-up collar.

"We do now."

Will

Will waves goodbye to Dustin and Lucas and eases the front door shut behind him, breathing a sigh of relief. They rode home with him, keeping him company on the dimly lit back roads. It's a mile further than they had to bike, and he hates asking for this - he hates making them go out of their way just because he's weak. But they aren't usually out so late without arranging for a ride home, and besides, after his episode earlier... well, he was grateful for their boisterous shouts, their bikes flanking his. Now, as he locks the door and slots the security chain into its track, he lets out a breath. Kicks off his sneakers and sets them carefully aside - not dropping them as he usually does. He can't wake up his mom, or there'll be hell to pay. If he can sneak into his room without alerting her, she'll assume he got home soon after she went to bed. She had an opening shift early this morning; he'd be willing to bet she passed out by 9:00.

Mike had to take El back to the cabin after the movie and Max and Lucas will be heading to their respective houses for the night, but Dustin will be on his way back to Weathertop. If Suzie is a fabrication, she's one that Dustin is staunchly committed to. When the movie ended and the Party stood up from their seats, stretching, Dustin clapped his hands and said, "Right! So, back to Cerebro then?" The Party glanced at each other. Feet shuffled. Dustin got the hint pretty quickly.

There's a light on in the kitchen. Will slows, his heart sinking. And then, with no other choice - he has to pass by to get to his room, one way or another - he tiptoes closer on socked feet.

His mother is waiting for him. She perches at the kitchen table, the window cracked open to let out the smoke from her cigarette. The light above the sink is the only light on in the house, and it lends a yellowish pallor to the room. She stands when she notices him, hurriedly shoving the cigarette into the ashtray, and strides the two paces across the room.

"Where have you been?"

She reaches out, maybe to squeeze his shoulder or tilt his face, see if he's hurt, and he ducks aside. He's still on edge from earlier, and her accusatory eyes get his hackles up immediately.

"Just at the movies with everyone." It comes out a little sharper than he intended. He takes a half-step towards his room, but she holds him in place with a look.

She stutters for a moment, hands fluttering in front of her like she's trying to pluck the words out of the air. Her hair is a wild mass of chestnut, loose around her shoulders. "And you didn't think to call, let me know?"

His head swivels in a gesture caught partway between apologetic and defensive. He's avoiding her eyes, pacing sideways, reaching out to needlessly arrange items on the counter. "We got there late. I didn't have time to stop by the payphone."

When he turns back she's pacing the length of the room, one elbow cupped in the opposite palm, her free hand gesturing. "I thought for sure that something was wrong, I - I - I just felt like -"

Her voice is pitching up, thinning out the way it does when she's really anxious, and guilt stirs Will's insides around like a fork. He mumbles, "I'm sorry," but she's not done.

"I didn't know where you were, if you were - were safe, if something happened -"

"Nothing happened," he says - too quickly, and too loudly. Her eyes narrow. She can hear the lie in his voice, and they both know it. He repeats it, lowly. "Nothing happened."

"Will."

It's part reproach, part statement, part question.

If anything, she's gotten worse in the past half year - even though she promised she'd give him some space. And the more he loses patience with it, the more it turns into a vicious cycle. The more she hovers, the more he pulls away and tends to avoid her, which leads to more worrying and more hovering.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I just... I forgot to call. I'm sorry."

"You know, I will come get you - no matter how late it is, no matter where you are, you can always call me and I can come -"

He snaps. "I didn't need a ride! I'm not nine years old, I can go to a movie with my friends on my own."

"I know," she says - softly. And just like that he's not angry anymore, because she really does look sorry - sorry, and tense, and anxious, and Will deflates. He drags a hand over his face, pushing back the bangs that are starting to get just a little too long again.

"I'll call next time. Okay? Can we just... I'm really tired. It's been a long day."

She knows he's not telling her something, and he knows that she knows. It hangs in the air between them, along with a gossamer ribbon of smoke that twirls up from the half-dead cigarette in the ashtray. He holds her gaze for one heartbeat, two, and then drops his eyes to his socks. A clear line marks where his shoes used to be; above that, the powdery dirt from Weathertop turns the white socks to gray-brown.

She doesn't say okay. And after a few moments, he gets tired of waiting. He turns for his room, muttering a goodnight over his shoulder.

Dustin

Dustin's clothes are covered in a fine layer of dirt, courtesy of Weathertop. Strike that: his entire body is covered in dirt, hat to sneakers.

"Suzie, this is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

Smooth, steady, empty static. It's the soundtrack to his life today, it seems.

It's not too late yet. She could still be awake. It's a couple hours earlier for her, after all.

He's been fiddling with the switchboard. It's gotta be an issue of frequency. If he could just hit on the right channel...

"Suzie, this is Dustin, do you copy? Over."

He's said the words so many times today that the sounds are starting to detach from their meaning. Copy. Copy. Co-py. Cooo-pyy. Copy copy copy. He tweaks the dials almost at random, slapping at a mosquito. He's hot, he's tired, his friends all abandoned ship when it got dark, and he can't get into contact with his girlfriend. She probably thinks he forgot about her. No, she wouldn't think that. But he said he'd radio her first thing when he got home, and - what if he never gets into contact with her? Son of a bitch, this whole plan was stupid. Why didn't they just trade phone numbers as a plan B? They were so sure this was going to work. He was so sure this was going to work. It was supposed to work.

"Goddamnit," he grunts, and slaps at the switchboard with a spike of irritation. Knobs and dials jolt out of alignment, the static from the speaker squealing. And then -

A voice.

He heard a voice.

He dives for the microphone, fumbles, drops it in the grass and snatches it up again. At the same time, he yanks the tape recorder out of his duffel bag. Look, the Party clearly doesn't believe him, okay? If he can just get her voice on tape - even just a simple, hi, I'm Suzie, hello from Utah! - then they can all stop casting judgmental glances at each other when they think he's not looking.

He jabs at the red circle on the tape recorder, then gets a good grip on the microphone. "Suzie? Suzie, is that you?"

Distorted feedback. He lunges for the switchboard, lying on his stomach in the prickly grasses to hone in on the signal.

"Suzie, this is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

The voice fades out into static, strengthens again, and all at once he has it - and it's not her. It's a man's voice. Deep, professional, and authoritative. Dustin lets his head fall forward onto the ground, groaning. Damnit.

"...use a full light of twelve percent solar brightness at an angle five-point-one-four-five degrees to the elliptic. The light should reflect back giving access within seconds. Over."

"Copy that, over."

His head lifts.

Static returns, hissing and hiccuping over the cheep of crickets.

Dustin sits up, folding his legs criss-cross-applesauce and scrutinizing the speaker in his hands. He looks up at his creation, then back down, finally remembering to hit stop on the tape recorder. Fireflies wink among the grasses, and Dustin traces his tongue along his braces as the static remains unbroken.

"Huh," he says finally, aloud. And then, picking up the tape recorder and bouncing it in one hand, as if the message it now holds has a tangible weight - "What was that?"