White room

by Azarinka21

Summary:

It was a matter of minutes. Minutes that could have changed his fate, that could have averted the fast-approaching disaster that was coming straight at Mike Wheeler.

Minutes that were wasted because no one noticed his disappearance.

And so he was left alone, with something new and dangerous in his veins, a scream in his head, and only one goal: to get out of here.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Or: Mike Wheeler is dragged to the Soviet Union by the Russians, gains powers, and does everything it takes to survive. Everything.

Chapter 1: Chapter one

Notes:

Well, hello to you all! This is my first major project on Ao3 and oh my god, I'm having an incredible time. Fanfiction on my beloved Mike Wheeler going through hell and back just so I can give you guys some of that nice angst!

This is going to be a long ride. So get ready for it 🫡

Before we get started though, it's probably worth mentioning a few things.

First of all, I think a lot of you have read the fanfiction 'you're not the only one' (?) by MrHalloween2(?) which was recently deleted, like the whole account. Please, this fanfiction of mine is not trying to replace the previous one, take the opportunity to copy its plot, because now there would be no proof that I did that.

I've had Mike kidnapped by Russian as an idea in my head for years, ever since I first saw the third season and I simply wasn't the only one, there's nothing more to it. But I've read the fanfiction and I can assure you that I'm going to go in a completely different direction, if only because I really don't want or dare to copy anyone even slightly. Only the circumstances of Mike's kidnapping and the implementation of his powers will be similar, otherwise the story is completely different, so just let it be known.

What I also have to point out is all the possible nonsense that can occur here. I'm not a scientist, I've never been to Russia in my life, I didn't live in the 90's, I've shot a gun like twice in my life and so on. I've been doing my research, but even the internet can't cover everything, so I apologize if anyone more educated dies heavily at this.

And as for my Russian, I studied it for three years and I'm glad I know Cyrillic, so all sentences and words are through a translator.

Speaking of language, I'll point out right away, ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. That means if you find any mistakes or similes that don't make sense to you because they are not used in English, feel free to correct me in the comments, it helps me a lot.

Also, this is Byler. We start off on Mileven, but Mike eventually kind of gets over it as the story progresses and stuff... Well, he finds out some interesting things about himself. You just have to be patient because this story is heavily focused on Mike and the events in this AU.

And finally, probably a classic, don't forget to read the tags carefully. This is not going to be a happy fic, definitely not for Mike.

Anyway. With that, I bid you farewell, and I hope you enjoy this fanfiction as much as I enjoy writing it!

Image warning: Blood

First month

Objective: ???

Mike Wheeler kind of always knew he wasn't the most prominent person in the party. He wasn't smart like Dustin, or funny like Lucas, or simply brilliant and amazing like Will.

But he never imagined they would notice his disappearance until hours after Billy had beaten the shit out of him and he'd fallen into the hands of the Russian soldiers.

Despite the fact that he himself felt so incredibly unimportant and useless, he always thought they still liked him for some strange reason. That they'd actually wonder if one day he'd just... He wasn't.

He wondered if they'd noticed sooner... How many things could have been different. If they'd gone looking for him, gone to save him, prevented the nightmare that his life was about to become – or rather, the ridiculous imitation of it.

But that only made him spiral into wondering if they'd even want to risk a rescue. If it would even be worth it to them.

Either way, even if it was, they hadn't noticed. And when they did, it was too late.

And that was why Mike Wheeler had been thrown into a living hell.

─┉─ • ─┉─

The last thing he remembered was Billy's face. Those dark, possessed eyes. They had haunted him, Max and Eleven as they tried to get back to Starcourt.

It had been pure confusion, frantic heartbeats, pale flashing lights, and trying to escape to safety – except that just as Mike pressed the elevator button sharply, growing hopeful that maybe they could make it, Max's voice came, "Billy."

He and El immediately turned around, while Max continued in a trembling voice: "Billy, you don't have to do this. Your name is Billy, Billy Hargrove, you live at 4819 Cherry Lane. Please, I'm Max, your..."

One single blow and Max collapsed to the ground. Without thinking, Mike lunged forward, determined to protect El, to protect Max, his friends, from the creature in human flesh – how romantically and bravely he interpreted it  – only he was unable to land a single blow on Billy, because a searing, sharp pain shot through his entire skull. And then darkness. That's how simple and plain it was.

What Mike didn't know anymore, what he had no idea about while he lay on the cold floor and Billy carried Eleven away, was Max, who after a while woke up and tried to wake him up too.
She shook him violently and screamed his name, only he didn't move.

"I'll be back in a minute," Max blurted out, getting up and running away. They were to be the words that later haunted her thoughts almost as often as Billy's face while he was dying.

Screams, crackling fire, and most of all the inhuman roar of the Mind Flayer echoed throughout Starcout, while hundreds of meters below their feet another battle was taking place, with lightning crackling and green uniforms flashing by.

And it was at a time when ash was already in the air, the body of the Upside Down monster lying lifeless in the middle of the mall, and when Max was wailing over Billy while Joyce was doing the same for Hopper as the Russians withdrew from their underground base, from Starcout itself.

Mike didn't know it either, of course, but two soldiers found him lying with his head covered in blood right where Billy had left him.

"Let's take him with us," one of them suggested in Russian, once he was sure he was alive.

"Why? We've got the other American," argued the other, looking around nervously as if expecting the American army to jump out from around the corner.

"This action was a failure," said the first, wringing his hands. "And this guy may have some information. And even if he doesn't, it's better to come back with something than nothing. At least there'll be some new meat for the experiments, if nothing else."

"Unnecessary extra weight," the other soldier disagreed, but sighed heavily and slung Mike over his shoulder.
They disappeared without anyone noticing they had ever been here.

For as long as Mike could remember, he woke up several times after that. Everything was shaking with him, and sharp, white lights were shining in his eyes.

He could hear muffled voices but couldn't understand them, and every second after he opened his eyes, he felt a prick in his arm that lulled him back to sleep.

When he first really came to and wasn't immediately sent back to unconsciousness, the first thing he realized was that he had a headache. It was a dull, persistent pain that crawled through his entire body like some kind of parasite. He lay there for a moment, all sore and numb, before he finally forced himself to open his eyes. Somehow, instinctively, he was already expecting another prick on his arm, but nothing happened, so he dared to look around.

By force of will, he braced himself at the elbows, though the world spun and everything blurred for a moment – he felt extremely weak and clumsy – but he managed to keep his attention and wait until the room he was in finally came into clear view before him.

It looked like an empty, hospital room, with a sickeningly white light and a shiny floor – there wasn't a speck of dust. He was lying alone on the bed in a mass of fluffy, white blankets.
There wasn't a single window except the door, and no piece of furniture except the bed and a small table beside it.

Mike blinked violently, trying to kick-start his slowed, dazed brain, to remember what had happened before he'd gotten here – wherever he was, that is.

He remembered... He remembered Mind Flayer and Billy. Especially him, because as he gingerly touched the bandages around his forehead, he winced in sudden pain.

Yes, yes... Something like that happened... Did that mean this was really a hospital? If so, this was the most depressing room he'd ever seen.
He looked up at the ceiling, towards the still, pale light that flooded the room. And he tried to listen to the sounds around him –  at first he could only hear the faint hum of electricity, before he realized that voices were overlapping in the background. They were too muffled and distant for him to make anything out, but it was clear he wasn't alone.

Still, it made him nervous. If he was in the hospital, what about the others? Eleven, Will, Nancy? Lucas, Dustin, Max, anyone?
If any of them got hurt, he'd stay by their bed until they woke up.

Mind Flayer, Mike realized with horror. They must have been hurt, or... Or...
The mere thought of the latter possibility turned Mike's stomach inside out.

"El," he got out in a strangled voice, though his voice sounded like the last rasp of a dying man. At that moment he realized how thirsty he was, only there was no water anywhere in sight. He sat up, rolled out of the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was dressed in some sort of plain white T-shirt and long pants. Seriously, someone here didn't like colors.

He managed to stand, but his legs immediately buckled and he had to grab the edge of the bed before the ground stopped rocking under his feet. Carefully, still holding onto the bed, he shuffled barefoot towards the door.

He had to find out what had happened to the others, if they were okay, because images of their lifeless, bloody bodies were beginning to intrude on his mind. And that couldn't be true.

He pulled the handle and paused when the door didn't open. He tried again, jerking the handle violently, only nothing happened.
He was locked in.

"Hey!" He shouted hoarsely and pounded hard on the door. There was a heavy, muffled sound. "Hey!"

He pressed his ear to the bright metal – wait, why was the door made of metal? – and tried to listen to the voices.

"I'm locked in here!" He pounded harder on the door, though his knuckles ached. And then he just kept pounding on the door as panic grew in him, accompanied by the dead looks of his friends.

Suddenly, the lock clicked.

Mike just barely had time to step back when the door opened and a woman in a white suit stepped inside, followed by two men in green uniforms. That they were soldiers, Mike decided, mostly because of the guns hanging from their belts.

"Please, sit down," the woman said in a cold voice, placing the glass of water she had brought on the table.

Mike didn't move –  it was pure shock rather than any defiance – and instead said, "Where's El? Where are my friends? What happened to them?"

"Sit down," the woman repeated, piercing him with her eyes. At that moment, Mike realized she had an accent, and the next thing he knew, he noticed the red embroidery on the uniforms of the men who remained standing by the door.
He thought he heard his heart speed up.

No, it echoed in his head. Calmly and simply, because this was plain nonsense, untrue. No.

"Where's El?" He asked again. He wanted to ask something better, but that was all he could get out. He needed to know if she was okay.

The woman turned abruptly toward him, grabbed his arm with unexpected force, and shoved him toward the bed.
Mike yelped as the quick movement made his whole world spin again and he collapsed back into the white covers.

"If I say something, you do it," the woman told him, now with an even more pronounced accent. Her voice was perfectly calm and reserved, with no malice in it, but Mike knew full well from his father that that was the most dangerous thing. So he wisely chose to remain silent and swallow all his shaky breaths, even as his mind kept repeating the names of his friends like a stuck loop.

The woman handed him the glass of water and Mike accepted it gingerly. He sniffed it discreetly and then lifted it to his lips, but didn't take a sip, however much it might have soothed the pain in his throat.

"It's not poisoned," she remarked, pulling a syringe from under her white coat. "If I wanted to do something to you, I could just use this."

Mike moved a little further away from the needle tip, resigned, and drank the water all the way down. Maybe if it killed him, at least he wouldn't be haunted by worry about the fate of his friends.

"Excellent," she nodded, and pulled out something else – this time a folder with several papers. It made Mike wonder what all could be hidden under that white robe, since she could pull things out from under it so easily as a magician. "I need to verify some information. Your name is Michael Wheeler and you're fourteen at the moment?"

Mike rolled his eyes. He didn't like the way she said his name. "Where am I and why?" He asked instead.

The woman looked up at him. "Answer my question."

"I want to know why I'm here," Mike said. "Until you tell me, I won't answer. And I want to know what happened to my friends."

The woman exchanged a look with the soldiers behind her and said something in Russian. Mike noticed inadvertently that she had dark, shark-like eyes. Which was fitting. He mentally decided to call her that.

One of the soldiers nodded at her and stepped forward, towards Mike's bed.

He watched him warily. "What..." He started, but didn't even have time to finish his sentence as the soldier violently wrapped his fingers around his neck and began choking him.

It was so sudden, unexpected, and completely unpredictable that Mike couldn't even register the fact that it was actually happening for a few seconds before he finally tried to wriggle away, his hand clawing at the soldier's arm, but he just stared at him, unmoved, indifferent.

He didn't understand why he hadn't figured out that he wasn't going to be handled with kid-gloves. He saw Steve and his battered face when they came back from the Russian base. Clearly they weren't afraid to resort to violence for what they wanted.

Tears welled up in his eyes while the pressure on his neck didn't let up. And he struggled to breathe despite the harsh confinement, only he couldn't draw even a pinch of air into his lungs.

Mike often imagined how he would die. Maybe more often than should be healthy. He expected it to be some monster from the Upside Down. Or that he'd do something similar to what he'd done for Dustin back at the Quarry. But he never thought he'd be strangled by a Russian soldier, that he wouldn't even have a chance to say anything meaningful or significant.

After a while, when his eyes were getting dim, his efforts to fight had eased, and his lungs were swelling to bursting, he finally heard Shark's voice cut through the air with some words in Russian.

The soldier dropped him violently and Mike collapsed on the bed while gasping for breath. His whole neck ached and his heart was pounding so hard he was sure that if this didn't kill him, he was going to have a heart attack. He wanted to cry, but some instinct he'd built up over the years of living with his father – he was used to holding back tears because tears only made him angry – advised him to be quiet.

Ted Wheeler had never hurt his son, not physically, but his words often hurt more than if he had thrust his fist at him.

"Are you Michael Wheeler, fourteen?" Shark repeated.

Mike just nodded wordlessly as he carefully scrambled to a sitting position. His breathing was unnaturally loud in the calm silence.

"You have a connection to subject Eleven and are familiar with the existence of the creatures that, according to our information, you call 'Demogorgons'?" She continued and Mike froze.

Is that why he was here? For information? But in that case, what happened to the others?

"I don't know any subject Eleven," he replied after a moment. Swallowing hurt, let alone talking, but he couldn't just nod. He had no idea what had happened to Eleven, whether or not she had been caught as well, and any confirmation of their connection only threatened her. Even if the first thing he asked them was 'where's El' it might not mean anything. They probably hadn't even registered it. Perhaps.

Shark just looked at him, but didn't say anything in response. It was hard to tell if she knew he was lying or not.

She then asked him more and more questions. She asked about the names of his friends, about Nancy, and even about his parents. She spent most of her time with Will and Hopper, but she never mentioned Eleven again. Though Mike noticed that her questions were getting more specific and he was finding it difficult to make up lies.

All the while he couldn't relax and kept flicking his gaze to the soldiers who were still standing at the door with stony expressions.

When the interrogation seemed to be over, Shark turned to leave.

"Wait," Mike dared to call out. "What's going to happen to me now?"

Shark didn't turn back to him. "It's not my place to answer those questions," she said, then left with the soldiers in tow.

Mike tried to get a quick glimpse of what was behind the door, but saw only a flicker of movement and a grayish wall before the door closed with a click and he was alone again.

The tension and fear that kept him on guard didn't let up, forcing him to get out of bed and walk around the room. His throat still throbbed with pain, the same was true of his head, and his hands shook, but he dared not break down – much less begin to think about his friends. He had to come up with a plan to get out of here, and panicking over the fate of his friends wouldn't help. Walking and exploring the room kept his thoughts within proper bounds.

He discovered a small corner with a toilet behind a door that almost blended into the wall. There was virtually no room, not even a sink or mirror.

Mike continued his search of the room, looking under the bed, feeling the walls for any other secret doors, and carefully inspecting the ceiling. Pipe by pipe, with such care that he managed to discover what he was looking for – a hidden camera, so tiny that its lens could easily be mistaken for a speck. But it was clear that it was a camera.

He went back to the corner with the toilet and, as he had done with the room, examined all the walls and ceiling closely. As far as he could tell, there was no camera here, though he wasn't sure.

His gaze fell on the desk. And at the empty glass that was left on it.

He quickly grabbed it, sat down on the toilet seat – to be able to close the door behind him, even if it meant total darkness – took a deep breath, and smashed the jar against the wall. He jerked as his hands scratched the shards and when the loud shattering sounded, he was momentarily immobilized. He waited to see if anyone would come in looking for him, but nothing happened. He opened the door to let the light in and gathered up the shards – setting one of the larger ones aside and hiding the rest behind the toilet.

His fingers bled and stained the glass, but he still couldn't help the slight satisfaction he felt as he gripped the large shard with them and then hid it under the pillow. It would be hard to march against the weapons of the Russian soldiers, but it certainly made him feel better - and if he's smart, he'll find a way out, somehow.

He wiped the blood on his bandaged head just before the door opened again, and a man walked in, dressed in the same uniform as the Russian soldiers had been wearing earlier – but Mike judged, thanks to a few small, gold badges, that he held a higher position. He was followed only by Shark, who didn't give him a single glance.

"Hello," said the man. His accent was slightly less pronounced than Shark's, though still noticeable. But his light brown eyes and face seemed decidedly friendlier – though Mike certainly wasn't going to trust him. "My name is Oleg Morozov. It's nice to meet you."

He held out his hand, but Mike didn't take it. Not only because his fingers were still bleeding and he had to hide them in the blankets so no one would notice.

"Never mind," Morozov smiled and withdrew his hand.

"Where are my friends?" Mike asked before he could say anything else. He knew he was taking a risk, but they couldn't keep him without answers, could they? He had to be here for a reason. "What happened? And why am I here?"

"That's why I came," Morozov said, sitting down carefully on the other end of the bed. Mike moved as far away from him as possible, while Shark remained standing. "As you've probably figured out by now, we're not in America."

Mike's stomach twisted. No, he definitely hadn't figured that out. He hadn't had time to even think about it, and even if he had... He'd figured they were probably at some other secret Russian base in American territory, no... Somewhere else!

'You've been declared dead, with everything - even the fake corpse. If I'm not mistaken, your funeral is just a few days away," Morozov continued. He spoke softly, but didn't seem to particularly care about the look of horror on Mike's face. "Your friends are fine, according to our information, anyway. And since you must be interested, you're the only prisoner here."

Mike shouldn't have relaxed, but he did. Understandably they could have been lying to him, but just hearing the words alone did little to calm the panic in his head.
The next instant, though, the word dawned on him.

Prisoner.

"I don't know much," Mike said immediately. "If you want information or something."

Morozov smiled a little. "You Americans watch too many movies. No, you're not here for information. You've been assigned to our secret project, which is why you're lucky enough to survive. If you make it, because the operation itself is very demanding, not to mention the steps before and after. But given your connection to another dimension, we have high hopes for your survival."

Mike stared at him, uncomprehending. Was the man still speaking to him in English? Because he didn't understand a single thing he said.

"I see you're confused," Morozov tilted his head to the side, then turned to Shark.

The latter obviously took that as permission to speak, and in that cold voice of hers began to explain, "The operation is an experiment based on trying to create similarly modified soldiers like subject Eleven. These test subjects are then subjected to a series of rigorous physical and mental tests, all of which, however, have so far failed. Most were consumed by their own power almost immediately after the operation because their bodies were unable to process it. But it is because of your experience with the second dimension, which you call the 'Upside Down,' that we are convinced you can succeed."

Mike's eyes darted between them. He expected someone to laugh and exclaim that it was all a joke.
Only that didn't happen. They both looked at him seriously and even intrigued, as if expecting him to start jumping in the air with joy.

"This sounds more like the plot of a movie," Mike got out the first coherent sentence that came to his mind. He didn't know how to comment on the fact that he had actually become a lab rat.

"But much more real," Morozov smiled. "Anyway. That was enough talk and information for today. We'll be busy in the next few days, so rest for now."

After Morozov stood up, Shark put a plastic bowl of hot soup on the table – it didn't look tasty, but Mike was hungry enough to ignore it. He wasn't even surprised he'd only been entrusted with a spoon.

He ate quickly once they were gone – every swallow of the hot liquid made his throat hurt, and the soup itself was definitely not the best thing he'd ever eaten, but he was grateful for it anyway.

He then curled up under the covers and covered his head, his cut fingers pressed to his chest.

He waited for the tears to come, but he just stared dully into the darkness around him. Somehow he couldn't process everything that had just happened. It went wrong so quickly that he just couldn't keep track of it.

He didn't think his life could get any weirder – it had literally turned upside down. Only now he was actually a Russian prisoner they wanted to do some of their experiments on. Experiments in which he would more than likely die.

It all sounded so unreal and weird that he was fairly certain it must all be a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.

He was on another continent, his friends thought he was dead.

And that meant that no one was coming to save him from what awaited him.

Mike was alone in this.

─┉─ • ─┉─

The whole world was filled with the crackling of fire, the whipping of curling flames against the dark sky, the sounds of helicopters coming in, the sirens of firefighters and ambulances, a multitude of voices talking over each other.

Will couldn't focus on specific details – his head was buzzing, his thoughts were jumbled and slowed, everything was immersed in some haze of unreality. A moment ago, his mind had been sharpened to the max by adrenaline and fear; at this moment, he felt like he couldn't trust them.

He remembered that they'd only managed to leave the Starcourt building just before it began to collapse in on itself, engulfed in flames – the roof falling small on their heads. And now here they were, standing outside, surrounded by soldiers, paramedics and firefighters trying to somehow resolve the situation.

Will's slowed brain tried to remember why the soldiers were here, before he realized that inside the Starcourt lay the motionless, twisted body of a creature from another dimension. And that beneath their feet was an entire Russian base. That sounded like a good reason to call in the military.

He took a deep breath, though it wasn't the best idea, as the air reeked of smoke.

"Come on," Steve ordered them as their group stood indecisively for a moment in the middle of all the action. "There's a medic waving at us."

Will looked around for his friends. They were all bloody, dirty and injured, and above all, as shaken as he was. Steve had half his face swollen and red, Max still had tears rolling down her cheeks and was only kept on her feet by El, who herself didn't look like she could take the weight of it much longer.

Will blinked violently out of nowhere and looked at them all once more. And then again.

"Will?" Lucas addressed him, noticing the horror that appeared on his face.

"Mike," Will whispered. "Where is he? Where's Mike?"

El quickly raised her head and looked around frantically, as if expecting Mike to appear out of nowhere with his wry grin and the words that he'd been here all along.

Will felt fear take hold of him, dispelling all the daze and shock of the events of the last few hours. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Mike, if it had been around the time they'd attacked Mind Flayer or even before, but he couldn't recall anything.

"I left him there," Max suddenly echoed hoarsely. Her tears were replaced by a painful, desperate realization. "Bi-Billy knocked him out, I couldn't wake him up, and I thought I could leave him there and then go back for him and... Oh, my God."

Max inhaled sharply, dropping to the ground and lowering her face to her knees as if she could hide from those words, from that decision.

Will knew it wasn't her fault, and he never blamed her later. But in that one moment, that one second, he hated her.

El hadn't even managed to catch her, and she obviously wasn't even trying to, she just looked at them all seriously and said , "I'm going for him."

"I'm coming with you," Nancy joined in. A look of sheer, unrelenting determination took over her dirty face. She nodded to El and they turned together, only to find Steve standing in their way.

"You can't do that," he shouted in alarm. "The building is on fire and falling apart!"

"Get out of my way," Nancy said through her teeth. She looked like a beast ready to attack. "Or I'll kill you, Steve. I mean it."

"El's powers don't even work!" Steve added, completely oblivious to her threats. His face was urgent, and like Nancy, he had a clear objective. "Going in there is a stupid, irresponsible idea. We must leave it to the experts, the firemen and the soldiers. We have to get them right now... You see, Jonathan's on his way. They'll find Mike, but going it alone would only make things worse."

Will stepped away from them, unable to listen any longer. His heart pounded wildly and Mike's face jumped before his eyes, a flash of photography shrinking and flaring in red tongues of merciless fire.

The worst part of it all was that his last memories of Mike were of their argument. The words that had been spoken, the rain lashing the ruins of Byers Castle, the anger, sadness and hatred he felt at that moment.

It all seemed so ridiculously unimportant next to the fear that wrapped itself around his heart, only giving him a vision of Mike's still, flame-drenched body.

Every part of his being wanted to rush forward, back to Starcourt, and drag Mike out of there with his own hands, only he was all too aware of how stupid and illogical that would be.

The monsters of the Upside Down were something they could fight. Something they could outwit and defeat. Fire, the very embodiment of death and destruction was beyond him. He had to leave it to the people who could tame it.

It was just that the waiting, the hope that it would return with Mike, alive and well, was unbearable.

At some point, his mom showed up, which made a huge stone fall from his heart and made him breathe just a little bit better.
Until he realized that his mom was also the bearer of bad news.

Bad news that was far from over.

Some paramedics had tried to convince them to leave – even just to sit in the ambulance – that they'd let them know the progress of the search as soon as they knew anything, but their group hadn't moved.

They watched as the flames slowly but surely lost their strength. As the soldiers carried Mind Flayer's body out as quickly as they could. As more and more of them streamed into the building, presumably ready to investigate the Russian underground base in more detail.

And when the two firefighters who had searched Starcourt to find Mike finally headed towards them, and who had returned alone, Will felt something inside him break.

In the days and weeks that followed, Billy Hargrove, Jim Hopper and Mike Wheeler had funerals.

Notes:

The first chapter is over!

As for the release of the next chapters, it's going to be VERY irregular. I have a rather demanding school and side, more important projects that take up my time. I'll try to release the next chapters as soon as I write something - which could be twice a week, or even just once a month.

At the moment, I have ten chapters pre-written as a backup in case I know I won't be able to release anything for a while.

And by the way, small bonus, this fanfiction will have art! I'm currently working on the cover, I just haven't gotten around to finishing it yet, so once it's done I'll refer you back to the first chapter.

Anyway, I'm glad you read it and I'll see you for the next chapters!

Edit: Cover is in place! I don't know if I'll change it sometime in the future, maybe I will, because it seems too... Bloody, despite the fact that this isn't horror fiction, but until then I'll leave this one.

Chapter 2: Chapter two

First month

Objective: Get out of the white room

White. The absolute absence of color, of anything interesting, was starting to suck the life out of Mike. He was one step away from slicing his finger with that broken piece of glass and painting the walls with his own blood to stop the color from giving him a headache.

When he was captured by the damn Russians, he certainly didn't think he would be waiting so long in a silent, empty room that was slowly driving him insane.

For the first couple of days he hadn't stopped pacing the room, searching every part of it, crawling under the bed, feeling the pillows and the blankets, trying to find anything that might help him in some way – in what, he didn't know, but searching was better than thinking about what lay ahead. After a while he knew the room – he could actually call it a prison cell – even by sight, so he was briefly entertained by the fact that even in total darkness, if he closed his eyes, he could guess perfectly where everything was.

No one came to visit him during that time – he got his food through a small hole in the door, through which he could only ever see someone's heavy boots. Apart from the fact that everything he got tasted disgusting, Mike couldn't guess the frequency of serving. He knew it was enough to keep him from going hungry – he guessed that if they wanted to experiment on him, or for whatever reason he was here in the first place, it wouldn't be the smartest thing to weaken him – but his surroundings had completely confused his concept of time.

He alternated between sleeping and lying in bed, with that still, white light, in that quiet, empty room, and he had no idea exactly how much time had passed.

Several times he tried to shout at the camera, or listen for sounds outside the door, but even when he heard some muffled, distant voices, he couldn't understand a word of them - even if they happen to be in English.

But the longer he spent in the absolute silence, staring straight into the white light that was gradually burning his pupils, the more his energy to do anything faded. It was because of the light that he couldn't get a good sleep, and the lack of anything to focus his attention on forced him to concentrate on his head and his thoughts.

Which, of course, didn't help, as his mind kept feeding him images involving sharp needles, torture devices, and scientists in white coats messing with his insides. Or, conversely, he was thinking about his friends, the crushing fact that that day in Starcourt was the last time he saw them and he didn't even get to say goodbye. That it was the last time ho saw Will and yet Mike's angry words still hung between them.

He tried to convince himself that it hadn't really been the last time they'd met. That he'd somehow manage to escape, or that El would find out he is alive and walk right in here with the others and blow the place up. He imagined the horrified faces of the Russian soldiers as El would walk, arm outstretched, blood pouring from her nose, with proud fury. "Where's Mike?" She would ask. Simply, succinctly, but refusing any excuses, any lies.

And then she would walk into this dead, white room, light it up simply by her existence, and get Mike out of here.

Only he knew that would never happen. His friends thought he was dead, and even if they happened to know that wasn't true, he'd probably be dead before they arrived anyway.

Unless the Russians were really going to take their time. Was this some kind of preparation? Trying to numb him enough to even be glad he was leaving the room?

Quite frankly, it worked.

Mike never thought about how depressing the color white was. And that he'd be so much happier if the room was all black. The white was exposing him, consuming him more and more with every passing second – it was getting so bad he felt like he was drowning in the blankets – it only intensified the utter silence in the room, broken only by his own breathing. At certain moments he had to check that one too, because he suddenly had a sort of feeling of utter unreality, since all of this couldn't really be happening, could it? It had to be happening to someone else, another person who was sitting on a white bed, staring straight ahead, expression absent.

Sometimes it felt like the walls were pressing in on him, moving and rippling. Other times he stared at them so intently that the world began to blur and he felt as if he were slowly slipping from some kind of borderline of reality.

Time merged into itself as if it had never existed – as if it had stopped there altogether. If it weren't for the fact that Mike was getting food, he would probably be stuck in one moment forever, cut off from the outside world. He probably would have begun to question that there was anything else besides the white walls and white light of this room.

Aside from the random bursts of energy where he would scream, cry, and throw things, he would spend most of that strange, dragging time on the bed, staring straight ahead. He tried to count the days according to his sleep schedule, but it was soon so out of whack due to the constant light that he couldn't trust it.

With each passing moment in that poisonous white room, he was losing touch with reality. He couldn't tell if days, months, or even years had passed, and the one thing that told him at least a little bit about the passage of time was his hair _ as far as he was aware, it was still the same, or at least a similar length, so he couldn't have been here that long.

Speaking of hair, another thing that quickly became an issue was hygiene. There was no bathroom anywhere in this room, so with each passing day – if perhaps only passing days – his body smelled more and more, and his black curls flattened into some sad, greasy clump.

It all made Mike feel like he was slowly but surely rotting, both on the outside and the inside, and that white room was going to become his coffin.

The only upside was that, over time, his thoughts found more interesting things to ponder than silly hopes of rescue or frightening visions of sharp needles and white coats. As he sat on that bed, he created new and new stories in his mind, one stranger than the next, inventing worlds of his own, full of color and life, so different from the cold, still, pure whiteness.

He used to secretly dream of becoming a writer, and he imagined that Will could do the illustrations for his books. He was intoxicated with the idea that they could create stories like that and bring them to life, make them... Together.

Even that now seemed like a naive dream of the past.

Either way, he had nothing else to do unless he wanted to go mad.

And then, one day, the door finally opened again.

Mike did what he usually did, staring so hard into the white light above his head that it's form was burned into his eyes, even as he closed his eyelids, his imagination flitting lazily to the non-specific heroes, the characters who were about to face their greatest enemy, so that at first he didn't even register that someone had walked in. It was only when someone waved a hand in front of his face that he realized he was finally not alone in the room. He jerked violently, throwing himself into a sitting position so fast that his head spun and his whole world blurred for a moment, then blinked rapidly, confusedly at the person standing in front of him.

What was his name? Morozov? Something like that.

The man smiled kindly at him and stepped aside as if he didn't want to startle him, which was ridiculous considering how fast Mike's heart was pounding as he looked at him. What scared him was the fact that for a small moment he wasn't sure if the man was real and the deep relief that ran through him when he heard a voice other than his own after so long: "How have you been enjoying your stay so far?"

Mike didn't answer, instead he flicked his gaze to Shark standing behind him and the two soldiers in green uniforms, neither of whom paid him the slightest attention. He spent some time trying to process the fact that he was finally seeing other human beings. And the fact that he was obviously not dreaming all of this, because sometimes, in his worst moments, when he wanted to sleep but the bright light wouldn't let him, he wondered if his mind had simply invented the Russian soldiers and Morozov to give him at least one lifeline to keep him awake. If he hadn't made up all his previous life, his parents, his friends, El... If the world had never really been anything but four walls and white paint and everything else was illusions and delusions in his madness.

When he had these thoughts, he always had to force himself to break free of them, convinced that if he didn't, he would lose his mind.

"Sorry for the slight delay," Morozov continued, his accent getting on Mike's nerves. "There were some complications... With the substances we used in the experiments. We had to come up with an alternative, so... You'll officially be the second one to try it!"

Well. It was funny how friendly and calm the man seemed as he talked about Mike becoming his test subject.

"How long?" He asked after a moment, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. Truth was, other than the occasional scream and plea, he didn't say much.

Morozov looked puzzled. "How long what?" He didn't understand.

"How much time has passed?" Mike clarified, because he just needed to know. And for a moment he was startled by the hesitation on the man's face, as if he was considering whether to tell him, but finally he took pity on him and replied: "Only two weeks."

Mike's heart grew heavy and something in him relaxed at the same time. He didn't know how to react to the news.

On the one hand, he was shocked that it had been two weeks. Two weeks that he had been sitting on a white bed, in a white room, with white light. Two weeks since he had a damn funeral. On the other hand, he had a feeling it hadn't been that long. That the whole drawn out time he had spent here had seemed so much longer and he already felt like he was losing his mind and felt like a weakling and a fool because El, Dustin, or Nancy would have figured out some way to get out of here by now and even if they hadn't they wouldn't have just sat in one place for two weeks drowning in useless thoughts.

Pretty typical of him.

He wondered if his friends, his sister, his parents, had also taken only a few days to come to terms with his supposed death. He'd like to think not, but sometimes he had trouble really believing it.

It was only after a moment that he realized Morozov was waving his hand in front of his face again, and he quickly started paying attention again.

"We should go," Morozov told him, getting up from his bed and nodding towards the door, which one of the soldiers immediately opened.

Mike narrowed his eyes in disbelief, convinced that this was some kind of ruse, an attempt to give him false hope that he could finally leave this disgusting room, only to have the door slammed in his face, but without even thinking about it, he had already swung his legs over the edge of the bed and was walking briskly towards the door. He didn't even ask where they were going and honestly didn't care that much, as long as he could leave. His heart stopped for a moment when one of the soldiers grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to stop, but it was only so Morozov and Shark would get out first. Then the soldier released him and he and his companion lined up behind him, making him feel like he was surrounded by Russians.

And then finally, after those grueling two weeks, he stepped out of the life-sucking room.

Immediately he felt the energy returning to him as he frantically looked all around him to get a sense of the place he was in. He also simply enjoyed the sight of any color other than white.

They were in a dark grey corridor, with dim, almost greenish lights over their heads, giving the corridor the feel of some mysterious, secret, underground tunnels. The space between the walls was barely large enough for three people to walk side by side, passing closed doors on each side.

Besides, only now did Mike realize how cold the whole place actually was – and since he didn't even have shoes, every step he took on the freezing cold, stone floor was painful and uncomfortable, forcing him to tiptoe.

"You should get a heater," he muttered, noticing a puff of steam rising from his mouth as he wrapped his arms around himself to keep himself warm.

At that moment, he was glad that the white room was at least warm.

To his surprise, Morozov chuckled. "You haven't experienced anything yet," he told him. The corridor turned at that moment and Mike looked hopefully around the corner, but saw nothing of interest as the corridor simply continued forward. He couldn't help wondering what was actually behind all those doors. "You Americans have no idea what real winter is."

Mike grinned wryly. Someone in a nice, certainly very warm uniform and high boots, could easily tell.

"Where are we going?" He asked immediately, determined to take advantage of Morozov's talkativeness, knowing that if he was alone with Shark or the soldiers, he wouldn't get a word out of them.

Morozov looked back to him and raised an eyebrow. "Didn't I tell you? Everything is ready. It's time to decide your fate here."

Mike's stomach twisted at those words and he got goosebumps for completely other reason than he was cold, but he forced himself to look calm. "Let me guess. If I'm going to die, or if I'm going to be your new toy to experiment on?"

Morozov gave him a reproachful look, but made no reply, no doubt because it was the truth. Mike appreciated his politeness, though, if nothing else. He was utterly terrified of Shark and those silent soldiers. He was glad to be talking to someone who was at least trying to look like they hadn't kidnapped him with the intention of conducting some sort of inhuman experiment on him.

"You know I'm a child, don't you?" Mike asked. "I'm sure people would freak out if they found out."

"Children have the best chance of adapting," Morozov explained, and at that moment they were at the end of the corridor, just in front of the stairs leading up. Shark started up them first, followed by Morozov, Mike and the two soldiers. "Their bodies are more likely to accept the change."

"What's going on here?" Mike wanted to know as he climbed the stairs, trying not to hiss as he thought the stairs were even colder than the corridor floor. "What change? What exactly do you want to do?"

One of the soldiers poked him uncomfortably in the side from behind, as if trying to get him to shut up. Mike could only stare defiantly at Morozov's back in front of him, because he didn't dare react, and because the man in question didn't bother to turn around and say anything.

So he tried to wrest from his memory what Morozov had said to him at their first meeting. That he had been included in a secret project to create 'soldiers' similar to Eleven. Mike couldn't imagine how they were going to do that.

El had been like this since birth. They couldn't just try to somehow force abilities on him that he wasn't born with.

Maybe that was why all their previous attempts had failed. And he'll just be another checked subject on their list before they move on to someone else.

He had plenty of time in those two weeks to adjust to the idea that unless by some happy accident Eleven came to free him – and he gave up that idea very quickly – he will simply die in a Russian prison. Maybe it didn't even matter in the end. Maybe it was even better that way.

His friends thought he was dead anyway – that he'd actually died wouldn't have made any difference. And if he survived? Who knows what he would have gone through here. What he would have become.

No, at this point it was clearly better to accept the fact that he was going to die today, or in the next few days.
But it was harder than it should have been.

"What happened to the first one?" Mike asked after a moment. They finally made their way up the stairs to, unexpectedly, another door. Upon opening them, however, they found themselves in a much more interesting space than before.

Mike blinked in surprise and crouched down as a frantic din of voices, coarse, loud Russian, bursts of laughter, and the bustle of all sorts of objects washed over him.

It was a large, spacious hall of sorts, divided into sections by only a few walls, so Mike had a view into each one. He could see a cafeteria, a sort of resting place, and what looked like a gym. There were people walking all around them, soldiers in uniforms, scientists in white coats, lots of people whose work he couldn't guess because they were only wearing warm jackets and hats.

Suddenly Mike felt too much in plain sight as everyone they passed turned their heads in their direction, their eyes fixed directly on him.

He didn't resist and lowered his gaze to his still bare feet to avoid all those strange faces. The life in the hall, despite the ever-present lack of color, seemed to him a stark contrast to the white room he'd spent so much time in. It was as if someone had pulled him out of the icy water, only to throw him into the fire.

He wondered what kind of place this was, why this hall was here. What are these people doing here, what do they know, what are their views on it. But in the end, they were Russians, right? They probably didn't care.

"What first?" Asked Morozov, to whom everyone saluted and cheered as he passed.
Mike quickly turned his attention to him, in an attempt to crowd out all the unexpected noise and liveliness that he couldn't immediately adjust to. "You said I was the second person to try... Your thing. Because you had complications with what you really wanted to do, or so I understood. What happened to the first one?"

Morozov turned to him briefly, but didn't answer.
It wasn't necessary.
Mike figured it out easily.

They finally reached the end of the hall, only to pass through a huge, double door which, Mike noticed with great interest, opened with the aid of a card of some sort. As soon as the door closed behind them, all the noise and voices stopped and they found themselves in another corridor, but this one was much wider and shorter than the previous one. Mike was primarily interested in the large, seemingly heavy metal door at the end of it, but that was clearly not where they were headed, because Morozov stopped in front of the white – Mike was allergic to that color – door and nodded to Shark. "She'll take it from here..."

"Do you believe I'll survive?" Mike interrupted him seriously, looking the man squarely in the light brown eyes for the first time since their first meeting. "I wonder if I can at least rejoice in disappointing you."

Morozov paused and straightened his shoulders a little. "We believe you have a better chance than anyone before," he replied shortly. "Enough questions for now. If all this goes well... There will be time enough for them."

Mike translated that in his head simply enough – Morozov didn't want to waste any more time on him than necessary, not until he proved that he could indeed be their first successful attempt. Despite how nice and pleasant his face was... After all, he was still one of the ones who had imprisoned him here, wasn't he?

He hadn't even had time to reply, because Shark – maybe he should learn her name? – opened the door and one of the soldiers quickly pushed him inside.

Shark immediately took a few steps forward and began speaking in fluent, cold Russian to everyone present, so Mike unexpectedly couldn't understand a word she was saying. Therefore, he didn't even try, instead focusing on the room he was in.

His lips curled in displeasure as his eyes traveled over the white walls and clean, white floor. It was undoubtedly an operating room of some sort, filled with people in white coats, with several beds and a lot of tables with objects that Mike couldn't make out and rather didn't want to know their purpose, because some of them – a huge, shiny saw, for example – were terrifying.

At least it was a little warmer here, though, if nothing else.

Shark continued talking to a man who looked disapproving at best, alternately pointing at Mike and at a piece of paper she was holding. The rest of the people – scientists, doctors? – stood around and had no qualms about looking at him, which made him lower his eyes again.
He thought he saw a few dark smudges as he looked around the floor.

Eventually Shark had won her argument, or whatever it was, because the man she was talking to sighed deeply and said something. Just then, one of the soldiers grabbed Mike's arm so he jerked in surprise and allowed himself to be dragged to one of the beds.
Several of the women tried to say something to him, but he just stared at them helplessly, not understanding a word of their Russian.

"Lie down," Shark ordered coldly as she came closer and fixed her dark, sharp eyes on him.
Mike looked at her briefly, then at the soldier who stood at his side, and then at the few Russians in white coats.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling coiled in his stomach, a premonition, and tension crept into his muscles. It was almost like a slap in the face, because at that moment he was aware, really, fully aware, that he was going to die today.

There were days, the worst days, when Mike felt like a burden, like a terrible son, a horrible brother, a lousy friend, an unsuitable boyfriend, when he just wanted to... Disappear so he wouldn't have to bother anyone anymore. When he thought about the bluish water beneath his feet, that one step, the force of the wind that took him.

But now that he was really facing the simple fact of death... He was afraid. And he didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die in a fucking Russian prison, without the chance to see Dustin and Lucas one last time, without the chance to hug Nancy, without the chance to say goodbye to El, without the chance to... Without...

That painfully familiar face flashed through his mind at the exact same moment the soldier grabbed him violently by the hair and twisted his head back so hard that pain shot through his entire body. He didn't stop himself from screaming and almost fell to the ground, but somehow managed to keep his balance.

"Do as you're told," Shark ordered him firmly. Neither of the so-called doctors said anything, didn't react.

Mike bit his tongue hard to suppress tears and nodded, so the soldier let him go and he climbed onto the bed without another word, despite the trembling of his limbs. His vision began to blur, and he must have blinked a lot, because he certainly didn't want to cry, not in front of these strangers who he couldn't understand a word they were saying.

At that moment, however, one of the women reached for his hand and Mike noticed the metallic – metallic! – handcuffs attached to the bed.

"Wait. What are you doing?" He asked, not quite able to stop the panic from creeping into his voice as the woman grabbed his arm and, without looking at him, fastened the cold metal around them. "No, wait. Why are you doing this?"

He tried to flinch, both with his other hand and his legs, but he didn't have the strength or energy to really do anything.

His chest heaving wildly, panic and deep fear spreading through his entire body, he desperately searched Shark for any hint of an explanation. The dark-eyed woman, however, looked as cold and unexcited as usual.

Mike was fleetingly aware of things being placed on top of him, hearing a lot of voices, discussions in Russian, and the sound of electricity, some sort of devices that were probably monitoring his physical condition, but he didn't give any of it his full attention because it was completely focused on the man – the one Shark had argued with earlier – who was standing with his back to him, manipulating with something what looked like a syringe.

When he finally turned to Mike and lifted that thing into the air, Mike started shaking his head violently.

"No, no, no, no, no..." He muttered frantically, his eyes fixed on some swirling, black substance in the syringe.

At that moment, he was pretty sure that if Will had been there, he would have raised his hand and touched the back of his head.

He wanted Will to be here. He wanted El to be here, or Nancy, or Dustin, or Lucas, anyone, just so he wouldn't be so alone, just so the last thing he'd ever see in his life wouldn't be the faces of the people who'd single-handedly brought this fate upon him.

The man said something to him in Russian, and then he leaned over to him, with a very long, sharp, but thin needle, and Mike started jerking violently, because the guy was pointing the damn thing right at his face.

"No, no! Stop! Stop it! I don't want to!" He screamed. He shook his head wildly, trying to pull his hands out of the grip of the metal shackles, trying to move in any way he could and get away, because he didn't want this, this was wrong, and the black thing was guaranteed to kill him, and he didn't want that, not here, not now. Tears were now streaming down his cheeks unchecked, blurring his vision, the sharp, white light in his eyes irritatingly aimed directly at him, and his breathing had turned into an ugly, panic-twisted mess. "Please, please, please stop it!"

One of the women held his head to stop him from twisting and Mike's fear, sheer terror and dread grew to immeasurable heights as the other forced one eye open with her fingers.

"It's faster that way," Shark explained, though he could barely hear her over his desperate pleas and sobs. "Try not to twitch if you don't want to lose an eye."

The man with the needle was very carefully moving it closer to his face and at that moment he just wanted to be away, far away, he wanted to be someone else, he didn't want to lie here, he didn't want to look directly at the tip of that thin needle with the swirling darkness, he wanted to be back home with his friends, he wanted to kiss Eleven and he wanted to apologize to Will, he wanted to...

"Please, please, please, please stop it, please, I don't want to..."

He didn't want to die, he didn't, he couldn't, not now, not here, please...

The inside of the lower eyelid. Violently exposed with their fingers to make room for the thin needle tip.

A tiny sting. Didn't even need to pull the trigger that hard. It was as if the darkness itself was rushing away from the glassy grip of the syringe.

Then it was just dark.

Notes:

Could I have left out the eye injection thing? Yeah, I could have. But did I want to torture Mike more than I already do? Hell, yeah!

By the way, his haircut from season three is absolutely horrible to draw, so... I bailed on it XD In this fanfiction, I decided to finally give Mike an adequate hairstyle anyway, incorporating his curls, so it doesn't matter 😎

Chapter 3: Chapter three

First month

Objective: sUrV1v3(?)

It was icy at first.

When the darkness covered his eyes with its long fingers, he felt like he was getting goosebumps – but not really, because he didn't really feel it. He couldn't feel his body, he couldn't feel himself, he was somewhere far away, in some place where only pain reigned.

Just a cold that crept into his entire existence, sharp and violent and unrelenting, almost to the point of burning, leaving only a silent, frozen, lifeless wasteland.

It seemed almost inevitable as the coldness progressed, spreading and suffocating any remaining bits of light, enveloping them in its black cloak, consuming all warmth, destroying everything in its path, only to declare itself the ruler of what was left of...

What's left of what?

..?

He couldn't remember. Because everything was just the bitter, torturous cold, the emptiness it brought with it, the whispering darkness and swirling shadows, the hundreds of clicking feet, the huge silhouette and dozens of eyes watching his efforts to defy that cold, his efforts to hold on to what last remnants of warmth he had.

He knew that if he couldn't, if he let the ice cover everything, he would perish. He didn't know exactly what, couldn't remember because the cold had rolled over the parts that should have given him the answer, but he knew it was important. He knew it mattered and he knew he had to protect it.

So he reached for it. He gripped it between his fingers, holding it tightly against him as the frost slowly, inexorably advanced, coming at him from all sides, silent and empty. It didn't mock him, didn't try to play with him, just let him know that whatever he tried to protect, whatever he tried to keep warm, it would still have no result.

Because the cold was inevitable.

He was trying to do it anyway. The shivering, the cold, the fog circling the darkness, the quiet crackle of ice advancing and creeping through the black nothing. Beyond that was utter silence.

But there was light. That small, glowing thing he was trying to keep alive, that he didn't want to give up.

He knew that if he gave in to it... If he let that light go out... All the fear, the desperate longing, the agonizing pain would disappear in the comforting embrace of darkness. It would be over.

And there was that brief temptation. That momentary urge to finally give in, to stop feeling it all, to let the cold take all that was its due.

But... The light.

It was so dear to him.

He pressed it even closer to him. The frost was so close now that all it would take was a reach out, a touch of it's fingertips, and it would be over...

"Mike..."

A whisper, almost inaudible compared to the crack of ice.
But it was there.

"Mike... Mike..."

He didn't know what the words meant. But he saw that the light was a little brighter, the darkness receded.

And in that light... There were faces. There were people.

People he knew, he was sure. People he loved.

He couldn't remember their names, who they were, who he was, but he knew, and it was deeply ingrained in his whole being, that they were important to him. That he needed them.

And from the love with which they said... With which they said... Could that have been his name...?
From the love with which they said his name, he was sure they needed him too.

There was a deafening thud in the darkness, followed by another. A regular heartbeat whose warmth and light began to grow stronger.

A blinding, radiant light that swept through the darkness and sent her fleeing. That thawed the ice, warmed something that should have remained cold.

But the pleasant warmth didn't stay for long, and Mike...

Mike, because that was his name, wished at that moment that the cold would return.

Too hot, too hot.

The light turned into a searing fire that raced through the blackness, chewing its way through the shadows, burning the darkness and the frost on the coals, consuming it itself with its endless, immense heat.

The burning grew and rose and peaked, gaining in strength and fierceness, as if it had broken free of its chain and now could not get enough of its own freedom. It was too much. He couldn't take it, couldn't bear it, it was just overwhelming heat and pain and light.

Behind the fire, his heart was still beating, getting louder and more sure, and Mike wanted to rip it out of his chest, just to stop the fire that was taking more than it should, that had become his enemy rather than his ally, but he didn't have the hands to reach out to his heart at all.

Somewhere else, he screamed. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he never moved his lips as he burned alive.

The flames bit further and further from his heart, up his arms and shoulders, burning their way up his throat, licking his face.

And for an infinitely long time, there was nothing else. Only the furious torture, the unceasing heat, the silent screams and pleas for it to finally end, for death to come, for that soothing, cooling darkness to return.

He had no idea how long it lasted, because at that moment there was no time, because that had turned into just one endless moment of pain.

But gradually... Gradually, something changed.

The fire didn't recede, not in the slightest, but he found he could focus on individual flames, examine them, and gently... touch them without getting burned. He was able, albeit with difficulty, to push them away. Not to make them disappear, that was impossible, but to suppress them enough for their brute force to stop torturing him.

And so he continued to do so. He subdued one flame after another, and it became easier and easier as he gained practice in controlling them. The fierce heat and scorching turned into only a slightly uncomfortable warmth that seemed like an icy shower compared to the heat that had been unleashed within him earlier.

Time was running again. He settled himself amidst the flames, sifting his fingers through them, marveling at their gentle tickling and admiring their wild beauty as the whole world shuddered.

Suddenly, he had the urge... He was sure he could move his fingers. Real fingers.

And somewhere in the distance... It was uncomfortable, cold and hard, pressing against something broken and aching and tired.

He didn't want to go near it. He wanted to stay here, safe and warm and pain-free, but the thing was pulling him towards it, even as he tried to resist it.

He couldn't. He had to leave the fire behind and open his eyes.

─┉─ • ─┉─

When Mike Wheeler woke up, the first thing he realized was the excruciating pain.

As if he had been run over by a truck or torn to pieces, the slightest movement of his finger sent pain throughout his body.

For a moment he just lay there – on the cold, hard floor, as he discovered – trying to focus on something else, to pull his thoughts out of the daze they were in.

He heard his breathing, weak, shaky and slow. After a moment, he dared to move his hand, but immediately regretted it as the pain that seized him momentarily interrupted everything else.

So, just in case, he stopped moving and tried to rethink his tactics.

Breathing was safe. He could do that.

So he just inhaled and exhaled, focusing on the sound and how it was getting louder. He couldn't hear anything but it – wherever he was, he was alone.

Where was he, anyway?

He couldn't quite remember... He gave his mind time to recover until he was able to trust it.

His last memory... The Russians. That awful white room, Morozov, Shark, the bed they strapped him to... And then the syringe.

Now that he thought about it, his eye hurt – which was not unusual, because the pain had settled throughout his body.

After all that, it was just dark. And the incredible torture, the frost and fire fighting against each other. He didn't remember much of it, just the reverberations of that cruel, almost unending pain.

But he was here now, wasn't he?

Only where was here?

You can do this, he convinced himself mentally, braced himself for another kick of pain and opened his eyes. He quickly closed them against the bright light and blinked for a moment until his vision adjusted to the glow. Only then he could get a good look at his nearest surroundings, though there wasn't much there.

Immediately, he realized that he was lying face down on the cold, gray floor, staring directly into the gray wall. That was all he could see from his limited space.

He thought for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons, before taking a deep breath and then, before he could flinch in fear, he raised his hand and braced it against the ground to pull himself up to a sitting position.

The first attempt ended in failure – a wave of pain so strong that a weak cry escaped his lips and his hand ended up back on the ground.

The second attempt, however, went much better – he was actually able to brace his hand against the ground and pull his body up, and despite the world spinning madly before his eyes and his head shaking with a throbbing, dull pain, he was able to sit up.

For a moment, his vision darkened and he froze in place, letting any remaining pain subside and calming his rapid breathing before finally daring to cautiously, slowly raise his head and look around. Not that it was worth anything, for the room he found himself in was simply a cell.

Even worse than the white room, because at least he had a bed in there.

Here there was absolutely nothing but grey walls and grey floor and grey ceiling and... A metal, grey door.

He stared at it for a moment, gathering his courage, and then braced himself on his hands again, this time to drag his aching body to the door.

It was an arduous, unpleasant task, almost impossible at one point because everything hurt so damn much, but in the end he managed it.

He placed one hand on the cool metal and struck it several times, not confident enough to cry out or do anything more useful. However, no one answered from the other side and his only response was silence.

So he leaned against the wall next to the door, closed his eyes, and fell back into sleep.

─┉─ • ─┉─

When he woke up a second time, he realized something was wrong. Something was wrong with his body.

This wasn't just a simple, sharp pain anymore, this was something growing and extremely dangerous, something that was rising to his head and burning.

Everything was burning at once, his body was too hot, his clothes felt like they were suffocating him.

Something was very, very wrong.

He quickly opened his eyes and with a greater burst of energy than he had expected, he rushed desperately to the door, leaning his head against the cold metal, hoping that its pleasant chill would at least take away the horrible burning a little.

But he barely felt any difference, in fact he felt like the heat was only getting worse.

The thing was growing inside him, gaining strength, and he could only shiver, clenching his jaws together and sobbing as the implacable fire ate through his veins.

"It hurts..." He groaned in a hoarse, pain-tinged voice as he lowered his head to his knees and ran his hands through his hair. It didn't help his situation at all, quite the opposite, but he didn't know what else to do, he didn't know how to stop the flames that were spreading through his body like wildfire.

His skin was hot, every tear on his cheeks dried faster than they could even hit the ground. He must have been burning from the inside.

He pulled sharply at his hair, trying to keep himself present, to not let the pain take over, to push it back and ignore it, only the more he tried, the more it swelled, grew, demanded freedom.

Mike couldn't take it anymore, couldn't do it.

So he screamed and let it out.

─┉─ • ─┉─

On his third awakening, he realized that the room had changed.

When he managed to sit up where he had been curled up, his gaze immediately fell on the previously grey walls, which were now covered in many places with a thick, distorted blackness. He stared at them for a moment, trying to figure out their possible origin, but then he lowered his eyes and saw several drops of blood directly below him.

A deep unease ran through him, because he couldn't remember what happened, and had not the slightest idea what had led to such destruction of the walls and those drops of blood.

The third thing he noticed was a plastic bowl of soup and a dry piece of bread placed just beside him.

As if on cue, his stomach made a very loud, demanding sound and he didn't resist, just reached for the bowl. He got no spoon and the soup was barely lukewarm, but it was still better than nothing.

As he began to sip the soup, he thought he smelled something metallic, but that taste was quickly covered by the not-so-tasty soup.

He was still so incredibly... Tired, despite the amount of time he'd actually been out of consciousness. His whole body ached, his head was pounding, and now that the awful burning was gone – though not completely, he could still feel it somewhere on the edge – it felt oddly empty too. He couldn't concentrate properly, or even think about what had actually happened.

It didn't bother him at the moment.

It went on like this for a long time, and again, since Mike didn't know how much time had passed, he wasn't able to tell how long it really was.

He alternated between sleeping and waking, sometimes without pain, sometimes unable to move properly. A few more times he got some food – though he was never awake at the exact moment someone had to open the door to bring him the food – and so he judged that more time had passed than he would have liked.

The whole torturous burning thing was repeated only once more, and it wasn't nearly as horrible as the previous one, though it still eventually led to Mike passing out and the walls being even blacker afterwards than before. Since then, although the heat and unnatural heaviness had come to him at various intervals, nothing else like it had happened.

In his dreams he was haunted by the orange glow of flames, by a voice he did not understand, and then by the faces of his friends. He never remembered what those dreams were about, but when he woke up, he always felt a bitter aftertaste of loss when he realized he was back in that empty room and not in Hawkins, where he was supposed to be.

Occasionally, when one of the sudden spasms of pain became stronger, he imagined the door opening and Eleven entering, with Will at her side. He wished desperately that this was real, that he could feel their gentle touch, hear their voice, simply look at him and prove to him that he wasn't alone. In his worst moments, which he refused to admit to himself, he cried and begged them to come and save him.

Later, he deliberately chose to forget about it.
In the end, no one came to save him. And no one ever will.

─┉─ • ─┉─

"A week," the woman with the shark eyes announced to the man standing in front of her. Her sleek appearance and icy gaze betrayed no emotion, but the man with the light brown eyes and green and red uniform knew better. She was excited about her own success.

The man could hear the celebratory voices outside the door, the enthusiastic shouts, the triumphant, exuberant atmosphere settling over him, though he himself was not in the room.

"He lasted longer than anyone else," the woman continued. "And his condition is improving. All the previous subjects had gradually increased the activity of their bursts of energy, which would eventually destroy them sooner or later; Arsonist's was instead decreasing. He showed the first sign of any abilities on the second day after his awakening, and then repeated it on the evening of the third day. Since then, nothing, not even a spark. In addition, he has an appetite and spends a lot of time sleeping, which again is different from the previous subjects who ate nothing most of the time and spent days without sleep until they collapsed from exhaustion."

"Arsonist?" The man raised an eyebrow.

The woman showed no embarrassment, if she felt any. "That's what a few people in the lab started calling him," she explained. "As far as we know, he hasn't shown any abilities other than pyrokinesis, though it may be too early to tell. But it was an impressive display of power. We're just lucky that our camera was so well hidden, because that huge heat could have easily damaged it."

The man made no response to this, just asked:  "So you think it worked?"

The woman nodded in agreement. "Most likely, sir. Understandably, we can't be hundred procent sure yet, and since this is only the second attempt of this particular type, we don't have as many records and information, but the Arsonist is already so different from its predecessor that we're confident success is more than a real possibility."

The man straightened and nodded vigorously. "Leadership will definitely be happy to hear about this," he told her. "Congratulations to you, and to your entire team."

Without adding anything else, he turned and stormed off, trying not to show his own excitement.

If this really happens... If the kid survives... They'll have the most powerful weapon on their side.

But this was only the beginning. The fact that he had survived so far and not killed himself with his new, charged abilities proved that he was stronger and more resilient than he looked. But he still wasn't a weapon. Not really, not now.

No, at the moment, he'd be more likely to hurt himself than anyone else.

But if they were patient... They can turn him into a weapon. Sharpen that poor, American steel into a sharp, dangerous, murderous blade in the hands of the Soviets.

And that was exactly what they were going to do.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike stopped counting how many times he woke up leaning against the grey wall in that grey room. He always just idly ran his eyes over the blackened walls he already knew by heart, occasionally daring to get to his feet and take a little walk, although he usually got so dizzy immediately afterwards that he had to sit down again, and then just closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again. This went on for a long time, and he hated it.

He hated that he ended up locked up here, captured by the Russians, who were now doing who knows what, because apparently they had left him somewhere again and were not going to explain anything to him, just amused by his pain and the desire to tear his eyes out of their sockets as he woke up in the same place again and again.

He wanted to be back in Hawkins. He'd give everything he had, he'd sign his soul over to the devil just so he could go to a damn school where he knew his friends would be waiting for him, where he knew he could hug his mom and his sisters when he got home, where he could simply do anything better than sitting here, controlled by pain and fear of what would happen next.

Only he couldn't offer his soul to the devil. For the devil had come, asked him no questions, and taken it without wanting to give him anything in return – except perhaps his terrible powers.

Because that's how it had to be, right?

Unless this was some version of purgatory, which Mike thought might be quite nicely possible, the fact that he was alive meant that he had survived that horrible injection and whatever was in it. He vaguely remembered Morozov telling him about how everyone else who had the same bad luck as him ending up here had eventually died after a few days, their new power destroying them.

Of course, Mike couldn't judge something he knew next to nothing about, but he didn't feel like he was... His new power, whatever it was, was trying to destroy him. Other than the two times he felt like he was burning alive, nothing like that had happened, and he actually felt pretty good.

Maybe he didn't get any powers? Maybe it didn't work and he simply survived without any abilities awakening in him?

He would be greatly relieved if that happened.

Certainly, ever since he known Eleven, he secretly dreamed of having powers like hers, of being able to protect them all the way she did. And he never resisted that idea.

Only the last thing he wanted was to get them from the damn Soviets somewhere in Russia, through something that definitely wasn't supposed to be in his body, and where they planned to make him their weapon or whatever.

But if he didn't have any powers... Their attempt would have failed. They wouldn't have gotten a weapon.

But he wasn't so naive as to think they'd send him back to America. He might as well forget it. They'd probably lock him up somewhere and then forget about him as another failed attempt.

Besides...

His gaze fell on the black walls again.

Mike could hope, he could try to pretend, but in the end, he wasn't stupid. He was aware of something new within him, something hot and powerful, something just waiting for the best opportunity to strike, and that very thing was responsible for the current state of the room he found himself in. Whatever it was, he knew he didn't want it because it was wrong, because it wasn't natural, and because it scared him.

He felt as if he was being forced to stand with a bowl filled to the brim with water on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm, with the task of not spilling a single drop from the bowl onto the ground.

The fiery thing wanted out, and he didn't have many ways to stop it.

On the other hand... He was aware of the fact how useful those abilities were. If he could learn to control them... And use them to his advantage... He could become strong enough to escape. He wouldn't have to hope that perhaps, by some miracle, El would become aware of his presence here and rescue him, not when it was primarily a desperate desire rather than a real possibility.

He could wait... Pretend to cooperate... And as soon as he could, as soon as he was capable enough, he would – with hopefully the least possible losses on the Russian side, because he really didn't want to kill anyone – finally escape.

But he still had a lot of work to do, and to do that he would have to wait, which meant spending a lot more time here than he had anticipated. Since he thought he was going to die, the fact that he was still alive changed his plans.

But he would do whatever it took to get back to El and Will, his friends and his family. So he could go home.

Notes:

This has been one of my favorite chapters to write, at least so far. I'm pretty proud of it, so I hope you enjoyed it too!
Also, quick updates, hell yeah, but don't get used to them, there will probably be a few less in November, so I'll feed you while I can ☺️

Chapter 4: Chapter four

The first month

Objective: Find out what's going on, explore the corridors

His next awakening surprised him – because it wasn't in that empty, grey room, but in an empty, white room.

And on a bed, which his broken back and aching limbs appreciated immensely.

He'd never believed he'd be glad to be back here, but although the white kept annoy him, the bed – and the comforting weight of the broken glass in his fingers as he groped for it to see if it was still under the pillow – was somehow the only thing that made his mood perfectly fine.

Or... Not quite perfectly, because only one thing could do that, but he definitely felt better than he had before.

He yawned and sat up – noting with satisfaction that most of his previous pain had subsided, replaced only by the strange tension associated with the fire twisting in his guts – only to realize that he was feeling a little strange.

Frowning in confusion, he reached up to his throat, where he touched something metallic that encircled the base of his neck. Not tight enough to strangle him, but enough to feel pressure. He tried to squint down to see what it was, but before he could even consider the function of the thing, Morozov stepped into the room, followed by two soldiers.

Mike jumped in surprise – in fact, he had expected it to take them another two weeks before anyone would even talk to him – and instinctively moved to the end of his bed.

Morozov walked right up to him and held out his hand, ignoring the disapproving stares of his own soldiers.

Mike stared at it, uncomprehendingly and a little disgusted, before mentally reminding himself that he should at least pretend to cooperate, and so he slowly, if grudgingly, clasped it.

Morozov shook his hand vigorously and a smile spread across his face as he said: "Congratulations on your success, Michael."

Mike decided not to correct him, he hated it when people called him Michael. Besides, he certainly didn't want to hear 'Mike' from the mouth of a Russian soldier. "To my... Success?" He repeated, clearing his throat when he heard how hoarse and scratchy his voice sounded.
It didn't escape his notice that Morozov was scrutinizing him, and one particular side of his face in particular, and he had no idea why.

"You are the first of our previous subjects to survive the implementation and not be consumed by your own power soon after," Morozov explained. His eyes sparkled excitedly as he sat down on the side of his bed. Mike noticed that the two soldiers who had accompanied him stepped a little closer, as if expecting danger. One of them was even clutching some sort of remote control, though Mike couldn't guess its function. "Our theory was correct."

"Your theory... The one about my connection to the Upside Down giving me a better chance of survival?" Mike remembered, and almost felt like throwing up when he saw the proud look on Morozov's face, as if he hadn't expected him to remember.

He'd been willing to tolerate him at first, since he'd assumed he was going to die anyway, and this guy had at least been nice to him, if nothing else.

But now, with the reverberations of the immense pain he'd been subjected to still reverberating in his bones, with the needle still looming in front of his eyes, the shadows swirling within it, with all he could do was scream and beg since he couldn't move... He couldn't forget that this guy had put him through this. He was probably running this place or something. Maybe even ordered his kidnapping, who knows.

"Exactly," Morozov nodded, obviously about to add something, but Mike interrupted him: 'Why me? Why did you bring me?"

It was a question he needed an answer to, one he asked himself over and over again.

Why me?

He certainly didn't want anyone else to end up in his place, that wasn't his point. He was a thousand times happier that it could have been him and not one of his friends.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Morozov looked at him for a moment as if considering his options and then spoke: "I'll be perfectly honest with you Michael, I think you deserve it. It was an accident. The original plan was not to kidnap anyone, much less a child. But one of our own came across you lying unconscious in Starcourt and took you with him, for no great reason. It was a spontaneous decision that eventually, after you were identified, led to the theory that brought us here."

Morozov shrugged slightly, while Mike tried hard not to break down, not to show any of the emotions that were bubbling up inside him. "A coincidence that worked out in the best way. Of course, the most appropriate subject would have been William Byers, but you-"

"You're not touching Will," Mike hissed suddenly, so sharply that two soldiers moved forward, ready to intervene. But he ignored them, his eyes fiercely fixed only on Morozov, his entire body tensing at the mere thought of any of the Russian scum trying to touch him. The thing inside him seemed to open its eyes and become alert, and he wanted very much to give it free rein, if only to erase Will's name from Morozov's lips.

He leaned forward, but at that moment something clicked and something sharp, huge and fast shot through his body with such force that at first he was not even aware of the pain that followed. The next moment he was unable to control his limbs and without being able to prevent it, he fell back onto the pillows and nearly hit his head on the wall. His heart stopped for a small moment and then sped up unnaturally, pounding in his chest as if in alarm. A few tears of pain slipped from his eyes and he hated them, not wanting to show any weakness in front of those soldiers, but at that moment he could do almost nothing.

After a while, the shock and pain wore off and he raised a trembling hand to his face, just to wipe away the few tears. He blinked rapidly, and when he finally focused back on Morozov, he realized he was talking to him.

"W-w-what?" He stammered out, his ears whistling slightly.

Morozov was frowning, even looking angry – and Mike wondered at that moment what he had done wrong, if he had done something that suggested his new abilities were trying to control him like all the others before him, only this kind of pain was completely different from the kind he had associated with it, and besides, he soon realized that Morozov wasn't talking to him, but to his soldiers, because he didn't understand a word of his Russian.

After a moment, Morozov looked at him squarely and spoke in English: "As you must have noticed and now felt, you have a device around your neck that sends a current of electricity through your body every time you somehow show that you are doing what you shouldn't."

Mike just stared at him wordlessly, lowering his hand from his cheek to his neck and touching the thing around his neck again. Almost like a dog collar, he thought bitterly, gritting his teeth together and clenching his fingers into a fist.

"Since you're the only one to survive the implementation so far, we have no idea how unpredictable your abilities will be. We don't know what you'll be able to do, or how much it will affect you," Morozov explained. "Besides... I think even you will realize that since we kidnapped you and you are an American and, let's not kid ourselves, our prisoner, it is in our best interest to protect ourselves from your abilities if you try to use them against us. There are people watching you in this room and everywhere else you go – people who will have this device."

He pointed to the soldier holding the black remote, who gave no indication that he felt sorry for Mike.

Was this the same one who had strangled him on the first day because he had disobeyed Shark's orders? Could have been.

"And they won't hesitate whenever you disobey an order or make any suspicious move," Morozov continued. "Yet... I suppose they don't have to be paranoid if you barely move."

Mike sort of assumed that was his version of an excuse for getting a completely unnecessary electric shock just now. Since he wasn't going to do anything, nor would he know how, he was just angry and scared at the thought of the Soviets just laying hands on Will.

"So, to get back to what we were talking about before," Morozov brushed it off as if nothing had happened. And Mike felt like crying again at that moment, because this was so damn wrong. "You don't have to worry about Byers or your other friends. As long as you cooperate the way you're supposed to, of course."

Mike stared straight into Morozov's eyes, hoping the seething hatred he felt for him was evident enough on his face.
Morozov straightened up, got off the bed and stood. Any previous kindness was gone.
No more pretense, eh?

"At this point, a new regime begins for you," he began, cold and reserved. ''You'll start with basic training, in our gym and later on the training ground, as if you were an ordinary soldier. Unlike them, however, you will also spend a lot of time in our laboratory, where you will test your abilities and learn to control them. Gradually we will move on to weapons and combat training, either manually, with weapons, or just with your abilities. You start tomorrow, your trainer will pick you up. A..."
He paused for a moment and ran his gaze over him. "You should get cleaned up."

Mike grinned. No shit, he thought, swallowing all the venomous remarks on his tongue. He didn't want to get electrocuted again just because he insulted their superior.

"From now on you will be free to move within the corridors, halls and laboratories you have already seen, but only under the supervision of the soldiers who will accompany you everywhere," Morozov added, nodding to the two. Neither of them showed any emotion and Mike wondered if they even spoke English. "The bathroom is behind the first door you meet when you step out of this room. You have clean clothes in there."

With that, Morozov turned and walked out the door, followed by the subject of the two soldiers as well. Just before he closed them, he turned to him again and said: "Good luck."

I don't need it from you, Mike said to himself mentally as he listened to the door close and indeed, there was no click of the lock, which meant he wasn't locked in here again, indefinitely. A sort of tension eased within him, for he was sure that if he were to spend that much time here again, he would go completely insane.

He sat on the bed and thought for a while, only the state of his hygiene was truly wretched, so he finally got out of bed and made his way out the door on slightly shaky legs.

He reached out to the doorknob and for a moment his breath hitched, because at that moment he just expected to pull it and nothing would happen, he wouldn't be able to leave again, but when he did, the door actually opened.

He wasn't surprised to see the two soldiers standing behind them, one still with the black remote. Mike paused to glance at it and then looked up at the unamused but attentive faces of the two Russian soldiers before telling them: "Bathroom."

He didn't know if they understood him, but he didn't really care, since they followed him down the hallway anyway.

It would be nice to have shoes, Mike thought as he tiptoed across the cold floor again to the first white door. He stopped in front of them and looked ahead for a moment into the distance where the hallway curved. Apparently, though, he had plenty of time to investigate everything, and he really stank.

If El were here now, she wouldn't have come within a hundred yards of him. Max and Lucas and Dustin would have made a bunch of jokes about where the hell he had rolled up and Will would try to be polite, but secretly laugh at them while Mike would growl at his friends that it's not funny.

The thought warmed his heart, but at the same time only deepened the emptiness left by their absence.

Without further ado, he opened the door, and to his relief, the soldiers didn't follow him in. He felt for a light and when he turned it on it revealed a rather large bathroom with two showers, three sinks and two more doors behind what must have been toilets.

He quickly discovered that the bathroom couldn't be locked, which was quite annoying, but not unexpected.

He threw off his sweaty, smelly clothes and stepped into the shower stall, mentally preparing himself for the icy water he was expecting. To his surprise, however, it was pleasantly warm. And there was even soap!

His joy was only short-lived, however, because while he was washing his hair, he fleetingly touched that awful, electric collar, or whatever it was. He froze for a moment as the water fell on him like warm rain, splintering at his feet, trickling away down the drain with a rush.

He tried to hook his fingers under the smooth metal, feeling it on all sides to see if there was a weak link, but whatever it was made of didn't seem to be able to break it with his own hands.

He leaned against the wall and sat down on the floor, water still falling on his head, dripping from his hair directly into his eyes.

Mike sort of ignored it, staring at the tiled floor in front of him as his breathing became unnaturally rapid and panic took over his every thought.

This... This was so damn wrong. How could his life have become this?

Sitting in a shower in who knows where in the Soviet Union, with soldiers outside the door and a damn device around his neck that could give him an electric shock at any moment. Not to mention the white and grey room, the needle in his eye and the searing pain that took over his body.

Twisted.

Who's doing this? Who does this, to anyone?!

The worst part... The worst part was the fact that it was an accident. It wasn't a planned mission, he wasn't their target, none of them were.

He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone took advantage of it.

Thoughts, memories, images flew wildly through his head, taking him back to that day in Starcourt. He wondered how many things might have been different if Billy hadn't hit him so hard, or if he had woken up a little earlier. And he couldn't, even though he wanted to, stop wondering why none of his friends had prevented it, how the Soviets had managed to kidnap him in the first place. Max must have been there! Where did she go? Did she leave him behind?

No, no, no, Mike thought, shaking his head violently. You mustn't think that, don't think that.

He couldn't blame Max, blame anyone, because it was just his damn fault that he ended up here, with something unnatural in his veins, in a white room that was slowly sucking the life out of him, with that horrible thing around his neck, and oh god, suddenly he couldn't breathe properly.

At that moment he pulled violently at the collar, trying to move it, to break it, to do anything, because the grip was too heavy, strangling and suffocating, mocking his situation. He scratched his neck desperately, oblivious to the dull pain caused by his fingers, just to get the thing down, to stop it choking him, to stop it being there.

The next moment, a sharp and now familiar pain shot through him, followed by his weak scream before he collapsed to the ground, hitting his head on the wet floor.

He assumed it must have been an automatic activation in case someone tried to damage the device.

When the shock wore off and all that was left was the shaking of his body, he pulled his knees to his body and curled up into a ball, completely oblivious to the fact that he was lying naked on a wet floor, the shower running, with water hitting his back.

He was trembling, sobbing violently, clenching his fingers in his head, wishing he could be anywhere else at any time, wishing this didn't have to happen to him, wishing he didn't have to go through this, wishing he was gone, wishing this was just a horrible nightmare. At some point he screamed, maybe even threw up, and slammed his hand into the ground a few times as if it was for something other than venting his frustration, and at that moment he didn't notice that the water had begun to hiss and that the steam was rising from his skin as if it was too hot.

Eventually his panic and rage subsided and all that was left was a blank, a silence.

He left his face resting on the tiles, eyes fixed on the strands of his wet hair, slithering across the floor like snakes, tears that had long since mixed with the water and together disappeared down a drain somewhere, as if they had never existed.

He didn't know how long he lay there like that, but finally he forced himself to get up, finish washing, and walk out.

─┉─ • ─┉─

He spent the next day walking through the corridor – he didn't dare go up the stairs into the hall because it was too crowded, so instead he just walked through the grey and very empty corridor. With two soldiers in tow, of course.

Occasionally he glanced at them, checking out the rifles at their waists and the black remote he tried never to take his eyes off, though the soldier holding it hadn't shown any sign of wanting to use it since the last time. Mike wondered if he could get rid of them – if he took the shard of glass he kept hidden under his pillow and attacked the soldier with the remote with it, maybe he could...

No. It was a tempting thought, except that Mike doubted very much that he'd be able to defeat two adult, undoubtedly trained Russian soldiers with guns. And even if he could, which sounded more like an impossible fantasy than a real possibility, then what? He didn't know how to get out of here, where he was, and he'd probably be caught before he could even get anywhere. And, besides, given the blatant paranoia the Soviets were suffering from – because they'd put a device around the damn fourteen-year-old's neck that could send a jolt of electricity through his body at any time, just because they were afraid of what he might do – he was fairly certain there were cameras in this hallway, as well as in his room, and he'd cause an immediate alarm if he attacked the two soldiers.

So he just stuck to his imagination as he walked down the corridor. Most of the doors were closed, but behind some of them he found rooms that looked similar to his, as well as two other bathrooms. He wondered if they had built this place for their future experiments, only they didn't expect any of them to survive – well, except Mike.

Occasionally, he tried to speak to the soldiers who escorted him back and forth, but if they understood him, they chose not to say a word back.

At least he had shoes now, if nothing else. For after his bath, which he tried to put out of his mind, he found long black pants, a white short-sleeved shirt and finally, a pair of black canvas boots. Not great, but better than walking barefoot on the cold floor.

What Mike noticed and puzzled over was the fact that he wasn't nearly as cold as when he first walked through here with Morozov. Sure, he still got goosebumps, and he always tried to limit touching the walls and doorknobs because they were incredibly icy, but in general it was a lot warmer here than it had been before. And he couldn't tell if it was because Morozov had taken his advice and gotten a heater in here – which Mike deeply doubted – or because of the fire that now slumbered within him.

Several times during his exploration of the corridor he had raised his hand tentatively, as he had seen Eleven do so many times, but in truth he hadn't the slightest idea how to summon that power to him. He felt no twitch, no surge of energy, nothing special, and then he just felt like an idiot.

He knew that El's emotions helped every time – the stronger she felt things, the stronger she was.

Mike really had a lot of emotions in him now, from anger, to fear, to sadness, to despair, he actually had a pretty wide range, but the fire just seemed to mock his hard efforts and lazily rolled around in his body, not really aroused, with no intention of obeying.

Aside from the fact that he could now walk more or less anywhere he wanted, his meals had changed. He got breakfast, lunch, and dinner – which now gave him a much-coveted sense of time – and while it was still no culinary marvel, it was much larger and more nutritious portions than just soup and bread. Mike guessed that if they wanted to make him their obedient soldier, they had to give him something better to eat.

Even if it did mean that he threw up his entire lunch, because after more than two weeks of disgusting food, his stomach wasn't used to something he was actually going to eat enough of.

He had all three meals in the hallway because he didn't want to go back to the white room, and sat down to his long-finished dinner, wondered if they had forgotten about him, because Morozov was babbling about some training. Just then, a set of thumping footsteps echoed down the hallway – military boots, Mike recognized, because two pairs had been following him back and forth all day – and when he lifted his head from his food, he met the gaze of a tall, muscular woman dressed in camouflage pants and a dark green tank top. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and with her pale blue eyes and high boots, she looked like a Russian straight out of an American action movie.

She didn't give him a single glance, instead she started speaking in Russian to the soldiers who only gave her some brief answers. Then, unexpectedly, she bent down, grabbed Mike's shoulder and, to his surprise, pulled him to his feet.

Mike considered himself to be quite tall and really didn't like the woman towering over him, especially when she looked at him with such disdain that he wondered if he had turned into some kind of hideous bug in the meantime.

The Russian woman – and since Mike didn't know her name, he'd just decided to call her Blondie – spoke to him, but of course he couldn't understand a word she said, so she just rolled her eyes, waved at him, and walked away.

Mike took that as an order to follow her, so he jumped to his feet and, followed by his two personal dogs – he certainly wasn't sorry for mentally insulting them, even though they were probably just doing their job – strode after her. He couldn't quite keep up with Blondie so he had to take turns running, which was quite humiliating, but also the last thing he cared about as they climbed the stairs to the hall.

Mike braced himself in his mind against the inevitable stares – he didn't know how much all the people who were here doing who knows what knew, but he sort of expected them to have at least some idea, and if they didn't, it was probably even worse, because they were all wondering what an American boy was doing here – and so he was extremely surprised when it turned out that there were only a few people in the entire hall, almost none of whom were paying attention.

It was quiet, Blondie's brisk footsteps were the loudest sound in the fairly empty space. Mike had a sneaking suspicion that they had chosen this hour for his 'training' or whatever it was supposed to be, just because of the lack of prying eyes, which he quite frankly appreciated.

He was pretty sure the 'basic training' Morozov had been blathering on about was something like P.E. class at school, all that nonsense about keeping fit, only harder and more rigorous, because Mike doubted he could talk himself out of a headache with Blondie. She already seemed to despise him, let alone when she found out that P.E. had never been his strong suit.

Give me a physics test instead, Mike thought with displeasure as they stepped into a sort of gym full of exercise equipment, including treadmills. The whole place was extremely huge and as far as he could tell, there was also some sort of sport hall behind the weight room, strikingly reminiscent of the one he had at school.

He also didn't like the fact that two soldiers were left standing on the edge of the room watching them, making Mike feel like an idiot.

He supposed the discomfort of being seen embarrassing himself was the last thing he should be concerned about, but still. Besides, one of the soldiers still had the remote and he still had the stupid thing around his neck. That was a good reason to be concerned.

Blondie tried to speak Russian to him for a moment, and Mike just stared at her uncomprehendingly, so she sighed deeply and reached for a Russian-English dictionary, much to his surprise and immense amusement.

She just turned the pages for a moment while she searched for something before she fixed her light blue eyes on him, pointed her finger at him and told him in very garbled English, "Repeat after me. Warm up."

And so began what was probably the worst and best P.E. class – he was sure Morozov would hate that he called it P.E. class, and liked it all the more for it – he had ever experienced.

In many ways it was just like P.E. at school, except for the fact that there was usually no one barking insults at him in Russian and no one hitting him if he did it wrong.

Not that Blondie had kicked him into a ball anywhere, but a few times, when he absolutely didn't understand her incomprehensible instructions, she had walked up to him with a stream of curses to correct his stance and not forgetting to slap him.

Fortunately, the two soldiers apparently didn't take it as disobeying orders, just as not understanding across the language barrier, so he didn't get electrocuted. Success!

Mike may or may not have deliberately pretended at times that he didn't understand what Blondie was trying to tell him, because he enjoyed watching her flip through the dictionary with an angry mumble.

Eventually, after a warm-up, a whole series of exercises that involved dozens of squats and push-ups – how humiliating the fact that he could barely do two – finally Blondie sent him onto the treadmill while she rubbed the bridge of her nose as if to calm herself down.

Mike secretly laughed at this. He figured provoking the Russians would quickly become his new hobby.

And though he wasn't enjoying any of the things they were doing, his whole body ached, he couldn't catch his breath properly, and now he reeked of sweat from three miles away, at least it occupied his thoughts enough that he almost forgot where he was and why he was doing it.

Besides, as soon as he got back to his room – after taking another shower, since he intended to use his new privileges as often as he could – he fell asleep from exhaustion almost as soon as he rolled into bed.

So no unnecessary bedtime thoughts either.

Notes:

No art this chapter, which is a shame, but I honestly couldn't think of anything, heh.

Anyway, as I mentioned, there will be fewer chapters coming out in November, probably two or three more because of NaNoWriMo, which I'm writing a different project for. We'll see how December goes.

By the way, anyone here who's been to a FNAF movie? In my country the premiere was later, I just saw it yesterday and I'm still thinking about it and wondering if I liked it or not, haha. But Mike (Schmidt, not Wheeler) was very angsty, I definitely liked THAT 😎
Anyway, enough fnaf talk, see you at the next chapter!

Chapter 5: Chapter five

The first month

Objective: Cooperate, find a way to escape (main objective)

Blondie came to him the next morning, not to continue the exercise, but so she could throw a pile of Russian books, several dictionaries and textbooks on his bed.

Mike stared at this for a moment while he rubbed his eyes, because he had literally just gotten up a few minutes ago and didn't particularly listen to Blondie as she was trying, in her garbled English, to presumably indicate that he was going to learn Russian from now on.

Mike waited nicely for her to leave and then dropped his books on the floor. The last thing he wanted was to learn Russian.

So he spent the whole afternoon lying in his bed, thinking about his friends, what they were probably doing, what they would say about the fact that he wasn't dead, that he was here.

He tried to imagine their reactions, but for some reason he wasn't sure what they would be. Scared? Shocked? Relieved that he was alive? Or disappointed because they hoped they were finally rid of him?

Mike tried hard to avoid the last one, but he couldn't forget El, the determined look on her face when she'd broken up with him, Will, and the deeply hurt look on his face before he'd biked away.

"It's not my fault you don't like girls."

Why did he say that? Why couldn't he stop for that one moment and think about it before that bullshit flew out of his mouth?

Because he was Mike, that's why. Talking before thinking, never knowing the right thing to say or do to express what he really wanted, always unable to show how much he really cared about the people around him, just staring at them and struggling with the words, so many words that swirled in his head but were never able to leave his mouth.

Sometimes he felt like no matter what he tried to do, he always messed up somehow. He always hurts someone and never knows how to make it right, because his own pride and stubbornness won't let him. And he was aware of that, but then he kept saying it over and over again.

Mike Wheeler, insensitive, distant Mike Wheeler.

The worst part was that his friends were aware of it too. They were used to it.

Which was why he couldn't help wondering if they missed him at all. If they even minded that he wasn't with them anymore, if they just weren't secretly glad to be rid of the rusty link in their crew.

Maybe it would be better for them if he stayed here, not even trying to escape. But Mike was too selfish to do that. He wanted to go home, he didn't want to stay here and he wanted to go back to his friends, even though maybe he shouldn't.

Because he damn well wasn't going to become a Russian weapon.

He sat down on the bed, pushed his plate of leftovers from lunch away – a lot of not-so-well-seasoned meat – and stared at his hand.

How does El do it...? He thought as he held it out in front of him. Instinctively? Or does she imagine what she actually wants to do?

He asked her occasionally, but she seemed unable to give him a comprehensible answer. It was as if Mike was trying to explain how to raise his hand. He just did it.

Only now he could really use a little advice, because the sooner he figured out what powers he had acquired and how powerful they were, the faster he could learn to control them and use them to escape.

Narrowing his eyes, he raised his hand and gestured with it towards the door, nearly having a heart attack when it actually opened – only to find out that it was Shark's fault for stepping inside.

He quickly hid his hand behind his back, hoping she hadn't noticed, but judging by her raised eyebrows, she had.

"You're coming with me," she ordered him, her dark, cold eyes allowed no excuses. Mike wasn't even going to do anything like that – besides the fact that his two good friends with the black remote were already behind Shark, he was scared of the scientist. More than he was of Morozov, more than he was of the Russian soldiers, maybe even more than he was of Billy and the demogorgons.

It seemed crazy, but at least he knew what to expect from the monsters from another dimension – their desire to kill him and make dinner out of him.

The sight of Shark, her pale face, her tightly pursed lips and menacing, almost dead eyes, was only a painful reminder of the last time he had seen her.

Please, please, please stop it!

They were a reminder of the endless pain, the utter helplessness, his inability to escape, the needle coming right at him, please, no, I don't want to, the growing feeling that something was damn wrong because the needle... The swirling shadow... And now it was in his body and he could feel it, weaving between his insides, scraping against his bones, curling up in his throat, trying to choke him and –

"Michael," Shark barked forcefully, and suddenly she was right in front of him, grabbing his wrist, making Mike jump in surprise.

He hadn't even realized that he had completely frozen, completely numb to the fact that Shark was talking to him.

"Get up," said Shark sternly. She didn't actually raise her voice once, but her thick, harsh Russian accent gave her words a more menacing emphasis. Her fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, and even though her skin was soft and smooth, he still found the grip kind of slimy, disgusting, almost as if he were lying on a cot, unable to move, unable to escape because his hands and feet were cuffed and he wanted her to stop touching him.

He wanted to stay here, to go back to a time when no one paid attention to him, when he was confined to that one white room, because if he lost his mind, at least he wouldn't have to realize how real everything that was happening around him was. He was scared of where Shark would take him, what she would do to him again, and he didn't want to go with her, he just wanted to lie down and refuse to move, but at the same time, there was still a device pressing down on his neck, the power of which was entirely in the hands of the soldier, who could press the button at any time if he gave any indication that he wasn't cooperating.

And, if he refused anyway, if he rebelled as much as he could... They could try to hurt Will. They might decide they wanted to try someone more promising and try to kidnap Will as well.

He couldn't allow that, not in the slightest.
So he suppressed his panic, climbed off the bed, and was deeply relieved that Shark let him go immediately afterwards, turning her back on him, not even looking at him as she left the room and he followed her, head down and soldiers at his back. He rubbed his fingers together, trying to focus only on the grey, bland floor beneath his feet and the sound of their footsteps, and not on his still loudly pounding heart and shaking hands.

What was happening to him? He made a completely unnecessary scene in front of three Soviets, without a single sensible reason. He showed weakness in a place where everyone already thought of him as just a weak, American boy, and he was pretty sure he shouldn't be supporting them in that.

As they ascended the stairs and entered the hall, which was as crowded as when he had first passed through, he found the glances in their direction even harder than last time, or so he judged from the silence that fell upon their arrival, broken only by excited whispers. He preferred not to look at anyone himself, trying to ignore them all, painfully aware of the electrical device around his neck that only confirmed to everyone nearby what they probably already knew anyway – what he was, why he was here, and under what circumstances.

A prisoner and the first successful experiment.

He wondered if that was why their arousal was stronger than before. If they hadn't gotten used to their scientists trying again and again without success, only to have him show up and survive.

Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe they didn't even know why he was here, and that question was on their minds.

Either way, they were staring at him and he didn't like it.

Unfortunately, he didn't like it when they stopped staring at him, either, because they were outside the lab and something hard and rough clenched in Mike's neck, pressing against his throat, making his hands shake and he could just feel that deep fear and the clear conviction that if he walked through that door again, something bad was going to happen.

"What are you going to do?" He blurted out before he could stop himself and before Shark could open the door.

He didn't want to ask, he didn't want to say anything, but his body still remembered the reverberations of ice and fire, the needle tip getting closer and closer, the stupid, useless pleas... And it wanted to know if it should expect it again.

Shark paused, her hand on the doorknob, and turned her dark, cold eyes to him. "Just some testing," she explained. "You'll be going to the lab every day until you've got your abilities sufficiently under control."

"About that..." Mike began, but he didn't even get to finish, and Shark was already pushing the door open forcefully and stepping into the bitterly familiar room. Mike followed her – if only because he didn't want to get a sharp jab in the ribs from one of the soldiers – and his gaze immediately slid to where he himself lay strapped to a bed, with no means of escape, convinced that he was going to die right then. It looked exactly the same as it had before, in fact the entire lab, or whatever room it was, looked completely the same – except that only now did Mike notice the grey metal door, which looked extremely familiar from his time locked in a single room, dominated by pain.

There were fewer doctors, or scientists – Mike really didn't know what they were. He sincerely hoped they were scientists, because as doctors they would be reallybad – than last time, but they were all staring at him with much more enthusiasm and excitement than before.

No sooner had he entered than several of them started talking to him urgently in Russian, one scientist even took his hand and held it up in the air as if to see if there was anything special about it, and another scientist walked around him and looked him over as if he were a particularly interesting exhibit in a museum. Mike was intensely uncomfortable with it all and was relieved when Shark barked something sharply and the group of scientists quickly retreated.

"Sit down," she told him, pointing to the damn bed.

Mike, who was happy to escape the attention of the other Russians, all of whom looked like they'd like to rip open his stomach just to see what was inside, didn't mind at that moment that he had to sit right there and did so without any problem.

He immediately pulled his hands to his chest though, just so someone wouldn't think to cuff them again. It wasn't like he could do anything if they chose to, but it made him feel at least a little safer.

Shark sat down next to the bed, some papers and a pen in her hand, while two other women walked around Mike and put some kind of round thing on him, especially in the area of his head. He supposed he could be glad they hadn't decided to cut his hair. After a while, they indicated that he needed to take his shirt off, which Mike didn't exactly like, but he wasn't about to argue, especially since he knew they wouldn't understand him anyway.

"I'm going to ask you questions while my colleagues find out if everything is okay with your body," Shark explained.

Mike just shrugged. Basically, it was a lot like a doctor's appointment – one of them listened to his heart with a stethoscope, then shone a light into his eye, especially the left one that had been the victim of that horrible injection – while Shark asked him details about how he was feeling physically and what all seemed different.

Mike decided to answer truthfully, because he himself wanted to know everything this group of Soviets would learn about him and his... Transformation, so he tried to be as honest as possible.

Shark made him describe everything he had felt since he had woken up from that amazing procedure and how he would describe the pain he had felt the moment the contents of the injection had been injected into his body – Mike's eye almost twitched when she asked him that particular thing, because it implied that they were aware of how painful it was and yet they didn't care. They probably hadn't even thought of anything like a painkilling injection or anything. He was just another experiment to them, an object they could do whatever they wanted with, and any pain from him didn't really affect them.

She was mostly interested in his comparisons of the pain to frost and fire, and although Mike had no idea why, he had to explain to her in detail exactly why he felt that way and what he felt was worse.

He then went on to say how he had felt the presence of... Something else in his body since the operation. When he said it, Shark made him elaborate, and he struggled in vain to explain the strange, heavy, and above all, incredibly strong sensation, as if a giant worm was burrowing through his body, literally burning its way through his veins and between his guts, settling more and more comfortably inside.

"Do you feel better or worse since the operation?" Shark asked him, who was carefully writing down all his words. "Any headaches? Fatigue, dizziness?"

Mike wiggled uncomfortably. "I threw up once," he admitted, but he had the impression it had nothing to do with... Whatever he'd been injected with, but with a general feeling of wrongness and disgust at everything that had happened lately. "But other than that, I'm pretty sure I feel better than I did before."

At least his every step didn't hurt, and his head didn't throb as if someone had mistaken it for a gong. In fact, he was feeling the best he had in... How much could it have been? Three weeks?
Shark nodded curtly and continued: "Let's get back to the... The feeling. Have you shown any signs of anything unusual since the operation?"

Mike hesitated. He was afraid to answer anything to that question. He knew that if he lied and said yes, the Russians would know that their experiment had succeeded and he feared that possibility. At the same time, he was terrified of what they would do if they found out it had failed. "How do you even know you've succeeded? Whatever it was you were planning to do?"

Shark watched him expressionlessly for a moment before she turned her head to the doctors who had been giving Mike an involuntary checkup and said something to them in Russian. They had a rather long conversation between them – Mike judged that they were reporting to her on his health, given that they pointed several times at the palm of his hand where he had a nearly healed cut from the glass, at his head, which had suffered a bump back in Starcourt, and at a few bruises that are just starting to show and contusions from his clumsy training session yesterday – before Shark shooed them away and Mike was finally able to put on his shirt.

"Get up," she ordered him, and Mike wasn't stupid enough to argue, so he jumped out of bed – he couldn't help the relief that came over him – and followed her through the lab to a door that led them into a room full of computers and screens, most of which looked far more modern than anything Mike had ever seen. There were a lot of people sitting at computers with headsets on, or discussing things with each other in Russian, and no one paid them hardly any attention.

Mike tried to make out anything on the screens, but could only guess that in most cases they were camera records from places that didn't look familiar in any way. Before he could get a better look at them, Shark walked over to the men sitting at one of the computers and spoke to him in Russian. The man nodded, glanced briefly at Mike, and motioned to him as if urging him to come closer.

A little nervously, Mike took a step forward, so he was standing closer to Shark than he would have liked, and she simply instructed him: "Watch."

So Mike obeyed and peeked over the man's shoulder to get a better view of the screen.

The screen lit up at that moment and a recording of the room appeared, which Mike would have unmistakably recognized even if he hadn't immediately caught a glimpse of his huddled silhouette on the floor. Every corner of that dirty, empty, cold room was forever burned into his mind, as were the memories of the pain associated with it.

A chill ran down his spine as he saw himself, this motionless and utterly defenseless, at the mercy of his captors. He had no idea that they were recording it all. But he should have expected that, huh?

The man at the computer fast-forwarded the recording a little and started the playback after Mike moved to the door on the screen and leaned his head against it.

Mike, who was watching now, didn't remember anything like that. After all, he had few memories of those days in that grey room that didn't involve pain. This was probably happening as another painful attack was coursing through him.

After a moment on the screen, Mike lowered his head to his knees and ran his hands through his hair. The footage was a little grainy, so the current Mike couldn't see any specific details, but after a moment he noticed something had changed.

He watched himself on the recording and watched as sparks appeared around his body. No. Not around his body. From his body.

At first he thought it must be some kind of camera glitch, some kind of grain in the footage, but what came next immediately reassured him that it wasn't.

The sparks seemed to be a warning for the huge burst of light that suddenly flooded the screen. For a moment, nothing but white could be seen, and Mike, unable to look away, just stared at it, stunned. After a moment, the image reappeared on the camera, revealing him – in perfect order, including his clothes – and hot walls that almost seemed to move and pulse with their own light.

The man replayed the moment twice more – and slowed it down just enough for Mike to notice the whipping tongues of fire that seemed to burst out of the clear air around him before they enveloped the screen.

Mike's blood rushed in his ears, and the sound was so much like the hissing of fire that he momentarily worried if he was burning himself from the inside.

Fire.

He... It was him. He made fire out of nothing.

"That happened again," Shark told him, apparently indifferent to the fact that the room had grown suspiciously quiet and that even though no one was looking in their direction, it was clear that everyone was listening. Although who knows what their English was like.

Mike didn't particularly care right now anyway. He just took a step back and looked down at his hands as if expecting them to burst into flames.

He knew it. In a way, he knew, because he wasn't an idiot and he could relate the constant burning sensation to the charred walls in his prison. He knew it, but to see it with his own eyes, to see the proof of what the Soviets had done to him, how they had irrevocably changed him, what he had become...

"Pyrokinesis. We don't know yet if you can do any of the things subject eleven can do, or if your abilities are completely different," Shark continued.

Mike found that unreal. Unrealistic and insane. It sounded ridiculous, coming from someone who had seen as much as he had – fought monsters from another dimension and literally dated a girl who had superpowers.

But that was the problem. Eleven had them since birth. She was born with them, it was her nature and part of her.

Mike... That thing didn't belong to Mike. It was forced on him, fought with him, he felt it. He should never have become host to whatever the Russians had injected into his veins, but he had anyway, and now here it was, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Mike fucking Wheeler got superpowers.

It sounded like a fucking joke. Were they even superpowers? Could that wild, fiery thing in his veins have been anything other than a curse at all?

A curse that chained his hands and feet to this place forever. To these people who no doubt planned to use him in whatever they had in mind.

"Michael," someone's voice shouted, but Mike didn't really register it.

What if it kills him? What if it gradually burned him from the inside because it had been put into his body by force and he had no idea what to do with it, no idea how to control it, no idea how to live with it?

It probably would have been better though. At least no one could take advantage of him because of those abilities.

Hell, he had become a threat. In the hands of the Soviets, and with proper training, he could become their nice, deadly weapon.

What if they sent him against Eleven? Against Will? What if they made him kill his family, doom his entire country?

Mike would like to believe he wouldn't, but he knew he wasn't strong enough to resist. He already felt like he was barely holding it together in this place.

He couldn't let this happen.

It was then that he realized that people around him were talking, and only then did he realize that his panic and icy fear had mixed with the fire that was bursting in his blood. He looked up from his shaking hands just as a small flame shot through the air right in front of his eyes, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

He turned his head to see Shark standing perfectly still a short distance from him, her hand raised in the direction of one of the soldiers, who was clutching the remote for the device Mike had wrapped around his neck, convulsively in his fingers.

He couldn't focus on it properly – all he could sense was a growing burning in his body that stretched all the way to his head, turning every thought into smoke and leaving only a sort of aftertaste of fear, which after a while also faded until all that was left was emptiness.

Small flames continued to crackle around Mike, keeping themselves at a distance that wouldn't set his hair or clothes on fire, but close enough to act as a sort of shield.

It was coming from him.

Mike wasn't able to fully catch and recognize the feeling that came over him at that moment, as he raised his hand in a strange desire to touch one of the flames. Only at that moment something heavy and large lodged in his throat, scratching and choking him from the inside, and he twisted violently in a sudden spasm that went through his entire body.

The last thing he remembered was that he coughed violently, that he tasted a sort of iron aftertaste in his mouth, and that he saw his fingers glued together with a red liquid, and then everything was plunged into darkness.

Notes:

(I hope there aren't too many mistakes, this chapter absolutely did not cooperate with me when I was correcting it.)

Hey, guys! Today's illustration is pretty lame, but I wanted to at least do something so I could finally release this.

Mainly because I'm warning that the next chapter probably won't be out for a while, probably not until the end of this year. There are several reasons, I'll start with the easy one: January is a pretty brutal month and I know I wouldn't be able to write anything, so I want to give myself a break so that I can write more chapters in the background of December, Christmas and all, and then have something to release in January.

The other problem, as you probably know, is the whole Noah situation. I'm not going to go into what I think here, except to say that the whole thing makes me nervous, especially about the fandom. I don't have a problem with separating the character from the actor, but a lot of people want to boycott Stranger Things itself (which I find frankly terribly unfair, because Noah is NOT the only actor and one person shouldn't automatically be behind the destruction of an entire series that so many people are involved in) and in short, it's kind of weird to write Byler fanfiction at this point, even if it's a slowburn where Will Byers doesn't show up for a huge number of chapters.
I'm hoping things will calm down a bit, so that I can then be more relaxed about writing any kind of content for Stranger Things myself.

Anyway, I hope you understand and are willing to wait for the next chapter, thank youuuu!

Chapter 6: Chapter six

Notes:

WARNING: Suicide attempt (It's very vague and not really close to the attempt itself, but it's there)

The second month

 Objective: 

Ḑ̧̛̦͙̤̤̭̫̰͇̩̺͉̥̫̝̥̳͍̦̐ͮ̆̓̉ͥ̃̂̔̒ͩ̈̉ͪͯ̿̚͘̚̕͡͝͡ͅi_̸̨͍͔̭͇͉̩̋̇ͣ́͐ͪ̄̀̀͑͟͞ę̴̢͉͎̖̈͂̍̊ͮͦ̂̎͞ͅ

That day at Starcourt was the worst day of Lucas' life.

If you'd asked him at any time before, he probably would have had trouble deciding which of the many bad days really earned the top spot as the worst of them.

They all involved the Upside Down, of course, because the bullying could be really bad at times, but not in a way that made him fear for his life and the lives of his friends.

Maybe the situation with Billy, but... Still.
Monsters from another dimension were just worse than a violent racist.

Maybe he'd say the day Will disappeared. After all, that's where it had started then, and every other bad day had unfolded since that moment when they'd gotten involved with alternate dimensions and girls with powers. Or also the day his fake body was pulled out, because regardless of the fact that they got Will back, the suffocating feeling of defeat and grief was very real in that moment.

Watching Steve fight the demodogs wasn't easy either, and he prayed he didn't pee himself in fear during the whole battle with Mindflayer.
It was a lot.

But in the end, Starcourt won, though for an obviously different reason than Mindflayer himself.

It was the day he lost his best friends.

And it all started with Mike's death.

Whenever Lucas thought about it, he couldn't really believe it. His brain simply couldn't absorb the fact that Mike was no longer with him.

It was perhaps even worse than the time with Will, because before they were younger, more naive and full of hope that their friend was out there somewhere and they had to do everything in their power to help him.

And Will did come back and they all – except Barb and Bob, but whom he never got to know better – continued, against all odds, to come out of danger again and again without losing anyone.

Perhaps this had induced an exaggerated sense of confidence in Lucas. He thought they were already experienced and that whatever the Upside Down had in store for them, they would be able to handle.

But they couldn't, and Lucas didn't just lose his best friend, he also lost everything else.

Everything that made up Lucas's life and what he knew seemed to crumble before his eyes. The rift was there the moment the rescuers came back to them empty-handed, the moment Nancy let out a loud, desperate sob, the moment Eleven just fell to her knees in silence, her eyes fixed ahead of her on the dying flames, the moment the original Party looked at each other and realized they were no longer four, but only three.

And the rift was only spreading, stretching its rays across the surface of what had once been Lucas' home. Across the security and comfortable familiarity of his friends, across the daily routine.

The first people he'd lost after Mike's death had been Will and Eleven. It didn't take Joyce Byers long to definitively decide that Hawkins had taken too much from them to stay.

Neither El nor Will protested particularly. El had lost her father and her powers on top with Mike, and it was obvious that she was no longer attached to Hawkins and wanted to get out of this place as soon as she could.

Will was a little more uncertain and seemed reluctant to leave his friends, but Lucas couldn't help but notice the way he occasionally glanced at places around them that probably reminded him of Mike in some way. And there was pure pain and suffering on his face, to the point where Lucas himself was encouraging him not to worry about the move, because it was clear that daily reminders of what they had lost couldn't be good for him.

So now the Byers' main focus was on preparing for the move, and while his bond with them would soon stretch across several states away, his bond with Max meanwhile was slowly but surely beginning to fray.

It wasn't so obvious at first. Max came to him for comfort almost every day, and Lucas provided it to her as much as she did to him. But then it started to get worse. As the days passed, Max began to pull away from him. She didn't talk to him unless he approached her himself, she didn't socialize with them unless they invited her to do so, and in fact, she stopped telling him about everything.

She had recently moved and Lucas had only found out about it from El, who had mentioned it to him because she had gone to return some things Max had left at her place.

Lucas had really tried to stop Max from drifting away from them, but he was struggling to keep himself together with everything that had happened and it was very hard to put that much effort into one person when he didn't have the strength to do it.

Max hadn't broken up with him yet, but he knew that would happen if things continued at this rate.

In fact, the situation reminded him a lot of Mike and the way he reacted when they lost El.
The exact same effort to distance and isolate himself from them, the exact same dislike of anything, the weariness and sort of... Indifference?

Lucas was convinced that the only reason Mike was even leaving the house was because of Will. Maybe it was because he wanted to keep an eye on him after everything with the Upside Down, maybe it was because Will had said something to him, or maybe it was purely because Will was the only reason for Mike to do anything at all, even though he was quite obviously grieving over El's disappearance.
And she came back after that, and Mike was doing better too.

The problem was that Lucas wasn't Will. He didn't know what he had to do to become as important to Max as Will was to Mike, and he had no idea what he should say or do to stop her from severing all ties with them.

And unlike Eleven, Billy and Mike weren't coming back.

So Lucas waited for the verdict, for that moment when Max would break up with him and decide to disappear from his life completely.

The only one who was still by his side was Dustin, but Lucas was losing faith that it would be for much longer. They were due to start high school in a month. El and Will wouldn't be there with them, and Max would probably pretend she didn't know them.

How long will Dustin's willingness to stay with Lucas last?

It was almost as if Mike was the beating heart of their group. Because the moment that beat stopped, everything else started to gradually die.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike discovered that he and Blondie had a lot in common. For example, a penchant for using swear words in each other's language.

"You... Piece of shit!" Blondie hissed at him, not forgetting to hit him over the head with her hand, knocking Mike out of his jump rope rhythm. Yes, because Blondie had decided a few days ago that the best military training would be provided by jumping rope.

Mike, who was utterly futile in virtually all physical activities, understandably didn't shine at jumping rope. It was only today that he managed to keep his rhythm without getting his feet tangled in the rope and now Blondie has ruined it for him! He didn't even know why she hit him!

"Иди на хуй!" Mike barked back at her, earning a kick from her, which unexpectedly caused his legs to tangle in the rope again and he fell straight to the ground. On the hard ground without a mat.

Fortunately, he was sort of prepared for it, and so he was able to keep it from slamming face first into the ground – which had happened once before, when Blondie had first tripped his legs. He'd gotten a nice bump on his head from that, which the wannabe doctors had to treat afterwards, and Blondie had taunted him from then on until it healed.

This time, however, he caught his hands on the ground and rolled heavily onto his side, just barely avoiding a boot that flew in his direction.

"You're getting predictable," he said aloud, knowing she wouldn't understand a word he said unless he was cursing.

"Get up," Blondie ordered him, folding her arms across her chest. "Again."

Mike grinned at her, sat up and untangled the jump rope from his legs, only to get up – despite his sore muscles and new bruises on his elbows – to start again.

Blondie leaned against the wall opposite him and pierced him with her eyes, which successfully served as a good reason why he'd rather not complain about anything.

He and Blondie had a strange, love-hate relationship. At least that was Mike's guess, though he was sure Blondie certainly didn't look at it that way.

He found, however, that, ironically, the blonde woman - whose name he still didn't know, so he was limited to his humble nickname and every Russian and English insult he knew – was about the only person in this whole damn base that he wasn't afraid of, or that he deeply, deeply hated.

It was kind of weird, because Blondie yelled at him all the time, beat him up, was mean, harsh and unpleasant, but never did anything downright scary or horrible that made Mike shut up and just think about what she was up to. In fact, she seemed to encourage him to return her fiery behavior.

He didn't know if it was some special tactic to help him exercise, but basically 'gym' was now his favorite activity to do here.

Not that Mike was particularly good at it, or somehow enjoyed it. He hadn't gotten much better at anything he'd been doing here for the past two weeks – which was mostly the same old thing, from working out to running to working out, so it wasn't a particularly exciting activity either – except that he was falling less, and he didn't feel so insanely embarrassed when Blondie and the two soldiers whose job it apparently became to chase everywhere he went, watched him.

But he really enjoyed the opportunity to discharge his excess energy and anger in simple, mindless exertion and his clashes with Blondie, which never led to him fearing for his life. Sure, for his head or face maybe, but he never had to worry that if he said the wrong thing, Blondie would stab him in his sleep.
Even though she had threatened him with it several times in her broken English.

Mike sometimes imagined how his friends would react if they heard about Mike Wheeler enjoying something even remotely similar to P.E. He was sure they would stare at him in shock and sheer disbelief. Dustin would probably check to see if he happened to be sick.

Mike quickly banished thoughts of his friends, though it was practically pointless. They always ended up creeping into his head, only plunging him into a sort of bittersweet spiral of memories that only ended in a numb, despairing void that reminded him suffocatingly that he'd probably never see them again.

He nearly tripped and stumbled over the jump rope, but Blondie thankfully didn't notice as she stared at the dictionary. She was probably looking for some other curse word to call him.
He was enjoying training with her. The other things Mike had been doing for the past two weeks, not so much.

Evenings were reserved for training and afternoons, and occasionally some mornings, for the lab.

Since the day Mike had passed out after seeing the camera footage and used his powers, he hadn't managed to shake a spark out of himself, leading to endless frustration for Shark and all the scientists present.

The fiery thing inside him seemed to do whatever it wanted and Mike honestly didn't particularly mind.

Most of the time he tried to forget that he could actually do something like that, but he was beginning to admit to himself that such a thing was impossible. It was part of him now – he could feel the presence of that fire every waking second, the heat and crackle of the flames haunting him even in his dreams. He still didn't know how to feel about it, but the initial fear and dread were gradually replaced by cautious plans.

Mike Wheeler intended to escape from this hell, but to do so he would first have to get the fire to cooperate.

The problem was, he had no idea how to do that, and neither did the gaggle of scientists who bounced around him every afternoon, trying every way they could to awaken his abilities.

So far it hadn't been anything unpleasant, but Mike was sure it would happen soon.

Alone, mostly in the privacy of his room – despite the fact that it wasn't really privacy, not with cameras constantly watching him – he occasionally tried to wake up his abilities. He voluntarily thought about his friends, about all the negative emotions that had been swirling inside him since he'd gotten here, but nothing.
The flames seemed to mock him.

Mike sometimes wondered if they couldn't be their own being. He found the idea repulsive and disgusting, but quite realistic. What if the fire was its own master and it was actually the fire that was controlling Mike?

In that case, his escape would be a lot more difficult, but perhaps he could still find a way.
Either way, he knew he wouldn't stop fighting. Even though he'd almost given up once.

To his displeasure, a memory of the day after the last time he'd used his new abilities surfaced in his mind.

He woke up again in that empty, clean white room, but this time Mike felt different. This time he didn't feel like the absence of color was sucking the life out of him. In that moment, he felt as if the quiet, still, bland white was the only thing keeping him in reality.

It seemed ironic, given that until this point it had done the exact opposite, but in that moment Mike realized clearly for the first time what he had become. What he could become.

He felt like a stain in a place where he had no business being. Like some kind of horrible, life-threatening mistake, an anomaly in their world, a threat to everyone and everything he'd ever loved.

He wasn't that yet, he knew. He had not yet become a weapon.
But he could. He could become one.

The fire in his veins didn't die down – no, it continued to flow lazily through his body, almost as if it had replaced his blood, and Mike felt like he was burning from the inside, and he expected the room around him to burst into flame, but nothing actually came out. The fire scorched his bones and insides, scratching his bones and reminding him of its presence. His existence.

What he could do.

Mike had never, not once in his life, thought of El as a monster because of her abilities. Not even when she killed so many people to save them all.

But he was sure that he might be some kind of monster. Created in a lab, turned into something to be used for someone else's benefit, with darkness that turned into bright, fierce fire.

This was never supposed to happen.

He should never have survived this.

He should never have become... This.

He didn't do anything, he didn't hurt anyone, he didn't do anything. So far.

And that was the key thought in his mind. He hadn't hurt anyone yet.
Not yet, because he wasn't strong enough or capable enough to do it, but when he did? Would he be able to resist the influence of his captors, whatever they wanted to use him for?
He didn't know. And that uncertainty was what made him clutch the shard of glass under his pillow.

When he felt its familiar, cool weight, his pulse quickened and his breathing grew heavy. Suddenly it was difficult to swallow. It was difficult to move at all, his thoughts slowed and curled to the weight of the glass in his fingers.

He was sure that if he staggered off to the bathroom where the cameras weren't watching him, he would bleed out fast enough that no one would have time to save him.

He tried to swallow and take a deep breath, but the attempt alone was painful, shaky.

He had to do it. He had to make sure he never hurt his friends, that no damn Russian would ever use him to his own advantage. He had to make sure the fire died with him.

He pulled his hand out from under the pillow, fingers still wrapped around the piece of glass. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and just sat motionless for a moment before he managed to stand up, despite the trembling of his limbs. He was turned sideways to the camera so that the glass in his hand couldn't be seen.

His heart pounded wildly in his ears, as if trying in vain to remind him that if he does this, he would never hear that sound again, as he took a few steps towards the toilet door. Each one was heavy, as if he had iron balls strapped to his ankles.

Reaching out a shaky hand, he pulled the handle and opened the door. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him, sealing himself in complete darkness, sat down on the floor, and leaned his back against the cool wall.

He gripped the shard of glass so tightly in his fingers that after a moment he felt the warm liquid trickling down his palm to his wrist.

He sat in the dark, his breathing too loud, his heart too fast, and tears in his eyes while he tried not to vomit.

Ah God. Did he really want to do that? He had to do it. He had to, had to, had to, before anyone had a chance to make him do something vile and horrible, but Mike didn't want to.

Mike didn't want to so badly because he was selfish and afraid and he missed his friends and he missed his mom and Hawkins and El and he missed Will.

He couldn't hold it in at that moment as a strangled, weak sob escaped his throat and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

Still holding the glass in his hand, he lifted it for a moment and pressed it to his other wrist, but his hand shook so madly and his body was shaken by sobs so powerful that finally the shard slipped from his fingers and landed with a clink on the floor.

Mike pulled his knees up to his chest, rested his head against them and ran his fingers through his hair, ignoring the warm blood still pouring from his hand.

He couldn't do it, oh God, he couldn't do it, he couldn't kill himself because he didn't want to die and he wanted to go back home.

It shouldn't matter, because his friends thought he was dead anyway, it wouldn't make any difference to them, and didn't he wish he'd disappeared by accident once so he wouldn't bother them anymore? But in reality, he was scared and didn't want to do it and he was so damn selfish and weak.

He sat like that on the floor in total darkness until the sobs stopped and the trembling of his body was reduced to a gentle shudder.

He staggered a few times, rubbed his nose and eyes in vain in his sleeve, leaned his head heavily against the wall, and drew a deep breath.

He couldn't. He was too weak to do what he was supposed to.

So what now? What other way was there for him?

After all, he couldn't allow his captors to use him as they pleased. But he didn't believe he could somehow resist them. In the past, none of them hesitated to hurt him, just to make him obey. Just to keep quiet, or to move in the right way.

Hell, he had a collar around his neck that could send electricity into his body with the push of a button.

But there was nothing else he could do. If he didn't want to give up, he had to fight, or at least try.

He had to at least hope that he could become strong enough to fight. To survive and get back to his friends, because even though they might not care about him, he did care, a lot, and maybe he was selfish, but he wanted to get back and get away from here.

He needed to see them. He needed to talk to them, he needed to hug them, he just needed them. Dustin, Lucas, El, Will, Nancy, everyone, even Max.

Mike knew they would all fight. They wouldn't give up, they would fight until they won. No matter how many times they got hurt, how many times they fell, how many times it looked like they were going to lose, they wouldn't stop fighting.

Mike could have at least tried to do the same.

El did, too. Despite being treated like a lab rat by the scientists at Hawkins Lab, despite never having experienced anything else, never having seen the world beyond the high walls of her prison, she had managed to escape and stand up for what she believed was right. She became a superhero.

Mike may not have been as strong, brave or good as his beloved, amazing Eleven, but he could try for her sake.

I'll come back to you, he promised himself mentally, clenching his bleeding fingers into a fist. I will come back to you all.

─┉─ • ─┉─

"Any progress?"

"Not at all."

"How are you feeling?"

"Normal. I mean, fine."

"Any headaches or anywhere else?"

Yeah, I'm getting a headache from having to take this quiz every time, Mike thought bitterly to himself, but smoothly replied, "No."

He learned rather quickly that provoking Blondie might be okay, but provoking Shark and her group of scientists... He couldn't afford to do that.

Mike, after all, had always been the type to speak before he thought and who had far too little respect for any authority. So when he overcame his primal state and said something to Shark for the first time, he wasn't too surprised that he got three electric shocks in a row.

Not that it made the whole situation any better. Mike then cried all night in his room, wishing someone would get him out of there.
From then on, he answered only as he was supposed to.

Provoking Blondie was fine, but the rest of the Russians clearly had no sense of humor. Their brains were clearly stunted by the cold or something.

It didn't stop Mike from scolding them, at least in spirit. Because he was sure that if he stopped trying to bring at least a little mirth to his situation, he would most certainly go insane.

Shark frowned slightly at him, as if she wasn't too pleased with his answers – like anything Mike did, anyway – but then she put down her pesky papers, straightened up, and folded her hands in her lap.

Since she was the only one of the bunch of scientists who could speak at least some level of English, she kept an eye on everything that went on in the lab. So she rarely bothered to explain to Mike why they were trying this and that – from the various machines and computers whose purpose he couldn't guess, to testing his physical prowess – and he supposed he could be glad they hadn't decided to cut him open and look inside him yet.
Knowing them, they probably wouldn't even give him any anesthetic.

"As you know, we've been testing your reactions to cold temperatures," Shark told him, and Mike found it hard to resist a wry grin as he nodded.

Mike had, in fact, mentioned to them that he found himself less cold than he had been since the operation – which was reflected in the fact that he had no problem walking from his room to the lab in just a short-sleeved shirt, while everyone else kept their jackets, or at least uniforms, on despite the heating – so the scientists had picked up on that, and he'd been testing how he felt in the cold for about a week now. First they made him dip his hands in absolutely freezing water, then he was made to lie all over in a tub filled with incredibly icy water, and recently they even brought in snow.

Whichever of these Mike touched, steam seemed to rise from his skin. He heated the water around him like he was a goddamn heater, turning the snow into a sad, wet slush with just a touch.

Mike found this to be a most interesting and convenient piece of information, because now he knew that when he escapes into the freezing wilderness surrounding the base he was on – he assumed this because of the snow they'd brought and the fact that covert operations and projects were unlikely to take place in any known, inhabited location – he wouldn't freeze to the bone immediately after he gets out.
Now he had to find a way to actually do that.

"We'll try the opposite today," Shark continued, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he immediately tensed as one of the scientists – Mike mentally called him Rat, because of his elongated face and those few sad, greyish hairs – approached him and reached for his hand.

Mike flinched and pulled it to his chest, unable to help but notice the lighter Rat held in his hand. "What do you want to do?" He asked warily, not taking his eyes off the Rat's disinterested face.

"Hold out your hand, Michael," Shark ordered him coolly, and one of the soldiers guarding him, as always, moved and pulled the remote from his pocket.

Mike swallowed his fear and blinked sharply to chase away any tears that might come to his eyes as he very carefully pulled his hand away from his chest and towards Rat.

There was no point in risking an electric shock and then being burned anyway. He would save himself the double pain, despite how bad it seemed.

Rat closed his cold fingers around his wrist, then clicked the lighter. Mike watched the small, flickering flame closely as it approached his skin and felt himself tense, anticipating the pain. He didn't know how bad it would be. The lighter couldn't possibly do that much damage, could it? He'd never been burned, boiling water at most, so he really had no idea.

Except that the moment the fire licked his skin and he anticipated the excruciating burn – he was even ready to jerk Rat off – he found out... That nothing was really wrong.

The flame was quite obviously touching him, but there was no sharp pain, no nasty burn. It tickled a little, but otherwise it felt similar to dipping his hand into lukewarm water.

Mike was incredibly intrigued. "May I?" He asked, and even though Rat probably didn't understand, he handed him the lighter anyway. He flicked it, and as soon as the flame appeared, Mike gripped it between his fingers.
No burning, no pain.

He ran the flame down the length of his arm and couldn't help being amazed at himself. It felt almost pleasurable, as if he were combing a smooth, warm substance between his fingers, gently brushing against his skin.

He raised the lighter in front of him, the fire to eye level, and looked directly at it, at the way it flickered and flared and glowed. He reached out to it again, but this time, instead of clasping the flame between his fingers and smothering it in his grasp, he squeezed only the tip and then stretched it.

Mike's eyes bugged out in surprise as he moved his hand and the flame now hung like a long, glowing cord between the lighter and his fingers.

He pulled his fingers away, but the flame seemed unwilling to let go – it leapt from the lighter to his hand and wrapped itself around his knuckles.

Mike fleetingly heard the furious scratching of pen against paper and the click of a camera as someone forever immortalized the moment, but he didn't really notice.

He watched the quivering fire coil around his fingers as if it were some tiny, glowing snake and couldn't help smiling.

He could... Could he have done more? Could he make it bigger?

He forced himself to focus on the fiery force within him that for once had enthusiastically come out to meet him. A few sparks flew into the air around him, but he focused that power into the flame already wrapped around his hand.

He had no idea how exactly he was doing it. It was like touching something intangible, something that wasn't supposed to exist, but was there nonetheless. On the edge of his reach most of the time, but close enough at the moment that he could grab onto it and control it as he pleased. He didn't understand it, it didn't make sense to him, but it worked.

The fire twitched as if it had been hit by something invisible and then, faster than Mike could react, it grew nearly tenfold in size and wrapped itself around Mike's hand.

"Oh my god," Mike gasped in disbelief as he raised his hand, which now had a several finger thick cord of pure fire wrapped around it as if it were some sort of cuddly pet.

Mike then looked up to the stunned scientists around him.
His heart stopped for a moment as an idea formed in his mind.

He could kill them all right now.

The soldier watching him seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and raised his remote, ready to stun Mike if he made a suspicious move.

Mike forced himself to lower his eyes back to the flame and focused his power into it again. He needed to take this chance. He didn't know when he'd be able to regain control of the fire, and he certainly didn't know when he'd have such a great opportunity to disarm the controller as well.

Only he couldn't do that. Not only did he not know how he was going to get out of here, he also didn't want to kill anyone. Sure, if he burned Shark's face forever, he probably wouldn't complain, but he didn't want them to die, he didn't want to kill anyone.

He had to find a better way to get out of here without hurting anyone.

So he forced himself to take a deep breath and release the flame from his grasp.

The fire flickered for a moment before dissipating into the air as if it had never existed, leaving Mike with only the ghostly feeling of its warmth on his skin.

His throat tightened with fear as he looked again at Shark and his victorious, almost predatory expression.

Only it wasn't just that. It was then that he realized something was scratching his throat very uncomfortably, and before he could stop himself, he coughed wildly.

He covered his mouth with his hand and when the coughing fit stopped and he pulled his fingers away from his face, he immediately froze as he noticed the blood that covered his hand. After all, there was a familiar, iron, unpleasant aftertaste in his throat.

He stared shakily at the blood on his fingers and looked up to Shark to see if she would give him an explanation.

Shark took one look at him and began speaking to the other scientists in Russian, so Mike turned his eyes back to his hand.

He coughed up blood. He was pretty sure that didn't bode well in any way.

He wondered if it was his version of a nosebleed – like El had.

Only hell, coughing up blood sounded like something that could kill him.

Again, the thought crept into his head, wondering if his new abilities would kill him after all. Because he wasn't born with them and they were given to him by force – if his body won't fight them until it kills him

Mike didn't know if that would be best. It probably would.

But until he knew for sure, he'd just have to count on the fact that he wasn't going to get out of here any other way than by helping himself. And he needed to start coming up with a plan.

Notes:

Helloooo! First of all, everything from the last chapter still applies but I'm also a bit stuck in writer's block, so probably don't expect the next chapter to come out the very next weekend.

I just wanted to let you know that I definitely haven't forgotten about this, and at the same time, since it's Christmas, you can think of it as a bit of a gift!

In my country it's celebrated already on the 24th of December, so Merry Christmas to those who have already been through it like me and to those who are yet to do so. And of course, for those who don't celebrate, at least you can enjoy the new chapter! 😎

Thank you for reading, I hope to get off the block and into more regular publishing as soon as possible.

BY THE WAY, I've had a Spotify playlist for this fanfiction for a while now! You can check it out if you're interested. A lot of the songs are there purely for atmosphere, but some of them fit a lot lyrically with the person Mike becomes in this fanfiction, so it's a little hint as to what direction the story will take ☺️

 

Spotify playlist

Chapter 7: Chapter seven

The second month

Objective: Fight (?), find a way to escape (main objective)

Mike was awakened by fingers wrapped around his throat. Better said, he was awakened by the lack of air and the painful pressure being applied to his neck, just above the electroshock machine.

It took barely a second of confusion before he automatically tried to reach out against the hands that held him in a death grip. Since the lights were never turned off in the white room, he could see the person above him very clearly-except it didn't matter, because they were dressed entirely in black, including a black hood under which only their eyes were visible. Eyes fixed directly on his.

He began to thrash violently, trying to kick his attacker, but even though he was sure he had hit the person, the grip around his neck didn't loosen. He tried to summon the fire to him, even the slightest spark, but he could muster nothing but helpless grunts and desperate gasps, the choking, growing pain, and the tears that slipped into his eyes. At the moment when he was sure he was going to die and his efforts to fight had waned, his attacker unexpectedly lifted him up, pulled him from the bed, and threw him across the room to the wall.

The impact was so powerful that Mike's eyes were momentarily blinded, the whole world was silenced and reduced to a growing whistling in his ears, and he hadn't even had time to recover properly from the sudden daze when he felt the hand around his neck again. The fingers dug into his skin like fishing hooks, but this time not with the intent to strangle him – only to pull him to his feet along the wall, high enough that his heels weren't even touching the ground and he could only hang helplessly. Mike tried to wriggle out of the hold, using his position to kick and swing himself in all directions, though his vision was blurred with tears and his hearing still muffled, but it was all for nothing. No matter how hard he tried, his attacker didn't flinch, in fact he didn't move an inch, didn't make a sound, and gave no indication that he was having trouble holding Mike.

There was only one warning of what was to come – and that was a slight increase in pressure around his neck, as if the attacker was making sure he was holding him tight.

Mike didn't register what it meant at the time, but just a moment later his attacker stretched out and threw his head right against the wall so hard that Mike heard a crack and he had no idea if it was his skull or the wall behind him.

With the first blow, he felt warm blood trickling down the back of his neck to the back of his neck. Plus, he could feel it in his mouth, too, because he had bitten his tongue in the process. His thoughts became foggy, a dull, simple pain took over everything, everything was somehow dull, bland and muffled.

He didn't even have time to breathe. He didn't feel the second blow.

─┉─ • ─┉─

When Mike woke up, the first thing he realized was the pain. The second was some desperate thought in his head, taunting himself that it was getting funny that his existence was constantly revolving around some kind of pain. And for the third he opened his eyes.

Over the past few weeks he had gotten used to falling asleep and waking up to bright, unchanging white light, but at the moment the stark, pupil-burning whiteness did nothing to help the throbbing pain in his head.

He couldn't help the painful groan that pushed its way through his teeth as he pressed his eyelids together again, trying to fight off the pain that pulsed in regular, increasingly strong waves in his head. It didn't seem to be getting any better, though, so he finally dared to open his eyes again, this time keeping them open despite all the discomfort.

He lay in his bed, propped up against the pillows, in a white room with no one else for company. His gaze immediately wandered to the wall, the one the man had hit with him, and after a moment of just staring at it, motionless, he began to wonder if he was just dreaming.

So he lifted a slightly trembling hand and touched the back of his head with it, where he felt a soft bandage, and as soon as he applied just a little pressure, a wave of pain shot through him, so much that he jerked and hissed.

At the same time, with the movement, he realized that his throat was constricted and that just that simple sound made his throat burn and scratch.

He opened his mouth to speak, tentatively, but couldn't get a sound out without another version of pain vibrating through him.
No. He didn't dream it.

It meant someone had managed to paint over the wall, then, because there was no way there wasn't at least a drop of blood left, given the huge wound he'd taken.

Did he have a concussion? Hell, he could have. Even Billy didn't hit him as hard as the guy from last night.

Mike shuddered as he remembered the black figure and only the indifferent, unconcerned eyes. He was a strong contrast in the white room, a silent invader compared to Mike's sobs and gasps.

What the hell was that? Was this some random Russian acting on his own because he simply didn't like Mike's existence? If so, how did he get here? How did he get past his guards?

Did he take them out? Or did he cooperate with them and this was all just some kind of test, a test that Mike failed because all he could do was cry and try to breathe?

What time was it? How much time had passed?
Mike had no idea. He wondered if someone would come to explain, to check on him, or maybe even give him food, but fatigue and the desire to soothe the pain in his throat and head with sleep began to overwhelm him again, so he decided to close his eyes and pretend it never happened and was just a bad dream.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Apparently the Russians didn't believe in recovering from injuries, or maybe they recovered by drinking vodka every time, that was hard to say, but as soon as Mike woke up again it was because someone was shaking his shoulder.

The sudden movement only made him dizzy, and he didn't even have time to look at whoever was shaking him before he was leaning over the side of the bed, next to which someone had thoughtfully placed a bucket.

There wasn't much he'd vomited, just the leftovers from last night's dinner and, to his horror, a few drops of what might have been blood as well – hard to tell if it was because of the brutal strangulation or his new abilities – and once his stomach had settled a little and his head had stopped spinning, he finally looked up at Blondie, who was eyeing him with disgust.

"Let's go," she told him harshly. "Training."
Mike stared blankly at her, trying to figure out if she was serious. But she didn't seem to be joking.

The fact that Blondie was here meant they'd let him have the whole day off until the evening. They probably thought that was enough time for him to recover from being slammed into a wall and nearly strangled.

"Нет," Mike refused, though he immediately regretted it as his throat tightened with a pinching, choking pain. But that was true for simple swallows as well, so he was getting used to it.

Blondie started cursing him in such rapid Russian that Mike wouldn't have understood a word she said even if he'd been paying attention and hadn't been beaten the shit out of him just hours before, so he just watched her aggressive outburst and then repeated: "Нет."
His Russian was limited to a few basic words, most of which contained insults, so he pointed to the back of his head and hoped she would understand.

Blondie shook her head violently, opening her mouth like a fish out of water for a moment before she got it out of her after a long time: "I don't care. Command. Let's go."

Mike didn't move.

Honestly, what followed was purely his fault, because he had literally asked for it with his behavior.

Blondie moved faster than he could register, grabbed him by the hair and yanked him so hard that he fell over the bed right into a bucket of vomit that smeared all over his hands and shirt. To make matters worse, Blondie shook him and without letting go of his hair, pulled him to his feet by it and forced him to look at her. Mike didn't have enough strength in his legs to stand on his own, and his head was so dizzy he couldn't concentrate properly, but he knew Blondie wasn't going to cuddle him.

She wasn't his mother, or his damn friend. The fact that he'd been assaulted yesterday probably didn't matter to her at heart.
Everyone here didn't care.

"Let's go," she hissed, then let go of him, causing him to collapse to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Mike didn't want to do anything other than lie there and melt into the ground on the spot, but he also didn't want to risk Blondie kicking him – she'd done it before when he was too tired from all the exercise and simply lay on the floor, to relieve his exhausted body, if only for a moment – so he gritted his teeth and, despite the throbbing, unremitting pain in his head and the sudden nausea, braced his hands on the ground and forced himself up.

Blondie hummed something under her nose, and when Mike looked up at her, to his surprise, she looked pleased. As soon as she noticed him staring at her, however, her features immediately contorted into an angry scowl.

"Let's go!" She repeated angrily, adding a long string of Russian curses as she marched out of the room, forcing Mike to follow her even though he had a bandage around his head and vomit on his clothes.

But if she had yelled at him less than usual during training and just let him run on the treadmill most of the time, neither of them had mentioned it.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike stayed up that night. He had almost a full day to sleep and training with Blondie wasn't as hard as it could have been and he didn't want to risk being ambushed in his sleep again

Until someone explained to him exactly what had happened and if it was going to happen again, he was going to wait, ready for anyone who wanted to try something.

By ready, he meant waiting in complete silence, in the dull light of his room, sitting on his bed, his fingers wrapped around a shard of glass. He was careful to keep his hand under the covers so his makeshift weapon wouldn't be visible on the cameras.

He wondered if it was worth pulling his only possible advantage on a random attacker, because even if he did happen to do something to him, it would probably result in his room being ruthlessly searched and all the other shards cleaned up, which meant Mike would lose his weapon.

At the same time, he knew he damn well didn't want to be at the mercy of anyone who walked in here with the intent to harm him again, because he was already helpless in every other way, and he was beginning to hate the feeling.

He hated not being able to do anything. When someone told him he should just sit back and accept his fate or leave it to other people, people who were more qualified to handle certain situations and put themselves in danger instead of him.

El. Eleven did it all the time, and Mike hated it with every cell in his body because it made him feel incredibly useless, weak, and selfish every time, because he felt like he was hiding behind El like a child behind his mother's skirt, expecting her to protect them all every time.

Logically, he knew that as a girl with powers, she was the only one of them who stood an even chance against monsters from another dimension.

On the other hand, he couldn't help but think about the fact that his friends were capable of fighting too – hell, Jonathan and Nancy had set a trap to lure the Demogorgon away from Hopper and Joyce when they went looking for Will in the Upside Down, and Steve was practically beating the Demogorgon with a nail-tipped baseball bat on a daily basis. Max stood up to her brother when he tried to turn Steve into mush and looked pretty damn cool doing it, and Dustin was constantly coming up with all sorts of plans and theories to help them fight Upside Down as best they could. And of course Will, who despite everything, survived the Upside Down and survived the possession of the creature that took up residence in his body. If there was a stronger person than Will, Mike didn't know him.

And what did he do? Nothing, except mess things up. He yelled at his best friend, who'd been through so much, for absolutely nothing. He lied to his girlfriend and got jealous when she started talking to Max because he felt like she was a bad influence on her. And sure, he may have jumped off a cliff once to save Dustin's teeth, but even then El had to save him, and when he finally tried to help someone, to do something, he ended up here.

In fucking Russia, where he had to sit in complete silence, in white light, on a bed with a shard in his hand, waiting to see if someone would come and knock him unconscious again, because that's what his life had apparently become.

No one came, but Mike still didn't fall asleep.

─┉─ • ─┉─

By the time his breakfast was brought, Mike could barely keep his lids open, and he forced himself to eat the food only because he couldn't afford to be any weaker than he already was.

After that, he finally allowed himself a few hours of sleep until lunch – the sight of the mixed brown slop that supposedly contained meat made him nostalgic for his mother's kitchen – and then simply waited for Shark to come for him.

His head never stopped aching and every swallow was unpleasant and harsh – when he touched his neck where the electrical device was, he could feel the irritated skin and imagine it was all red. In addition, he also examined the wall the man had slammed him against and confirmed that it was fairly freshly painted.

Before all this happened, he had planned to go explore the base a bit to get a better idea of where everything was, but the nighttime ambush had thwarted his plans and he decided to postpone it until tomorrow. He needed to start doing something before it happened again, because at this rate it was going to kill him here.

He had to come up with a plan to get out of here, but to do that he needed to know all the details and all the important information.
And he had to learn how to control his powers, which meant he would be on the same side as Shark in that regard at least.

Almost as if he had summoned her with his thoughts, the cold and unexcited scientist stepped into the room.

Mike felt like screaming at her or throwing something at her like he always did, but in reality it would do nothing but give him an electric shock and he didn't need to add any more pain to the list for his aching body at the moment, so he just got up from the bed and silently followed Shark out of the room.

He wondered if he should find out her name, but in a strange way he was comfortable with it that way. It made her less of a person in his eyes than she was, and it meant he didn't have to think too much about the cruelty of this place that was run by none other than humans.

To distract himself from the stares of everyone present as they walked through the huge hall, Mike mouthed towards Shark: "I hope I don't have a concussion."

The words came out with more of a grunt than he expected, which sort of emphasized the state he was in.

Shark shot him a sidelong glance and replied: "You're fine. There's no reason for you to have a concussion. The blow wasn't strong enough to cause anything like that."

Mike felt a familiar anger pass through him, which he tried to suppress and smiled sweetly at the black-haired woman. "Was that you? It seemed more like a man to me, but who knows. Maybe I underestimate women of your character."

Shark didn't answer him, so Mike continued: "What was that for anyway? I was doing quite well the day before, you'd think you wouldn't want to punish me for that."

"If you considered this a punishment, Michael, it's your own fault," Shark replied unperturbed, not even looking at him.

Mike, on the other hand, stared at her in disbelief as Shark continued: "If you were stronger, you could have fought off your attacker. Defeat him. But you're not. Think of it as your own failure."

My failure? Mike repeated to himself in disbelief as anger began to boil up inside him, and he knew that if he snapped at Shark, he would earn something other than a response.
Was it his fault? How could they expect him to learn to control his abilities so quickly? Did they think one accomplishment was enough to throw fire around like a flamethrower?

"If you want me to have some way to defend myself, give me a lighter," Mike suggested as he managed to calm his nerves a little and forced himself to sound much calmer than he felt.

Shark was opening the door to the lab at this point and as she stepped inside she turned to him and said: "I don't want you to make a bonfire of our people. This isn't about your abilities, and if you try to use them next time in a similar attack, we'll stop you."

"What?" Mike snapped, unable to control himself. He was aware that the scientists present were staring at them and that one of the soldiers accompanying them had reached for the stupid remote, but at the moment he didn't care because he couldn't make out what Shark was talking about. "So what the hell do you want me to do? Because if I'm going to get beaten up like this every once in a while, I'm not going to be of any use to you."

Shark turned to face him, and though she wasn't much taller than him, the utterly icy stare she gave him and the way she looked down at him made her look imposingly menacing. "Consider this your test, your motivation. Find a way to defeat him and don't hesitate."

Mike didn't know what to say to her without screaming. How was he supposed to beat someone when he didn't even know how? When he wasn't even allowed to use powers he could barely control?

He wondered what to say to elicit some better answers, but he was silent for too long, and Shark obviously took that as the end of the discussion, so she crossed to the middle of the room.

It was only now that Mike noticed that most of the items, including the loungers and assorted apparatus had been moved to the walls of the room, leaving an open space in the middle. All the scientists in their stupid white coats and purely curious expressions waited for Mike to... Well, what they were waiting for, Mike had no idea either.

"Today we're going to repeat what you did two days ago," Shark told him as she pulled a lighter out of her pocket, motioned for Mike to come closer and handed it to him. "Then you'll attempt the same thing without it and then go through a quick physical examination."

"In case I get that concussion, huh?" Mike grinned, making no bones about snatching the lighter from Shark's hand. They wouldn't give him an electric shock now. Now everyone wondered if he'd be able to do what he'd done the day before.

He fumbled with the lighter in his hand as Shark took a few steps back, giving him some space. After a moment, he flicked the lighter and watched with growing interest as a tiny, orange flame appeared.

He had gotten rather used to everyone staring at him, so he paid no attention as he raised his other hand and, like last time, clasped the flame between his fingers.

He half expected the fire to burn him, but nothing like that happened – other than the unexpected surge of energy that rippled through his body moments after contact with the flame, he felt nothing of interest.

He lifted his hand, opened his fingers and watched as the fire wrapped around them, flickering and sparking against his skin. This time, however, he didn't want to keep it only close to his body.

He concentrated on the flame, and that strange power, the one that was still dancing at the edge of his touch, rushed towards him excitedly, almost as if it was waiting for him to actually try to reach for it.

He forced the fire to unwind one finger at a time from his hand – it was unexpectedly strenuous, as if he had to do it physically and the fire wouldn't let go. Eventually, though, he managed it, and when Mike pulled his hand away, the flame remained flickering in the air in front of him at chest level. It was no bigger than his thumb, but Mike was sure he could make it bigger.

So he reached his hand out to it again, but not close enough for the fire to reach him again. It felt more natural to him though, as if he could channel the energy better through his arm and fingertips – now he understood why Eleven did it so often.

He'd seen her use her abilities without having to raise a hand, but he'd probably have to wait for that level of control if he ever achieved it.

The fire flickered in the air and then unexpectedly shot out in a cloud of sparks, increasing in size at least four times, causing Mike to smile.

He couldn't help it – he felt fascination and something like pride.

He shouldn't allow himself to feel that. He was a monster and these abilities didn't belong to him, he wasn't born with them like El, they weren't part of him. But still, as he watched the graceful curves of the flame flitting through the air, unexcited, wild, beautiful, and under Mike's control... He couldn't contain his excitement.

He narrowed his eyes and almost automatically increased the energy flow to the flame. If he guessed correctly, the fiery thing that had been inside him since the Russians had taken him in was the energy that fed the fire he now controlled. It was some alternate source, something that ordinary people didn't have and that made it impossible for them to accomplish anything like he and El had.

He wondered if El felt the same way, if he felt his own version of this power. He knew that when she used his abilities too much, she'd deplete herself, so he supposed that power supply wasn't infinite and needed some regeneration time if she used it too much.
Which probably meant that Mike had that limit too.

He forced himself to enlarge the flame and then move it sideways. Again it was more strenuous than he expected, his hand shook with the strain, but the fire obeyed him without difficulty. So Mike began to make circles with it, one slow, large circle after another, leaving trails of light in the air behind them. With each successive turn, the flame grew larger, and by the time the ball of glowing flames was larger than his head, his hand shook wildly and he felt a nasty scratch in his throat, worse than the after-effects of the strangulation.

The fire dissolved into the air before his eyes in a shower of sparks and Mike collapsed to his knees and coughed violently, unable to stop the blood coming from his throat from staining the floor and his hands.

It was a lot more than the last time, and when the urge to cough finally passed, he was shaking all over, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. With a disgusted grimace, he wiped his hand on the tissues that one of the scientists hurriedly handed him.

Only now did Mike realize how dark the room was without his flame. And how silent it was when the simple hum of the fire could not be heard.

He could see that many of them were taking notes and exchanging their findings in whispers, while Shark nodded at him and motioned for him to get up.

Mike sighed heavily, swallowed a few times to get rid of the bloody taste – which he couldn't – and forced himself to scramble to his feet despite the trembling in his body.

"And now again. No lighter," Shark ordered him.

Mike wanted to look incredulous at being forced into it so soon after nearly coughing up a lung, but he honestly expected it. "What if I can't do it without a lighter?" Mike wondered, ignoring his hoarse voice. "Am I not the first survivor? How do you know how the powers work? Maybe I can only control the external fire source."

"I'm afraid you don't understand," Shark told him. Mike honestly wondered if she actually really wanted to explain it to him, but he didn't complain. The more information he could find out about his new abilities, the better. "Everyone in this room has been present for the times you've manipulated fire and didn't need a lighter to do it. That doesn't mean you're summoning the fire from within yourself, Michael. This isn't some fantasy game you're playing."

Mike wasn't about to question how Shark knew DnD existed.

"You don't create fire from nothing – you take it purely from your environment. All those previous times you've done it without a lighter were by gathering flammable particles of substances like hydrogen from the air and your environment. All that comes out of you is the spark that starts the fire and, of course, the energy that makes it all possible. It's a more complex process, so it makes sense that handling fire in this way is more strenuous."

Mike couldn't help himself, he was intrigued. He'd always liked physics, chemistry and similar subjects in school, and while he'd never excelled as much as Dustin, for example, it didn't change the fact that he enjoyed it. And the explanation Shark gave him actually sounded quite logical.

In a way that made him wonder why she hadn't told him before, because at least now he knew where to channel that energy.

Maybe he should have answered their questions in a little more detail after all. They seemed to assume it was all purely instinctual for him, as it undoubtedly was for Eleven. It probably hadn't occurred to them that he needed to think about it and be completely focused.

He didn't want the Soviets to know any more about the abilities than they needed to, but Mike didn't have enough knowledge to be able to use them to their full potential and needed to work with them to learn everything he needed to. At least for now.

So he nodded, took a deep breath, and sniffed again at the fiery, hot power twisting in his body. It was a lot harder this time, not only because he didn't have any flame to work with, but also because he'd used up a lot of his strength on the previous stunt.

He hoped this wasn't the highest limit he would ever be able to reach. He supposed he would gradually improve, as with any other skill, but after all, it wasn't as if he knew enough about the abilities that had been forced upon him.

Pulling the energy out of his body was suddenly many times more strenuous, like reaching for something that was too high, but he still occasionally brushed his fingertips against it. Occasionally he managed to clutch the energy by the handful, but when he did, he suddenly wasn't sure where to aim it.

There was no flame he could control, and he wasn't sure how to gather... Particles in the air to ignite. He could feel them at the edge of his touch, some strange new sentience that he hadn't been aware of until now, but they were so scattered and faint that he was sure he couldn't move them now because of his exhaustion.

Shark, however, was expecting results. And he didn't want her to somehow punish him again because she wasn't happy with his performance.

He could feel his throat scratching and the urge to cough increased, but he forced himself to ignore it, clutching the bits of fluttering power between his fingers with tooth and nail, trying to forcefully gather the something in the air with it. It was almost as if he was wading through tar, or trying to hold a slippery fish with his bare hands – it kept flapping and slipping away from him.

Mike suddenly couldn't breathe. Pain squeezed his throat and his mouth filled with blood, so much blood that just as he opened his lips it ran down his chin and right onto his shirt.

Oh, God, oh, God.

A few sparks and tiny, fiery flames, no bigger than a fingernail, sparked around him, but Mike didn't pay attention because he couldn't breathe and there was blood in his mouth that just kept and kept dripping to the floor.

Several scientists rushed over to him as he collapsed to the floor again, his hands smearing blood on the shiny surface, and through tears and choking sobs he tried to breathe normally again.

All he could feel was the vile, coppery taste, the pressure on his throat and the throbbing pain in his head before he finally spat the last of his blood onto the floor and the clean air finally rushed into his lungs, reluctant and uncertain though the movement was.

Mike lifted his shaky hands, which were smeared with his own blood, and without taking any particular notice, he covered his face with them and closed his eyes tightly, as if that might somehow ease the pain and trembling in his body.

He could hear voices around him in Russian, someone trying to force tissues on him, but Mike just focused on his own rapid breathing and trying to calm himself.

This was going to kill him, wasn't it? Sooner or later it would kill him.

It was probably for the best.

Notes:

Helloo, another chapter!

Poor Mike. What a shame this is only the beginning of the story and just the tip of the iceberg, oops.

Anyway, at this point I can tell you that there will be two chapters coming out every month. I had an unexpected burst of creativity over Christmas and wrote enough chapters to keep them in my stash.

I know that two chapters a month isn't the greatest number, but it's probably the only sustainable solution for me – with school and other shit going on, it's likely that I could easily crank out eight chapters in one week and then not write a word for six months, and such an irregular, unstable release doesn't seem like a practical solution.

That way there's some order to it and there's no danger of not hearing from me for half of the year.

Anyway, that's about it for now, see you for the next chapter!

Chapter 8: Chapter eight

The second month

Objective: Explore the base, find a way to escape (main objective)

Mike got at his request – and perhaps as a reward for his at least partial success? It was hard to say, maybe he was too naive – a few papers and a crayon. A crayon that was barely sharpened, as if his captors feared that if he had a sharp pencil he would either stab himself or someone else with it.

He decided not to mention that he might also stick a crayon in someone's eye, because that was a disgusting thought even to him, and besides, he didn't want those things for the reason of getting a weapon.

No, he decided to map out the base as best he could so he could keep track of all the locations and possibly find anything that would help him in his future escape.

The very next day, before noon, immediately after breakfast, he set out to explore, paper and crayon in hand, followed, of course, by two soldiers at every step. The thud of their heavy boots drowned out his softer footfalls, although he was also wearing boots – after a while, whoever was preparing his food and clothing decided that although he didn't mind the cold, it probably wasn't best for him to walk all over the base as if he were strutting on the beach. That was why he was wearing dark, high-soled boots – though they didn't look as menacing as those belonging to the soldiers behind his back – dark brown, coarse trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and, unexpectedly, a long, black, wool coat.

It was all rather unnecessary, as Mike barely felt the cold due to the warmth inside, but he was still surprised by it when he found it draped over the bathroom sink last night.

It made him feel a little better, but not much, especially when he ripped off his blood-stained shirt shortly afterwards and then was forced to frantically scrub his hands and face in the sink because the blood wouldn't let go. The despair that came over him while scraping off his dried blood led to him just sitting down on the floor, leaning his head against the cool wall and staring at the red welts on his fingers while a single tear ran down his cheek.

It really annoyed him how much he had cried here already, but honestly, it seemed justifiable.

In the end, Blondie had to kick him out of the bathroom, because they were going to have a training session – during which she didn't spare him this time, though at least she didn't trip his feet as often as she usually did, because if he hit his head this time, it probably wouldn't be very desirable.

Blondie obviously soon realized that he wasn't in the mood for their classic bickering, because after a few attempts to provoke him into an insult, she gave up and just flipped through the dictionary and told him what to do.

Still, Mike could admit that the exercise had relaxed him a bit and cleared his head. He still didn't particularly enjoy it, but the pleasant burning of his muscles and the simple exertion to focus on was good for him.

Before that, however, he had to go through a long, medical examination that included X-rays, blood draws – as if the huge pile he coughed up wasn't enough – and the use of a lot of machines that Mike had no idea what they were for. All the while, he could hear the scientists – or doctors, or whoever they were – arguing loudly amongst themselves as they looked down his throat, listening to his heart and making him name every single place that hurt and the reason why he thought it did.

Mike really didn't enjoy explaining to them all the things that hurt him, he was cutting them off and trying to get it out of his throat as quickly as possible, while at the same time trying to understand the fierce discussion of several scientists. They kept pointing and looking at him, so he guessed they were talking about him, only he couldn't understand a word of their Russian.

The only thing he picked up, because they repeated it quite often, mostly with their eyes on him, was something like a podzhigatel'. He had the impression that that was what they called him, but what it meant he wasn't sure.

Once he got all the medical nonsense out of the way – without anyone telling him any information, of course – and was told that he would be going through this every week, he was released to train with Blondie and then he could finally go to sleep.

Angry, frustrated, and disgruntled, he mentally told anyone who would want to ambush him tonight to fuck off, and simply went to sleep, fed up with the day.

So here he was now, wandering the halls in a coat he didn't need, which he was sort of cooking in, writing down everything he needed to on paper.

He discovered there were only eleven rooms on this floor, plus the bathroom, making twelve. Most of them were locked, but as he'd found out before, the ones he could look into looked exactly like his room, so he didn't suppose there was anything more interesting.

What made him much more nervous was the second floor. He only ever passed through it to get to the lab or the gym, and then only when accompanied by Blondie or Shark. He never strayed from his route to get a closer look at the cafeteria or other rooms, worried about how the present Russians would react to him.

It wasn't lunchtime, which he assumed was when the hall was at its fullest, but he could still expect plenty of people to stare.

It can't be worse than yesterday, Mike thought bitterly as he walked up the stairs. He was sure Shark had done it on purpose, but she'd sent him all the way up to his room to wash his face and hands instead of letting him do it somewhere closer – though he was damn sure there had to be more bathrooms in this place than just one – so he got more intense stares than usual as he walked down the hall, covered in blood.

At least he didn't stand out so much today – the darker colors and long coat blended in nicely among the green uniforms and black jackets, not like the white clothes he'd worn up until this point.

It was as if Shark – or whoever had agreed to get him something new to wear – knew he'd want to walk the base today. If that was the case, it meant she was okay with it, which honestly depressed Mike, because it implied that they were firmly convinced that he wasn't going to be able to get out of here.

He stopped in his tracks, since he had the best view of all the rooms here, and quickly sketched out their shape and number. To his left was the gym, where he went every evening – and where he now saw several men and even a woman or two – and opposite the gym was the dining room.

Because of the open walls, he had seen many long tables on previous occasions, and a display window behind which was probably the kitchen. However, he had never come closer, mainly because of the large number of people that were always there.

So Mike took a moment to gather his courage before he finally moved from his place and headed straight for the dining room at a brisk pace. He didn't want to draw any specific details, but rather to make sure that there wasn't something, anything, that he could ever use in the future.

As soon as he stepped into the cafeteria, he was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of voices speaking at once, the clinking of cutlery and glasses, all underscoring the life buzzing among the soldiers sitting at the tables.

Mike picked up his pace as a few of the nearest Russians raised their heads to look at him – he quickly weaved his way between the tables, also assessing out of the corner of his eye that the breakfast served on their tray looked even worse than his food, and at the same time headed for the serving window.

He walked past without stopping, but he made sure to look openly – beyond the women in white clothes who were unloading breakfast plates onto the counter, he saw only white walls, a few refrigerators, and other kitchen workers passing back and forth.

Mike wasn't going to linger any longer than necessary at the place, lest he look strange just standing there – especially with papers in his hand, as if he were playing some kind of inspector – so he kept walking.

As he walked around the dining room, he looked at the men sitting there. If he guessed right, most of them could have been between twenty and forty years old; he noticed very few older or younger people. Most of them were wearing those green uniforms, and among those wearing only jackets or coats of some sort, Mike recognized several scientists from the lab, so he judged that everyone without uniforms must be in some other profession.

Lots of people were looking at him, but most were ignoring him and talking amongst themselves – about what, Mike had no chance of finding out, as he barely knew the meaning of the few Russian swear words he had learned, let alone understood anything else.

Come to think of it, maybe it would be a good idea to make use of those books Blondie had brought him. The better he understood his surroundings, the easier it would probably be to come up with something that might help him.

Besides, having another thing to focus on wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing.

He made his way across the dining hall, and when he stopped at the end where he had a view of all the tables and the dispensing window, he decided to make a small question mark by the dining hall.

There was this thing – where were the supplies coming from? Either someone was bringing them in through the big door Mike saw every time he headed into the lab, or the cafeteria had its own entrance, which would mean a possible way out.

He decided that when he had a chance, maybe tomorrow, he would sneak out early and try to explore the kitchen and possibly wait for supplies to arrive.

With that, he nodded to himself and walked out of the cafeteria, the soldiers still on his heels. He'd gotten so used to being followed everywhere he went that he barely even noticed them anymore.

Right next to the cafeteria was what was probably supposed to be some sort of rest room. Mike was honestly surprised when he first saw it, because he probably had a stereotypical idea in his head that Russians didn't care about anything but guns, war, and communism.

But it seemed that unless they were mad scientists and high-ranking generals, they could enjoy watching TV or playing games just as much as Americans.

The rest room wasn't very interesting, unless Mike counted just one of the several televisions set up in front of the couches and chairs. A few people were reading, or simply talking, taking advantage of the quiet of the room... A quiet that wasn't exactly quiet.

Mike's gaze was immediately drawn to the chatter of a group of now seemingly very young Russian boys crowded around a table, where another boy stood, waving his arms around frantically as he said something with passion and enthusiasm. The other boys were cheering him on and occasionally banging their fists on the table, all completely indifferent to the angry, annoyed looks of everyone in the room.

Out of curiosity, Mike walked a little closer to get a better look at them.

He tried to guess how old they might be, but it was harder than it seemed – the range could be between thirteen and seventeen. Mike was intrigued anyway, because this was the first time he'd been around people anywhere near his age.

None of the guys wore uniforms, just shabby brown coats and dirty, black boots. A couple of them had bushy, thick hats on their heads, and the others Mike noticed had their hair cut short. They looked like the exact opposite of the bright, saturated colors Mike had worn in America, but their energy and enthusiasm was undeniable.

The boy standing on the table was obviously finishing his story, bowing at the waist in an exaggeratedly graceful manner, and the other boys around him began to clap enthusiastically. One of them said something loudly, and the boy on the table looked at him, nodded, and then cleared his throat.

"It's funny that no one here can understand me, except the few scientists," the boy spoke in unexpectedly good English, making Mike jerk in surprise. "They enjoy it when I speak English, even though they have no idea what I'm talking about."

The boys around them started talking excitedly over each other, so loudly that one of the closest men to them shouted loudly, but they ignored him.

The boy at the table, however, suddenly raised his hand, they immediately quieted down, and Mike realized at that moment that the attention was on him. All the other boys turned to him as well, realizing where their friend was looking, and Mike took a step back in surprise, intending to sneak away in case any of them happened to want to try something.

The boy shouted something at him in Russian, immediately jumping down from the table and rushing over to him faster than Mike could get away without looking cowardly or embarrassed. Suddenly their entire group surrounded him, all of them talking over each other in a language he understood nothing at all and looking at him with stunned fascination, as if he were some kind of pretty bug.

Mike glanced back at the soldiers who were still standing near him, and although they were watching him closely, they made no move to get him out of the situation or to stop him from trying to talk to them.

"Ow!" He yelped as one of the seemingly younger boys pulled his hair unexpectedly.
The boy who had been standing on the table earlier snapped something stern and the other boys took a step back to give him space.

Mike would have admired their obedience if his gaze hadn't been snapped by their likely would-be leader. He spoke to him in Russian, but Mike just shrugged helplessly.

"I don't understand Russian," he told him, watching surprise spill over his face as the other boys around them began to whisper excitedly.

"You're the American," the boy guessed. He had light brown eyes and hair barely reaching his ears the color of mouse brown. And although there was a noticeable Russian accent in his words, he spoke fluently and confidently, almost on the level of Shark and Morozov.

He swept his gaze from top to bottom, as if assessing him, paused for a moment at his neck, then returned his gaze to his face again. 'We've seen you here a few times before. With that creepy, black-haired lady whose name I can't remember because she's a bitch who yells at us all the time when we accidentally cross her path."

With that, he rolled his eyes while Mike raised his eyebrows in surprise at the unconcealed insult clearly aimed at Shark.

He didn't even have time to reply – he wouldn't have known what to say anyway – before the boy continued: "Who are you? What's with your hair?"

Mike frowned in confusion and touched his hair. "What's wrong with my hair?" He asked, uncomprehendingly. Sure, his hair had become a bit of a frizzy mess after the few weeks without proper care, and his bangs were now in his eyes so often that Mike wondered if someone could cut them off, but otherwise he didn't see anything wrong with his hair. He washed it yesterday.

"It's too long," the boy explained. "How come they let you have it like that?"

"I..." Mike gulped, confused by the topic of conversation, but by then his hand was already being offered.

"I'm Nikolai," the boy introduced himself in all seriousness. "Nikolai Volkov."

Mike obviously wasn't keeping up with the flow of conversation – he wasn't usually this confused when he was talking to someone, but then again, he wasn't usually being addressed by random Russian teenagers either – but he automatically reached out and shook Nikolai's hand too. "Mi... Michael Wheeler."

"Mikhail," Nikolai beamed, nodding at him. "Like our president! Good name."
Mike didn't know what to say in response to the fact that his name was apparently the same as the president of the country that had kidnapped him, so he preferred to remain silent.

"Hey, Mikhail, how about we talk somewhere else?" Nikolai suggested, waving his hands violently until he hit one of the closest boys standing near him in the nose, who didn't even notice because he was just running his eyes between Nikolai and Mike with his mouth open. "You seem like an interesting guy, but I don't want to stand here in the middle of nowhere, you know. Come on, let's sit down, it'll be more comfortable."

Nikolai immediately turned and strode to the nearest couch, but before Mike could take a single step, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. The touch startled him and he jerked before realizing it was one of his personal 'guards' who shook his head sternly at him.

Nikolai, who realized that Mike wasn't following him, turned around in disbelief and frowned. He exchanged a few words in Russian with the soldier, one voice stern and hard and the other annoyed and indignant, before Nikolai spat directly at the ground and looked at Mike. "Well, maybe some other time when those metal mallets aren't guarding you. I hear we're bad company or something. Never mind. Bye, Mikhail. I'll definitely see you again!"
Mike tried to push away the feeling of disappointment as he was forced to turn his back on them and leave the room.

This was an unexpectedly good opportunity to talk to someone who might be able to give him some useful answers. Nikolai seemed like the kind of guy who liked to talk, and besides, he seemed interested in Mike. And, for some reason he could speak English.
He must have known the place like the back of his hand. With his help, Mike could find his way out of here.

And besides... This was much harder to admit, but he missed interacting with people his own age. This place, its brutality, its cruelty, its coldness and severity was slowly but surely sucking the life out of him.
The enthusiasm and simple rawness and liveliness in these boys drew him like a moth to a light.

He missed his friends, damn it. He would selfishly sacrifice a whole world just to have any of them here with him. Anyone.
Understandably, he would never wish for them to be trapped here with him, but their absence grated on his nerves.

He knew he hadn't always been the best friend for them, but they were everything to him and without them he felt... Completely lost and alone.

Any motivation and drive he had to explore the base further had evaporated, but he wanted to get it all out of his system while he had time. Then again, he was probably going to vomit blood and train again with Blondie.

Therefore, without much enthusiasm or energy, he made his way to the large, double doors, which were currently wide open without the need for a card.

Mike went through them all the time whenever he had to go into the laboratory, and so of course he often saw the open iron door at the end of the corridor that had so intrigued him at first – it was not so much a secret as he had originally thought, but rather that the sight of the broad staircase did nothing to answer the question of where it led, except that it was undoubtedly the entrance to this floor. Even now, soldiers passed up and down it, ascending and descending the stairs in a daily, regular routine. Each of them undoubtedly knew what to do.

Mike paused in the wide corridor, sketched it out on a map, and then also drew the lab from his mind, since he had no access inside at the moment.

The other two doors, he was pretty sure, belonged to the bathrooms. Which was why it had annoyed him so much that Shark had made him walk across the hall to his own bathroom, even though he could have used those that were closer.
It was just another demonstration of her cruelty and mockery, nothing more.

Mike turned his gaze back to the stairs right in front of him. He didn't even try to get closer to them because he knew he would be stopped.
He had to get there, though, once.

He supposed he would get to it eventually. After all, they couldn't keep him on two floors forever. If he remembered correctly, Morozov had mentioned weapons training and combat, and he didn't see a firing range anywhere, or any equipment suitable for more advanced military training.

Mike sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall behind him, completely ignoring everyone passing through the corridor. He watched them absently, green uniforms, flashes of red, the occasional white coat, listening to the mutterings and conversations in Russian and the loud stomping of heavy, military boots.

His two guards remained standing, but he ignored them, just tapped his crayon against his knees and thought.

He needed to get up there. Which meant he needed to convince everyone that he was ready to move forward with his training. And that meant he needed to try – hard. Both at Blondie's and at Shark's.

He supposed it would be somewhat easier with Blondie. If he put enough attention and effort into everything he did, he should automatically improve. And he wasn't that antithetical in gym class.

It was more problematic with Shark, as his abilities were new ground for both. At the moment, he was more of a guinea pig than the full-fledged weapon they planned to make him, so he had to discover his limits and capabilities on his own, lest he end up getting killed trying to prove something to Shark.

And once he improved enough to take his training further, he'd be one step closer to getting out of here.

Mike nodded resolutely to himself.

He'll get home.

Notes:

Heyyyy! This chapter is pretty calm and I can finally introduce you to Nikolai and his friends! They will have an important role in this story, so look forward to seeing them.

Anyway, this chapter absolutely did not cooperate with me (it seems to be becoming a tradition, unfortunately) so I apologize for any mistakes.

By the way, what do you think of all the new spoilers and information from season 5, especially on Mike? Any theories? I'm willing to put my two pinky fingers and one thumb on season five being Mike's angsty season! 😎 And I hope I'm not wrong, because Mike Wheeler angst>>>

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, see you later!

(Take these maps as a guideline, rather than something specific, because I'm not an architect and I have no idea how to build buildings, so I'm just slapping this together to have at least something XD)

Chapter 9: Chapter nine

The second/third month

Objective: Improve, find a way to escape (main objective)

Two weeks have passed since he made his decision to focus fully on training.

Mike didn't have a calendar, but thanks to the papers and the one measly crayon he'd scraped with one of his hidden glass shards, he could now keep track of time. A line for each day.

He asked for more papers and more crayons and was granted – if he deserved it.

Apparently, Shark attributed his sudden motivation to cooperate to the newly implemented reward system – which Mike didn't care for, but besides being quite happy for more colored crayons, he was also grateful that Shark didn't question his sudden effort to do whatever was asked of him.

Not that he was doing it with any particular gusto, because listening to Shark and her cold, disinterested voice was getting on his nerves all the time. Besides, she made him repeat the same thing over and over again.

First trying to create a flame without the lighter and then with it. As for the first, Mike was taking very small, baby steps. The fire inside him seemed to fight him every time he tried, and if he lost focus for even a moment, the power slipped from his fingers and did nothing but steal some of his energy, leaving him feeling uselessly drained. It was like trying to turn the tide with his bare hands – impossible. But Mike didn't give up, he tried again and again because there was nothing else left to do.

The hardest part was probably gathering enough of the stuff in the air to make a spark and ignite the flame. That was why it was something Mike practiced every time he had any spare time. He figured that if he at least made a regular effort to reach for the fire, to pull it towards him without overly overextending himself in an effort to actually light it, it should gradually make the process easier.

There were days when he managed to get a fairly large flame going even without a lighter, but those were so few that Mike couldn't tell if there were any particular factors influencing it, or if his abilities were simply doing their own thing.

In the latter activity, however, he was improving with each passing day. As soon as someone flicked a lighter, he was immediately able to seize the flame and take control of it. Shark made him zoom, stretch, twirl it in the air, and run it over his skin all the time. Which then led to him nearly burning his shirt a few times, but he didn't hurt himself.

He was also forced to set fire to various things over and over again – whether wood, paper, clothes or dry leaves, it didn't matter, he set on fire one thing after another.

The monotonous activity was getting on Mike's nerves. At first he was overwhelmed, excited and still unsure of the fact that it all came from him. That he was the one manipulating the fire.
However, the initial excitement wore off after a while, especially when Shark made him do the same thing over and over again, because he was aware that he could do so much more with the help of the lighter.

But since he couldn't practice in his room without it, he kept his mouth shut and hoped they would move on to something more useful soon.

Where he was definitely making more progress, however, was with Blondie. The very day after his tour of the base, he had arranged for extra lessons with her during evening training.
It had taken him some time to dig out enough words from his dictionary that Blondie understood what he wanted from her, and then he'd spent another half hour arguing with her about the details.

He simply wanted for Blondie to practice with him in the morning as well. That was obviously a problem though, because he wasn't the only one she was training and Blondie couldn't find the time. In the end, however, they managed to squeeze in at least an extra hour of training before lunch, plus Blondie reminded him that he could already do some of the things on his own.

It did mean that Mike was surrounded by a lot of other people using the gym, but for the most part everyone ignored him, so Mike was free to spend his mornings in the gym.

Every time he thought that in his mind, he could picture his friends exchanging disbelieving and maybe even a little concerned looks amongst themselves, as if perhaps something had fallen on his head. He could literally hear Max laughing at him, asking him with mock concern if he was running a fever, or if he was starting to hear voices that suggested he was going crazy.

Dustin would glare at him and then probably try to convince him to stop and go play a good DnD campaign with them instead.

Lucas would be suspicious. He mentioned that when they go to high school he'd like to try basketball or some similar sport, and honestly, Lucas was probably the most athletic of the original Party. Therefore, he would probably find it odd that Mike, who had been averse to most physical activities up to this point, would spend time in the gym, and voluntarily at that.

El would be... Maybe she'd be intrigued. Mike could even imagine she'd want to try it. She'd probably support him. Probably.

Mike honestly wasn't sure. She didn't seem to be mad at him anymore for lying to her, but that didn't mean that things had particularly evened out between them. They never did.

Mike sometimes wondered if El would eventually find someone else one day. If she forgets him, she'll move on and find someone who will treat her the way she deserves.

It would probably be for the best, but Mike wasn't known or good at making the best decisions. The fact that he was staying alive in a place where they wanted to use him as a weapon against his own country said enough about his selfishness.

Or the whole Will thing.

Mike noticed that of all his friends, he had the most trouble thinking about Will. Whenever he did, a some sort of knot of many tense, uncertain emotions twisted in his chest – not downright unpleasant, but definitely strange enough to prevent him from thinking about his best friend too often.

There was some way with Eleven that could justify the whole lying thing, at least if he didn't want to collapse under the onslaught of guilt he undoubtedly deserved. After all, Hopper had sort of forced him to do it.

Mike's reaction to that hadn't been the most appropriate, but it probably wasn't something unforgivable.

What he'd said to Will was entirely his and his fault.

Something that Mike had broken between them, something he hadn't even had time to fix. He hadn't even tried, because he couldn't. There wasn't time.

And the unfinished business, the unfinished story, was driving him crazy.

He had to get back to Hawkins just so he could apologize to Will and tell him how terribly, terribly sorry he was and that he never meant to say it and didn't really know why he'd said it because he didn't think anything like that.

It was a good motivation to keep his head above water in the waves of despair that never quite let go and just clung to him more and more.

Despite everything that was going on, the base itself was an incredibly depressing place. His white room was still mentally draining, and although he had gotten used to sleeping with constant light, his fatigue increased with each passing day. No matter how much sleep he got, as soon as he woke up his bones seemed to grow heavy.

Sure, the endless training with no day of rest was definitely to blame, but his environment, the tension and constant fear were definitely not helping.

He missed the sun, the colors, the wind, anything. His world had turned to stark grey, white and monotonous routine.

There was one thing that wasn't routine, however, and he wished with all his might that it would become routine so that he could at least prepare himself for it.

As Shark promised, his 'test' continued. Which meant that Mike would occasionally, without any discernible pattern, wake up some nights thinking he'd been hit.

The same man dressed in black, the same soldier with the goal of only hurting him, not killing him.

The second time it happened, at least he hadn't hit his head against the wall, but he couldn't say it was much better otherwise.

Most of the time, the black-clothed one beat him so badly that he often just stayed on the ground afterwards, not bothering to scramble back to bed unless he passed out in the process. It was one punch after another, a split lip, a swollen eye, a kick in the back, a bruised neck, and a huge network of dark bruises all over his body, resembling storm clouds. Once, the man even took a knife. And though he did nothing with it other than a few superficial cuts, it scared Mike because he was afraid of what was coming next. He was afraid of how far the beating might go.

He fought back each time. Each time he bucked and kicked and thrashed around, and once he even managed to wriggle free of his attacker and make a run for it, only to realize the door was closed.

He was trapped in his room and had nothing to defend himself with.

The third time this happened, he tried to use his powers. Several sparks exploded around him and that was the end of it. And he felt utterly useless and desperate, because what was the point of having these powers if he couldn't even use them to protect himself?

Sure, there were shards of glass left, but Mike was hesitant to use them. They were his only weapon at the moment, and if his captors found out about them, they would search his room and find the other shards as well. He couldn't afford to lose his only advantage, not until he had learned to control his abilities to a level where he was able to defend himself at least a little.

So he was forced to fight again and again, even though he knew it was no use, because there was nothing else he could do.

Often he would trudge down the hall with his head bowed, with Shark strutting vigorously and proudly right in front of him while he limped because of the leg his attacker had stomped on, his body completely bruised and sore with every movement, blood smeared across his face because he often didn't even have time to go wash his face after these attacks.

He found it disgustingly fascinating that Shark was able to walk into his room while he was lying in bed, sheets covered in the occasional dried blood, bruises and cuts all over his body, and still wake him up mercilessly and force him to come with her. As if he was nothing more than an object that would wear out from time to time, but it didn't matter because they could always duct tape it together.

Mike was ceasing to feel human in this place.

The only thing that made him feel better sometimes was Nikolai and his friends. He'd barely exchanged two sentences with them since the last time, even though the group of teenagers had been unexpectedly persistent in their attempts to make contact with him, but every time he walked past them they waved and called his name like they were old friends.

Mike usually didn't answer them, but he enjoyed it anyway because he was so desperate at the moment that he appreciated any display of behavior that didn't hurt him.

Either way, no other major changes were occurring, and Mike was getting nervous about how much time he'd have to spend here before he got strong enough to get out of here. He reckoned it would be months, he really hoped not years.

The only thing that had changed in those three weeks was his diet.

Given the regular medical checkups he had to go through – they were getting longer and more complicated, so Mike worried what that said about his health – everyone was soon alerted that he was losing weight drastically.

Mike was not surprised. He'd always been thin, and he ate pretty much normally and didn't do much physically demanding stuff, unless you counted the occasional escape from monsters from another dimension. Here? Here, he didn't have particularly nutritious food and had regular training, so it was no wonder he was losing weight instead of gaining it.

Once Shark was made aware of this, the very next day Mike was given a hearty breakfast, lunch and dinner, with regular snacks in between. He was even sure that he was probably eating better than most of the scientists and higher ranking soldiers on the base, given the variety of meals, especially the protein-rich ones.

The food was suddenly a little more fun, but Mike's appetite had gotten worse, which was certainly not due to his meals. He just didn't feel like eating because he often felt too tired to eat at all.

But every time he forced himself to eat everything, because like Shark, he understood that if he wanted to get stronger, he couldn't be left with nothing but bone and skin.

So he continued his life on the base until the moment he had been waiting for finally came.

He had just finished his evening training with Blondie, which included his 'favorite' routine of push-ups, squats, running laps in the gym, and a rope climb at the end as well, as if perhaps he would ever prove that he had enough strength in his arms to do it, when Blondie turned to him and barked at him: "Жoпа!"

Mike, who was aware that this was an insult – even though he didn't know the translation – didn't even look at her and just showed her the middle finger as he put the exercise mats back where they'd been taken from.

"No training tomorrow. Morning," Blondie continued in her garbled English, which intrigued Mike enough to finally look at her.

"Why?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.

Blondie gave him a toothy, almost mischievous smile. "You fight," she explained, making a gesture with her fists as if she were punching a punching bag. "The training will begin. Every morning."

Mike stared blankly at her as excitement grew inside him. Finally.

This was what he'd been waiting for. He needed to know how to defend himself, he needed the skills to escape, and if the Russians were going to give them to him, he wasn't going to complain.

He had no idea what exactly to expect, and he didn't know how long it would take. But damn it, no matter how long it took, even if it ended up being those years, he would be coming home.

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike was awakened by voices. Lots of voices, cheering and shouting, growing louder.

He blinked to snap out of his sleepy haze, at least a little, and threw off the covers – which were perhaps the only thing creating any darkness in his completely white room.

He glanced towards the door, beyond which he heard the sonorous voice of one of the soldiers guarding his door.

Someone answered him haughtily. Someone whose voice sounded familiar to Mike.

Nothing happened for a while, while his sleepy mind tried to figure out what the hell was going on, when the door finally opened and Nikolai and five other guys rushed in.

"Hello!" Nikolai exclaimed, spreading his arms dramatically as a proud smile spread across his face. The soldiers standing directly behind him didn't look too thrilled, but they made no effort to stop the mass of teenagers from spreading out across the room.

Mike was fully, fully awake at this point, but still unable to understand what was going on, especially as the boys were talking loudly to each other in Russian, a language he couldn't understand a word of.

One of them, a rather short blond boy, reached for the plate of breakfast Mike had next to the table with a curious, wide-eyed expression, but Nikolai immediately slapped his hand and shouted at him.

"Can someone explain to me what's going on?" Mike asked a little desperately, as the sudden intrusion of six teenagers seemed like a gross violation of his space. Even though the room was suddenly so much more interesting and lively, he was still confused and a little unnerved.

"Ah, sure, sorry," Nikolai said, tugging on the ear of the blond who had once again tried to steal Mike's breakfast. Then he turned and hissed at the two older boys who, for some reason unknown to Mike, were feeling the wall as if they were looking for a hidden door, which honestly could have been exactly what they were doing.

They were like a bunch of half-wild kids, but oddly coordinated when Nikolai said something to them. "Sonia sent us here to pick you up for training, but some of us were a little too eager, so... We're early."

"Sonia," Mike repeated with a question in his voice, trying to connect the name with anyone.

"Ah. The blonde woman who goes to the gym with you. The only cool chick in this whole base," Nikolai explained with a wave and Mike nodded.
He had never asked for her name and he certainly hadn't thought it was Sonia.

"We've just been promoted to your guides and companions," Nikolai added with a proud smile, patting his chest as if his declaration was perhaps some sort of privilege.

With that, without asking, he sat down on the end of Mike's bed and the other boys mimicked him. Some of them couldn't fit on the bed, so they sat on the floor while Mike scooted as close to the edge as he could to make sure there was plenty of room around him.

He also automatically felt his hidden shard of glass under the pillow. He didn't think they would do anything to him, especially not with the soldiers still standing in the doorway keeping an eye on them, but he didn't want to take any chances.

"Have breakfast," Nikolai urged him. "We weren't supposed to come before noon, so we didn't give you time for anything."

With a sigh, Mike looked down at the three large, sandwiched loaves of bread – he was still getting used to the pastries they used here – and slid his plate towards him with not much gusto.

He was aware of the hungry stares from all the teenage boys. From their scrunched up faces, Mike judged that they weren't exactly living in luxury here – whereas he was being fattened up and didn't feel like eating anyway.

"Um... Do you want to?" He asked and offered them one slice of bread.

Nikolai looked at him in surprise, but then took the bread from him and split it in half between the two apparently youngest members of the group. When he turned to him again, he looked a little different, as if Mike's gesture had more meaning than he gave it.

"Um, so," Nikolai cleared his throat after a moment, more relaxed and confident again, while Mike started on his breakfast – although he was unnerved by their intent stares and had to watch every bite, because he had a good chance of choking on a piece of pastry due to his nervousness in front of them. "I should introduce us all. You'll be spending a lot of time with us, since Sonia promised to train with us too!"

Mike didn't react to that, he just nodded, but mentally pumped his fist in the air with a triumphant feeling.

"So, as you already know, I'm Nikolai," Nikolai said, pointing to himself with a bright smile. ''I'm fifteen and I'm sort of the leader of our little group. I'm also the only one who speaks English, so until you learn at least some Russian, you'll have to accept that you can only talk to others through me."

Mike wondered how the boy, who obviously wasn't particularly important given his somewhat scruffy appearance and the group he was hanging out with, had learned English, but he didn't want to interrupt Nikolai so he decided to ask sometime later.

"That grim-faced guy next to me is Misha Balakirev," Nikolai continued, pointing to a tall, skinny young man with black hair cut short in the same style as everyone else's. Unlike the other guys, he didn't seem too thrilled to be here, looking at Mike with a sort of distrust in his eyes – something he didn't blame him for. "He's sixteen, he's the oldest of us here, but... Well, he doesn't like to talk much, you know, he's not the commanding type."
Mike just nodded and raised his hand uncertainly in greeting, which was not returned, so he lowered his hand again.

"This is Ivan Borisyuk," Nikolai said, and the boy in question bared his teeth at Mike in an almost aggressive smile. He had the shortest hair of anyone in the group, shaved in the military fashion, and his features seemed somehow rough and sharp. "He's fifteen, and he's our best fighter. I mean, especially with his fists, he's not good with guns. Look forward to getting in the ring with him. All of us have been there and, man, I was in a hospital bed for two months."
It flashed through Mike's mind that no one would give him that long to recover, so it was unlikely he would be out of commission for more than a few days after the fight with Ivan.

"Ilya Lopatin is sitting on the floor next to you," Nikolai pointed to the boy who was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looked up at the sound of his name and nodded at Mike with a l smile. He was quite small in stature, with pale yellow hair almost white and surprisingly blue eyes. "That's our voice of reason when someone – usually Ivan – thinks of something stupid. He's also an expert on computers, but none of us have ever seen him do anything with them because we don't have access to them, you know? Yeah, and he's fourteen, he's the last one to join us so far."

Mike nodded and then turned back to Nikolai, who pointed to the two boys who were still munching on their pieces of bread. Only now did he notice that they looked strikingly similar, except that one of them had blonde hair and the other had rather light brown hair.

"And these are our youngest members," said Nikolai. "Alexander and Maksimilian Sokolov, twins, both thirteen. But if you point this out to them, they'll argue loudly with you about how they'll be fourteen in a few months, and their defenses of why they should be allowed to steal alcohol from officers isn't worth listening too, so don't mention it. Alexander is a bit hyperactive and likes to touch things that don't belong to him, so watch your stuff. And Maximilian... He's easily probably the nicest guy you've ever met, seriously."
Mike wasn't going to argue. The nicest guy he'd ever met was in Hawkins, certainly not in this place.

"We all take their safety very seriously here, so don't even think about putting them at risk in any way," Nikolai added, unexpectedly serious, pointing a warning finger at him to underscore his words. Then he smiled again and waved his hands. "Yeah, that's us. Best party on this base, you won't find a better one."

Mike didn't think the bar was that high, but he preferred not to mention it either. The fact was, he appreciated the unexpected company and didn't want to drive them away by acting like... Well, like him.

"What about you?" Nikolai asked, raising an eyebrow. Immediately afterwards, he turned to his friends and said something to them in Russian – Mike guessed he was repeating his question in Russian so that the others would also be in the loop, but of course he wasn't sure.

"What about me?" Mike repeated uncomprehendingly. "I've already introduced myself."

Nikolai translated his words and then just shook his head. "That's nice, but we need more than that! Something interesting! For example... What are you doing here? I mean, in the Soviet Union. If you're from America."

Mike snorted and remarked, "Well, I'm certainly not enjoying my summer vacation here."

Nikolai laughed briefly, with a surprised expression, as if he hadn't expected Mike to answer him that way. He translated this to his friends, a few of whom smiled, and then flashed their own smiles at Mike: "Oh, no. And here I thought they'd squeezed all the juice out of you."

"They're trying pretty hard," Mike said, trying not to notice the pleasure he was getting from the pure human interaction, based on something other than talking about his abilities.

Nikolai nodded understandingly. "Yeah. That's what they want to do with everyone. And then everyone here is terribly depressed and serious and no one has a sense of humor and they only care about themselves. They wanted to do it with us. But we're not gonna give in. That's why we stick together."

With that, he looked with a loving and proud expression at his friends, who, though they didn't understand his words, seemed to know he was talking about them, and several of them nodded and smiled, and Ivan even saluted.

A strong, deep longing for his friends ran through Mike, which he did his best to shut out. Just months ago, he had felt the same way. He had friends that he stayed with at all costs because they supported each other and even though the whole world told them they should be someone else, that they should act differently, they refused to give up who they were and refused to give up on each other.

And now... Now he had nothing and they went on with their lives without him.

Mike felt an unexpected touch on his shoulder that made him flinch and wanted to move backwards, before he realized it was just Nikolai, who must have somehow picked up on the drop in his mood and smiled encouragingly at him.

"Like I said, our group sticks together," Nikolai said, then shrugged. "You can join us. If you want to. But no pressure, buddy."

Mike just nodded wordlessly. It wasn't an acknowledgement of his desire to join them – he already had one crew, and he wasn't going to replace it, not for the world.

But he appreciated the sentiment.

Notes:

Hello, hello! The chapter was supposed to come out some other time, and there were supposed to be two chapters, as I had planned, but I was sick and then unfortunately had to finish a bunch of school stuff, so I kind of didn't keep up.

Anyway, here's one for you! Very calm, relaxed (as much as possible in this situation, of course) and brightened by the presence of a few teenagers, yay!!! For all I know, in the third season Mike should be thirteen/fourteen so I decided to go with fourteen, just so you know XD

Now we're in for some less brutal chapters for a while, mostly filled with training, so enjoy them while they last. Because then... Ohohoho, you have no idea what all I have planned 😈

Anyway, take care!!

Chapter 10: Chapter ten

The third month

Objective: Participate in training, find a way to escape (main objective)

Max Mayfield didn't know what she hated more – the silence or the noise.

Noise was simple. She encountered it at school as she shuffled through the halls, trying to move from one classroom to the next as quickly as possible to reduce the chance of meeting anyone she knew – namely Lucas or Dustin – to a minimum. Surrounded by dozens of voices, laughter, and the occasional cries of outrageous emotional instability, the volume of it all made her brain crawl every time. It was too heavy, too jarring, smothering her like a giant cloud and making her flinch when someone spoke too loudly too close, or when it became too much and the deafening din around her became a storm, drowning her in its grip.

The noise was aggressive, quick to take what it wanted, but it was easy to get rid of – walk into the classroom, hide in the toilets, or simply put headphones on and let the music take her away, acting as a balm for Max's frayed nerves.

The silence was harder to shake.

It was a silence that enveloped her slowly, creeping up on her so subtly that when she sank into its smooth, calm waters, she didn't even notice until it was too late.

In such silence, where the ticking of the clock sounded like a heartbeat and where her own breathing seemed too loud in her ears, her mind was an overwhelming, roaring, massive hurricane. The silence was worse in that – it exposed all that was loud and broken in her head, stuffing it right in front of her eyes and making her look. It made her listen.

"I'll be back in a minute."

No. Max actually knew what she hated more.

She sat up in her bed and glanced with a frustrated sigh at the window, through which the soft, blue light of the night filtered into her room.

Behind it she heard a dog barking and the shouts of some late-night drunks, because the place of her new residence was never really quiet, not really. But it wasn't enough to drown out the noise in her head.

Max thought for a moment about sitting by the window and enjoying the cool air on her face, but her limbs felt too heavy – she thought about getting up, but she couldn't. And so she remained sitting in the silky darkness, staring out the window, drowning in the thick rapids of the hideous silence.

She regretted ever moving to Hawkins. No, better said, she regretted not telling those two annoying stalkers to fuck off and never talking to them in her life.

Because all she'd brought them was pain.
She'd wanted friends so badly she'd almost forgotten the simple fact that Max Mayfield didn't deserve any such thing.

And now she was paying for it. She had to watch the people around her, her closest friends, the ones she loved more than anything in the world, disintegrate into a pile of tears and pure, raw pain. She had to watch the dark, closed coffin lower itself into the ground, had to watch the simple emptiness and grief on the faces of people who deserved nothing less.

She had to watch the light fade from all their eyes, knowing it was her fault.

She had to look at the name engraved on the tombstone, knowing that she had Mike Wheeler's blood on her hands.

When his name slipped his mind, she couldn't help a shaky breath. She dropped her head to her feet and ran her hands through her hair, her head suddenly feeling too heavy.

Billy was easier to think about. When her thoughts were too dark and she could no longer bear them, she was able to relieve herself a little by assuring herself that there was nothing she could do about Billy's death. He was probably already dead in a way by the time the Mind Flayer took hold of him.

At least, that's what her friends kept telling her. They told her over and over again that what happened wasn't her fault, in an attempt to make her believe it.

It never worked, but there were times when their voices and reassurances were the only thing keeping her afloat.

Everyone avoided talking about Mike though, and that silence was what was slowly but surely killing her.

She looked into El's eyes and tried really hard not to cry when she asked her new friend, who she had barely had time to start getting to know on a larger level, if she hated her.

Her voice broke at the end of the question, and her efforts came to naught as she sobbed at the top of her lungs, unable to take a proper breath through her tears, let alone calm down. It was the first and last time she'd broken down like that in front of someone since Starcourt.

"Please, please... Don't hate me, please..." Max sobbed as she dropped to her knees and hid her face in her hands.

El should hate her. Everyone should hate her. But she was selfish and couldn't bear to lose them all.

El leaned down, wrapped her in a sure, strong hug, and told her with absolute conviction: "I don't hate you."
Max wanted to believe her. She wanted so badly to believe her, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Because no matter how anyone looked at it, Mike Wheeler's death had been her fault and she had caused everyone around her immense, immense suffering.

Just because she was trying to be a part of something she never should have been involved in.

Mike was right all along. She should never have joined the Party and she should never have tried to pretend she was one of them.
And now? Now he wasn't here and everything was falling apart without him.

El and Will were busy moving out and Lucas and Dustin were left alone because Max didn't deserve their friendship and she certainly didn't want to watch the two of them try hard to pretend that she wasn't really to blame for the breakup of their Party.

Max would give anything to change her decision. She'd sign her word with the devil, God, whoever, she'd offer her own life just to put that light back in her friends' eyes.
To bring Mike back. Because he was supposed to be there, with his sour grin, his constant complaints and sarcastic remarks. He was supposed to be here so that she could tease him, so that she could make him let El breathe a little, and so that she could actually do everything she could to spice up his existence a little.

She was getting a lot of attention at school now. People suddenly knew her as the girl whose brother and one of her friends had died. Ever since Will had returned from the Upside Down, there probably hadn't been anyone else who was talked about as much among the teenagers as she and her friends were now.

Unlike Will, however, she hadn't been the subject of gossip or even ridicule.
In the end, the whole situation was very simple. There had been a fire, and Mike and Billy had died there.

Ah, how much Max would have appreciated being laughed at. If someone had come up to her, spat at her feet and shouted something about their deaths surely being her fault, with a smirk.

That was what she deserved.

Not an expression of sympathy. Not the concerned looks, not the pitying whispers as she walked by.

Max was quite simply the girl who couldn't save her brother and who had killed one of her friends.

─┉─ • ─┉─

In the three months – for God's sake, it has been three months already? – Mike had gotten used to the fact that the corridors in which his room was located were empty, silent and icy. The only sound that echoed through them was his footsteps and then, of course, the louder stomping of the soldiers behind him.

Being accompanied by a rowdy bunch of teenagers seemed to tear that established order apart.

Nikolai strutted by his side, not stopping to ask him questions that he translated from the other boys. All the while gesticulating vigorously, which Mike couldn't stop focusing on because he found it to be such a distinctive feature that it was hilarious.

The two youngest twins, Alexander and Maximilian, ran down the halls, opening one door after another and taking turns coming back to report anything interesting they discovered.

Apparently the bathroom had caused a stir.

"You not only have your own room, but your own bathroom?" Ivan wondered, tapping Nikolai on the shoulder and forcing him to translate his words.

Mike scratched the back of his head. "I guess...?" He shrugged. It wasn't exactly his bathroom. Just none of the other subjects had survived long enough to use it.

Ivan shook his head in acknowledgement. "That's cool, man. I'd like that, too."

Mike frowned in confusion and Nikolai quickly explained: "We all sleep in the same room and use the same bathroom, which is shared by everyone on the base. It's a bit of a mess there."

He looked unexpectedly serious, so Mike figured they had had some unpleasant experiences with the bathroom in the past.

When Mike said nothing and just stared at him, Nikolai lowered his eyes to the floor and grinned unhappily. "Older guys are awful," he explained a little tartly. "Especially to the younger ones. And especially in the bathroom."

"Oh," came from Mike, who took only a few seconds to realize what Nikolai meant. He couldn't help shuddering as he imagined it. He supposed he'd been lucky on that count at least.

He wondered why Nikolai had told him that, but before he could ask, Alexander came running up to them with his brother and a white pillow in his hand, demanding to know: "Why are there so many empty rooms?"

Mike decided not to ask why he was stealing the pillow and just shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea. I didn't build this place," he lied and let Nikolai translate.

He felt a little guilty for not answering truthfully, since Nikolai seemed to have no problem speaking directly, but he didn't want to get into the subject of his abilities and the reason he was here in the first place any sooner than necessary.
If they hadn't heard about it themselves yet – which they surely would soon – he wasn't going to bring it to their attention.

"This is such a waste of space," Nikolai muttered disapprovingly, a little more carefree again. Mike was fascinated by how easily he switched between seriousness and cheerfulness. "They might as well move us in, there is enough rooms!"

Mike wrinkled his nose. "Hm. Trust me, you'd get tired of it pretty soon," he said, and when Nikolai raised an eyebrow at him, he explained: "Especially when you have nothing to look at but it for two weeks. It makes you want to claw your eyes out."

Nikolai snorted and waved his hand. "Phew, who said I'd be stuck in there for two weeks? It's enough for me to go somewhere to sleep without these idiots."

He deliberately raised his voice at the end, which led to everyone looking at him, Alexander protesting something loudly, and Ivan trying to trip Nikolai's legs.

The only two Mike hadn't heard speak yet were Misha and Ilya. The younger, fair-haired boy seemed quite composed, looking around interestedly and nodding briefly when he noticed Mike's gaze before continuing his exploration of the hallway.

Misha looked like he'd swallowed a lemon – his gait was stiff and plank-like, and he seemed tense. And it certainly didn't help when he realized Mike was looking at him, because he frowned, so Mike hastily turned back to Nikolai instead.

They were just climbing the stairs when Nikolai remarked: "You still haven't told us exactly what you're doing here, American. And why you have one whole floor to yourself."

Mike turned his head forward and to his relief they had already reached the door to the hall, which Alexander and Maximilian were already opening, so overwhelming them with voices and general noise that Mike didn't feel compelled to answer.

"Why Blondie... I mean, Sonya, send you?" Mike asked after a moment of silence that reigned between him and Nikolai as they walked down the center of the hall.
Mike had no idea which way they were going, so he relied on the two youngest brothers to lead them where they needed to go.

"Blondie?" Nicholas grinned as he looked at him and Mike held up his hands in defense.

"I didn't know her name," he explained. "And the only thing she knows in English is the swear words she learned from me. Every time I train with her, she uses a damn dictionary."

"So it's your fault!" Nikolai suddenly yelled with a wide grin, slapping his hand right on his forehead as Mike stared at him in confusion. "She recently started cursing us all in English. Of course only I can understand her, but until now I didn't understand where she learned the words and why she suddenly decided to use them. Ahah, no, Mikhail! You have ruined our beloved teacher."

Mike scrunched his eyebrows doubtfully. "Then you must have a different idea of what a ruined person looks like," he said. "When I first trained with her, she wouldn't stop yelling at me. In fact, she still does."

Nikolai grimaced and nodded. "Right! A perfect woman, don't you think?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "If you say so."

"Oh, back to your question. It's obviously because we're the best group she trains," Nikolai said proudly.

"Group?"

"Yeep. It's just that Sonya as a woman doesn't have any special title," Nikolai explained. "You know, things like officer, lieutenant, guard and stuff. But she's the daughter of a general or something, and her father pushed her into military training. Nobody knew what to do with her, they said, because she was good enough to match even the best soldiers, but at the same time... You see, she's a woman. And so they moved her here because hardly anyone here hears of her and assigned her to us. All the random kids that nobody cares about either. There's almost thirty of us in all, this group of us is just one of four."

Mike listened to him with growing curiosity. He never thought about what Sonya was doing here and how she managed to push her way among the soldiers as a woman – especially in Russia.

Mike guiltily admitted to himself that when Blondie had first come to him, he'd had his doubts about how a woman could be in charge of his training, until she showed him how stupid his doubts were.

He'd matured quite a bit since he'd been convinced that girls don't play video games, and since he'd spent so much time in Max's company, but getting rid of his father's voice that told him over and over what women could and couldn't do was more challenging than he wanted to admit.

He supposed, though, that America was a little better off than the Soviet Union. It surprised him that they'd even trusted Blondie with his training when he was supposed to be their new weapon, and when they clearly didn't have enough confidence in Sonya to promote her.

"She teach us all, that kind of physical stuff," Nikolai explained. "And also weapons training, but we've only just started with those anyway, so I don't think I can tell you much about them. You know, come to think of it, we've had three months of abbreviated training, just like all the other groups. Isn't that because of you?"

Mike blinked in surprise. "I guess so? Sorry?"

Nikolai chuckled and waved his hand. "Don't worry about it. You're more important than we are. It's obvious they'll care about you more than they care about us."
Mike wasn't sure if 'care' was an appropriate enough term, but he didn't want to correct Nikolai.

They walked through the double doors into the wide corridor and past the lab door, which Mike avoided with his gaze, instead keeping his eyes on the stairs, which he hadn't had access to until this moment.

Nikolai wasn't going to let it go, though – out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the boy cock his head so he could look at the lab door, and then ask half-loudly: "They're doing some experiments on you, aren't they?"
Mike looked back to him, but didn't answer. What could he say anyway?

"We've often seen you with the black-haired one," Nikolai said. "Terrible woman."
Mike just grunted in agreement and appreciated Nikolai not asking any more questions.

"How many floors does this place have?" Mike asked as they began to climb up the wide staircase, his curiosity and excitement growing.

"We're going to the zero floor now," Nikolai replied smoothly. "We've come up from floor -1 and yours must be -2 in that case."

"And what's above us? Where exactly are we?" Mike wanted to know, and Nikolai's expression changed a little at that moment.

"You don't know anything, do you?" Nikolai said seriously and raised his eyebrows. "What did they do? Did they kidnap you? And now what? You expect me to help you escape?"
Mike lowered his head in shame without giving any kind of answer. Oh god, had he really ruined his best chance at information just because he couldn't wait a little longer? Damn it.

"Hey hey, don't make that face," Nikolai admonished him, giving him a little shove with his hand until Mike stumbled. "There'll be plenty of time for this conversation. We're already here."

While Mike was concentrating on their conversation, they reached the top of the staircase and a huge, wide space stretched out right in front of them and especially above them. The hall that Mike walked through every day could fit here almost three times the width and roughly twice the height.

The most interesting thing seemed to be that there was no reason for the space to be this huge – apart from the many large doors, open or closed, and the mass of soldiers walking around, there was nothing of interest inside.
Not even windows, which disappointed Mike, because he missed the sunlight a hell of a lot and somehow expected that being on floor zero meant they were on some sort of 'ground floor'. He'd already figured out that this part of the base must be underground – after all, they'd managed to create a massive base under Hawkins, why shouldn't they be able to do it on their own territory – and when Nikolai told him they were going to floor zero... Well, he had his hopes up.

But he decided not to ask Nikolai if there was an exit, or even stairs to the higher floors – he didn't want to push the envelope. Nikolai didn't know him, he had no reason to trust or help him, and Mike didn't want to lose... Well, his directness and openness from the very beginning.

In fact, he was surprised at how friendly Nikolai had been with him from the start and couldn't help wondering if there was more to it than natural kindness and, of course, curiosity.
But whatever his true motives were, Mike couldn't figure them out.

"This is where our barracks are located," the aforementioned Nikolai explained, waving his hand towards a wide, open doorway built into the wall, beyond which Mike could just make out a dimly lit corridor. "We'll show you around sometime. The adult barracks are across the street from us, they're bigger and more expansive. And all those doors you see here, they serve all sorts of purposes. But mostly they're corridors that lead to ammunition and weapons stores, or even hangars – they say there are tanks and planes there, but we were never allowed to look in there. If you want to know my opinion, I think it's a bunch of hogwash, because I've never seen anything but helicopters, trucks and the like here, but what do I know. Oh, and there's the elevator. It's heavily guarded, no unauthorized access."

Nikolai pointed his finger towards the iron door of the elevator, in front of which stood two soldiers, weapons in hand. No one was exiting or entering the elevator, and Mike was pretty sure that in order to open the doors, they would have to enter some sort of code, use a card, or maybe a fingerprint.
Still, he carefully memorized this information. He had no idea exactly where the elevator led, but it had to be something important if it was guarded like this.

"See that big door there?" Nikolai asked after a moment, pointing to a door at the very end of the hall that was half open because soldiers were passing through it. "That must be the most interesting one for you. They lead to a corridor that will take you outside. There's a platform there, usually some helicopters land there, you can see the military base from there."

Mike immediately turned all his attention to the plain, simple, metal door, so close to his reach, yet so far away.

However, he hadn't expected the exit from the mountain to be so accessible. Sure, if he tried to escape through it, someone would catch him in an instant, but the fact that he now knew their location made things immeasurably easier. Because there was a way to get out of here, and he knew it now.

All he wanted to do was run to that hallway, get as far away as he could and maybe just get a breath of fresh air, let the daylight bathe his face, but it would be stupid and useless, because even if he did, what was the point if he couldn't get anywhere else?

So as much as his desire and urge to take his feet on his shoulders intruded on his thoughts, he kept reminding himself that he had to be patient.

"And the rest are the classrooms, the training grounds, and of course the firing range," Nikolai added, pointing at length to another door, which unfortunately didn't interest Mike nearly as much. "We're heading to the training ground, which is Sonya's responsibility."

"Classrooms," Mike repeated, forcing himself to concentrate and Nikolai grinned annoyedly: "Yeah. After all, we're still teenage boys, right? So, apart from military law and having orders and signals constantly drummed into our heads, we've got normal school. Russian, maths and so on. You know, I'm kind of surprised they didn't make you learn Russian."

Mike was pretty sure why – to put him at a disadvantage in his environment and weaken him even more than he already was. The only one who had asked him to learn it was Blondie, and that was probably because she was tired of flipping through the dictionary all the time. Mike had only looked at the books in Russian about twice, though, because he soon got tired of trying to guess what letters he didn't know meant.

"I could teach you," Nikolai offered. "If your bodyguards don't have a problem with it, hah. I'm one of the few here who can speak Russian and English, and I bet you don't know Cyrillic either."

Mike didn't think Shark would be thrilled with the idea, but frankly, he didn't really care what the mad scientist liked or didn't like. He'd find some time to learn something.

Nikolai led them to a ajar, iron door, beyond which, when he opened it wide, was a bright, rather large room with a low ceiling.

At the back of the room, Mike could see punching bags, but most of the space was taken up by color-coded areas, presumably for exercise – one of them was even bordered by ropes, like Mike had seen in the movies.

Blondie was leaning against one of the ropes, a book in one hand, and when she spotted them, she immediately started speaking in Russian with her forceful voice.

Nikolai scratched his head, looked a little guilty, and then said something in reply, whereupon Sonya cut him off mid-sentence and waved her hand as if she wasn't in the mood to listen to him anymore. She swept her gaze over them, stopping it on someone standing behind them. Mike glanced back to see that the two soldiers had followed them into the room, which he honestly wasn't particularly surprised about, because he had kind of expected it.
It seemed to annoy Blondie though, because the tone of her voice when she spoke didn't sound very friendly.

"She's telling them to get out," Nikolai whispered in Mike's ear so unexpectedly that he almost jumped in surprise. "Your soldiers are telling her they have their orders and... Well, Sonya's telling them they can shove their orders up their ass."
Mike snorted as he tried to suppress another wave of sympathy he felt for the blonde Russian woman.

"Now they're more or less just arguing. Wow, they shouldn't be provoking Sonya like that... And look, see? Now she's angry," Nikolai commented as Blondie folded her arms across her chest, making her impressively muscular arms stand out. She grinned, raised her eyebrows and snapped something. "Well, now she's challenged them if they think she's incapable of taking care of, and I quote, 'this poor, American kid.' I have a feeling she's talking about you, Mikhail."

Mike shot him a look that said 'no shit' and then went back to watching the will fight. To his utter amazement, the soldiers somehow complied, turned on their heels, walked out of the room and closed the door behind them.

"They'll be waiting outside the door," Nikolai said, then patted Mike on the back with a broad smile. "Hallelujah! At least no one's checking up on you anymore."

The other boys, meanwhile, spread out around the room – Maksimilian and Alexander headed over to Blondie, who looked annoyed when the two started talking to her, Ilya sat down on a nearby bench, and Ivan and Misha started talking as they faced each other in the middle of one of the marked-out plas. Ivan had a crooked, challenging smile on his face, while Misha gave him only a short, curt reply.

"Мудак!" Blondie shouted, and Mike, who had somehow become accustomed to being addressed exclusively with swear words, raised his head and turned to Blondie. What was even funnier, though, was that most of the other guys looked at her as well.

"American," Sonya clarified, which Nikolai obviously found extremely funny, because he started giggling softly.
Mike looked back at him as he approached Blondie and Nikolai just grinned and said: "I'm just amused that we're all convinced she's talking to us when she swears, including you, who doesn't even understand it."

Mike didn't have time to reply to that because Sonya started talking. However, it wasn't up to him as Nikolai answered her and then told Mike: "So from now on I'm your personal translator too. And hers. Oh, man, I do so many things... I should ask for a raise."
Mike looked at him doubtfully.

"Whatever," Nikolai snorted, folding his arms at his sides. "Let me pretend, okay?"
Blondie clapped loudly, right in front of Mike's face, until he jerked, forcing them to focus on her.

Nikolai straightened up and listened as Blondie gave him instructions. At the end of her speech, he rolled his eyes, turned to face Mike and translated: "So... Basically, Blondie wants to see how you're... Well, how can you fight, you know. That's why she's going to let us fight first without any advice or anything."

"Us?" Mike repeated in surprise and Nikolai grinned at him: "Clearly. Not only your guide and translator, but also your ring partner! I'm telling you, this..."

Blondie shouted at him emphatically, as if even she understood that Nikolai wasn't talking about what he was supposed to talk about, so he sighed theatrically and returned to the subject: "The rules are simple. Whoever ends up on the ground for at least three seconds loses. You cross the line, you lose. And no trying to kill each other or anything, okay? And..."

Blondie added something, after which Nikolai straightened up in surprise and shot Mike a curious look. Everyone else, except perhaps Ilya, who had started reading Sonya's book, looked in their direction, having no doubt heard her words, whatever they meant.

Mike found out shortly after, as Nikolai hesitantly added: "And no use of your powers."

And all of Mike's efforts to keep it from them, at least for a while, were in tatters.

To confirm her words, Blondie pulled out a familiar controller that Mike had learned to hate and that he would have preferred to smash into a million little pieces.

Maksimilian asked a question, but Mike of course didn't understand, and Nikolai didn't translate his words – instead, he headed for the red square drawn on the floor, where he'd banished Ivan and Misha from.

Blondie gave Mike a soft shove to get him to move, so he hurriedly followed Nikolai to the center of the square.

"Be gentle with me," Nikolai flashed him a slightly nervous smile. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

Mike exhaled and replied: "Then you're lucky you're fighting me."

It wasn't like he'd never punched anyone in his life. In fact, he probably got in more fights than most other kids his age, because as the target of constant bullying, he didn't always enjoy getting hit. Not that he was the first to go for the punch, but the fact was that after El disappeared he never complained about an excuse to break someone's nose. Often it was because someone had taken a chance on Will, most often shortly after 'finding' him. Mike, who was still just angry, annoyed and sort of overflowing with emotion at the time, would often get into some sort of scuffle just to get his temper out and at the same time get everyone to take their hands off Will.

It worked back then. The difference, however, was when he tried to do the same thing against someone like fucking Billy, which sent him unconscious in one blow.

And sure enough, Nikolai was almost as old as he was, and just as tall, but also stronger and more experienced on the face of it.
Mike suspected he was going to get a good beating, but that honestly wasn't anything new.

"Раз... Два... Три!" Blondie counted off, and with that, Nikolai lunged at him.
Mike sort of expected it and successfully ducked from the punch, but that ended any luck he might have had as Nikolai spun towards him faster than Mike could back away and punched him right in the face with his fist.

"Sorry!" Nikolai yelled as Mike stumbled and fell to the ground.

He quickly climbed to his feet, however, as the blow wasn't hard enough to paralyze him – though his entire jaw now ached.
He stepped back from Nikolai, careful not to cross the line and take his eyes off him.

Nikolai smiled apologetically at him, whereupon Blondie shouted: "Перестаньте улыбаться ему, как будто вы пытаетесь с ним заигрывать! Атакуйте его!"

Whatever that meant, it caused most of the guys in the room to laugh loudly, and Nikolai turned to Blondie with a dramatic gasp, which Mike took advantage of to get right up to Nikolai and mimic the punch he'd dealt him moments before.

It didn't have nearly as much power in it, but it did cause Nikolai to back up a few steps and nearly cross the line.

All the boys – perhaps except for Misha and Ilya, who was still reading – let out a stunned cheer, and Ivan even whistled in praise.

That kind of ended any initiative Mike had, though, as the rest of the match was just him trying to dodge Nikolai's increasingly intense shots. His ribs, arms, and of course his face took the brunt of it, but once Nikolai even stomped on his foot, which Mike thought was a one hell of a slimy cheat and he was very vocal about it.

Nikolai grinned, hair disheveled and full of sweat, and said: "Sonya is not a fan of the rules. We can do pretty much whatever we want. For example –"

Mike didn't have time to back up fast enough when Nikolai leaned in and, with surprising strength and energy put all into one motion, kicked Mike right in the stomach.
The blow momentarily knocked the wind out of Mike and forced him to his knees... For a full three seconds.

"Are you giving up?" Nicholas asked, standing directly above him, his head cocked to the side.

"Apparently," Mike hissed as he managed to force his lungs to work as they should. Before his eyes, which were momentarily flooded with tears of pain, he saw an outstretched hand.
He looked up to Nikolai who held it out to him and thought for a moment about standing up by himself, but eventually accepted the helping hand and let it pull him up.

"You're not as vain as you look," Nikolai grinned at him. "You certainly stood better than when they threw me in the ring. I looked three times worse."

"I'll try not to take it personally," Mike huffed, but in reality he felt a kind of... Pleasure.
Okay, maybe he could have done without having his whole body totally broken, but the fight had relaxed him just as much as all the training with Blondie had.

She just came up to them and said something, whereupon Nikolai cheerfully translated, "Sonya says you're completely useless."

"Oh. Thank you."

"But... She said it would work out. Maybe. If you try."

Well. That's exactly what Mike was planning, wasn't it? He wasn't going to let Blondie down in that regard.

Notes:

Today's art is pretty nah, but I didn't have time (blame my Temeraire brainrot, not me) so I quickly did something to finally get this out.

Another Nikolai content, eey!! And we looked at Max! She's very easy to write – like all characters with a guilt complex, hehe.

Anyway, I've somehow started trying to draw people more actively, so maybe you'll see illustrations involving outright dialogue, not just scenes and atmosphere XDD Though you'll have to forgive me for the overall imperfection of how I draw people – still a complete beginner in that regard 💀

Anyway, we've got some training chapters coming up, so I'll see you there later!

Chapter 11: Chapter eleven

The third month

Objective: Participate in training, find a way to escape (main objective)

"We're going to start something new today," Shark told him that afternoon as Mike stepped into the lab and immediately noticed that it was completely empty – there were no tables, hospital couches, or tools, just regularly spaced pieces of wood lying on the floor.
The few scientists who were always watching and possibly helping were lined up just by the door through which Mike and Shark now entered.

"We've been letting you manipulate the fire for the last few weeks to get you used to it," said Shark, who stood in the middle of the room while Mike remained standing by the door. "You've confirmed several times that you find it easy and natural at this point."
Mike nodded briefly.

"And although we still haven't seen any significant improvement in your ability to use fire without a lighter," Shark continued in a cold tone, and Mike felt like rolling his eyes or snapping something sarcastic at her. "We've decided that we can start testing and pushing the limits of your fire manipulation with a lighter. This is your first task – you will light every single log of wood without getting close to them."

Mike looked a little dubiously at the very last piece of wood, which was on the very opposite side of the lab. He'd never tried to stretch a flame that far, and he wasn't sure his current power would be up to the task.

He wasn't going to let that possibility stop him, though. Shark came back to him, handing him the now familiar lighter, and he took a single step forward to make sure he had enough space.

As he flicked the lighter, he immediately took hold of the flame and formed a tiny, glowing ball right before his eyes. This had become such a simple task for him that he didn't even need to reach out his hand to do it.

He tilted his head to the side and took a moment to consider the best course of action that would take the least amount of energy. He still had a normal training session with Blondie tonight, and he was not interested in coughing up blood there like he did last time.

When he'd decided, he shrunk the flame into a tiny spark and used his raised hand to direct it towards the nearest log of wood.

It was a pretty massive piece of wood, and Mike had learned quickly over the past few weeks that lighting things on fire wasn't really as easy as it looked in the movies. He needed to enlarge the flame and leave it near the particular material he was trying to light long enough for it to ignite, which was understandably debilitating him quickly.

He learned that not all wood was the same and that it made a huge difference whether he burned birch or oak, not to mention that starting a fire was not the same as keeping it going.
The advantage between a normal fire and his was the energy source – which was fed from it and not the wood itself. All he had to do was be persistent and patient and wait for the fire to burn through strong enough to let it burn freely.
Needless to say, his strength wasn't always up to the task.

Mike was therefore relieved to see the chipped pieces of birch in front of him – which didn't burn for very long, but at least they were easy to light.

Lighting the first piece didn't give him much trouble – the flame, which he enlarged to the size of his fist, only needed to lick the light wood a few times before it flared up like a torch just moments later.

Mike was about to move on to the next wood with his flame before he paused, having an idea.

He could hear the disgruntled whispers of the scientists behind him as he made no further progress, but he paid them no mind – instead, he waited until the wood was burning enough to borrow some of its flames without completely extinguishing them.

In doing so, he enlarged his own flame and saved himself the energy he would otherwise have put into trying to enlarge it on his own.

With that, he reached out and directed the fire towards the second piece of wood. It was a little harder to light than before, due to the increasing distance, but he managed it, and did the same with three more before it became really difficult.

The fire that until now had been held in a perfect, fiery ball was now breaking into shreds of tiny, flaming tongues, defying him, losing its strength, and Mike had to concentrate hard on it just to keep it in his grasp. It took him an agonizingly long time to light the seventh piece of wood, and as he tried to aim for the last, he felt a familiar scratching in his throat that immediately took his thoughts away from the flame, which dissolved into the air without his control as he spat a few drops of blood onto the ground.

Wiping it from his lips, he glanced back to Shark, who merely nodded curtly at him and jotted something down in her papers.

"How have you progressed in controlling your abilities without the aid of a lighter?" Shark asked him just a moment later, while the other scientists were meanwhile extinguishing the pieces of wood and carrying it away.

"Not particularly," Mike replied, wanting to wipe the cold expression off the scientist's face in any way he could, but not allowing himself to show a single negative thought. "Every time I try, it's too... Complicated. Too scattered and far away. Just creating a few sparks out of nothing is hard, let alone a whole flame. I don't feel like I have the energy."

"Do you think it could be a problem of some kind of deficiency?" Shark wondered, tapping her pen against her clipboard a few times. "Our body gets energy from food – it processes it and converts it into energy. We have an innate process, but we have to provide it with the food somehow, otherwise it's useless. But you have another source of energy in your body. It is possible that this one also needs to be supported in some way for greater strength and faster regeneration."

This was something that Mike had thought of as well, but unfortunately he hadn't come up with anything useful. He doubted anyone had invented special dietary supplements for barely successful science experiments
So he just shrugged helplessly, unable to give Shark a satisfactory answer.

The scientist rolled her eyes in displeasure, while Mike felt like snorting in disbelief and remarking something about how he was just a teenager, not scientist, and that if they couldn't figure anything out even with their education, it wasn't his fault, it was theirs, only he wasn't interested in getting another electric shock. He'd taken so many in the last three weeks just because he was supposedly rude or too incompetent, that he couldn't keep count anymore. Sometimes he got the feeling that the soldiers were secretly enjoying themselves because they were pushing the button, even if he just made some weird move towards Shark, like they were expecting him to just make a flaming torch out of her.

Which wasn't far from the truth, but Mike would never act that stupid.

Either they truly considered him a threat – which he had no idea what to think about it – or they simply enjoyed watching him writhe in spasms of pain.

Mike assumed it was more the latter, because without a lighter he could hardly light someone's cigarette, let alone a person. And the lighter had only been in his hands in the lab because no one had allowed him to keep it.

"Take a break and then we'll do it again," Shark finally said to him, and Mike gave her a mocking salute before leaning back against the wall and sitting down on the floor while the scientists present cleaned up the charred and now also soaked through pieces of wood and replaced them with new logs. "You have to get used to using your abilities for hours at a time," Shark continued, standing next to him. "Everything you do here will gradually take you to a better and better level. Your stamina, your accuracy, your concentration and most of all your strength."

That's what I've been trying to do all this time, isn't it? Mike thought bitterly, but preferred not to say it out loud.

Instead, his thoughts wandered back a few hours, to training with Blondie, Nikolai and the others. He'd had the opportunity to see the fight between Ivan and Misha – Nikolai had explained that Misha had lost the last time and had been asking for a rematch for weeks – and he had to admit that he felt respect and admiration for them.

Not that their fight was some kind of work of art, full of complex tactics and choreography – it was fast, brutal and precise, and they both went for the blood immediately, ending up with red drops all over their faces and bruises on their arms. Despite their age difference and the fact that Misha was taller, Ivan managed to take him down after a few minutes of the fight. With his nose broken and his hand resting on his hip, which Misha had hit hard, he stood like a winner.

"How unexpected," Nikolai grinned as he clapped along with the others.
Misha allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by Ivan and nodded at something the younger boy said to him, but he didn't smile or look him in the eye.

"Like I said, Ivan is the best of us," Nikolai said. "And not just of us, even of all the other groups of kids our age. Every year we have this tournament – Blondie organizes it, because no one else cares enough to keep us entertained – and one of the events is a fistfight. This is the second year Ivan has held the title."

Mike thought it was damned sad that these guys considered fighting one of their few sources of entertainment, but he understood. He too enjoyed training with Blondie, if only because there weren't many other fun things to do.

But he couldn't help asking more and more questions – like where were the boys' parents? He really strongly doubted they had been kidnapped like he had. Could they have been base employees? But it didn't look like their parents had any special care for them, if they had any.

Mike was tempted to ask Nikolai about it, but decided to postpone the question until later... Like most of the others he wanted to know, actually. But he didn't want to flood him with questions right away, lest somehow drive Nikolai away and thus lose his only possible source of information and also a pleasant distraction.

Blondie brought the bandages to Misha and Ivan and talked to them briefly, sending them to the bench before she walked over to Mike and Nikolai and started talking to them.
Nikolai quickly translated; "Real fighting isn't like anything you see in the movies. Look, I'd really like to see an American movie again, I'm kind of... Okay, okay, um. So, they're not like movie fights. They're usually only a few minutes long, often just one well-aimed punch. All the guys, when they go into a fight, they've got these big eyes, and they think how many shots they can survive, and they're gonna be on their feet after they've been painted blue. That's not true. Every single punch slows you down, takes away your focus and your energy. Anyone can punch someone in the face if they try hard enough. You learn how to block punches and how to avoid them so you can land your own."

Mike nodded that he understood, and an image flashed reluctantly through his mind of a dark, hooded face and those uninterested, cold eyes, fingers wrapped around his neck.
That was at least one reason to pay attention and try his best.

"And we'll start with the simplest," Blondie said, and Nikolai winced as if he knew exactly what was coming.

Sonya walked over to Mike, grabbed his arm and forced his fingers into a fist. "Don't you ever dare hide that palace under your fingers again. You're lucky you didn't break it," Nikolai translated while Sonya glared at Mike as if to make sure he was paying attention. Then she moved his thumb close to his knuckles and added; "You have to make a tight fist. You mustn't loosen it for a moment. Do it."

Mike quickly obeyed her and without letting go, Blondie pressed her thumb against each of his fingers. "You call that tight?" She asked him mockingly. "I must not be able to press your fingers into the gap in your fist. So do it again. Well, see, that's better. Now reach your hand forward."

He might even be good at this. He's gotten used to keeping his hand steady in front of him over the past few weeks, so he shouldn't have a problem holding it in one position.

"Straighten your wrists. It must be firm and stable when you strike, otherwise sooner or later you will destroy your hand and you won't be able to hit even a... plucked chicken with it," Nikolai translated, grinning a little confused at the last words. "That's a strange analogy if you ask me, but okay. Besides, has she ever tried hitting a chicken? That's hard even without having – ah, right, I'm translating, no need to get upset..."

Sonya adjusted the position of his hand a little and then added, "You have to make a fist when you hit, but do it when you're closest to the impact. Squeezing prematurely will only slow you down. You can relax your fist a little between punches to let your muscles relax, but you mustn't let the whole position fall apart and, above all, you mustn't let your pinky move. That's what holds it all together. Rely on your knuckles, especially those of the middle and index fingers. They're the strongest and most effective, and if you hold that hand right, you won't even have to think about it."

Blondie backed away from him and said; "That's the most important thing. You can do all this now, in a resting situation, but you have to get used to this layout in a fight. It will all come automatically, but you'll have to train. With the punching bags and, of course, in fights with others. Now try to swing that fist."

Mike paused for a moment, because the order that came practically out of nowhere took him by surprise, and besides, he didn't want to swing at empty air in front of everyone else, but he also had no desire to get an electric shock, so he clenched his fingers into a fist, checked quickly that they were sufficiently steady, straightened his wrists, and then swung it with as much force as he could muster.

He felt incredibly ridiculous doing so and didn't help when Nikolai translated; "Pathetic. That's what she says, not me, by the way."
Mike scowled at them both in frustration and folded his arms across his chest.

"You need to be faster," Blondie told him, legs apart, clenching her fingers into a fist and then punching the air with them in two short successive blows. It was a quick, simple, and even at first glance powerful move that Mike didn't understand how she achieved.

"You're going to try it on a punching bag," Blondie instructed him, and Nikolai nodded and led him to the back.

Blondie stayed by the marked area she had sent Maksimilian and Alexander to. Despite the fact that both brothers were thirteen, they were fighting with considerable experience and were certainly better than Mike.

Misha and Ivan sat on the benches and talked while Blondie shouted something at Ilya a moment later. The fair-haired boy put down the book he was reading in annoyance and headed over to Mike and Nikolai.

"Ilya is not the physical type," explained Nikolai, who was also following him. "But Sonya surprisingly has a soft place for him, so she doesn't give him the time of day like the rest of us. You should have seen me in the first few months. My hands were jelly, and Sonya used to taunt me all the time. It was pretty good motivation though, not that it wasn't."

Mike tore his eyes away from them both and focused on the bag in front of him. He went through all the steps Blondie had shown him, legs apart, took a deep breath, and then hit the bag with all his might.

It didn't budge an inch, but Mike could tell with a calm heart that the blow hurt a lot less than anything he'd tried before, so he sort of guessed he was doing it right. Even if he didn't have enough strength in his arm to do any major damage.

"Hey, Mikhail," came the voice of Nikolai, who was also pounding his bag next to him. His hair, still matted with sweat from their previous fight, was in his eyes, which were fixed firmly on the bag in front of him, not on Mike. "What's that thing on your neck for? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

Mike turned away from him and calmly replied; "It gives me an electric shock whenever someone feels I'm doing something I shouldn't."

"Was that the controller Sonya pulled out?" Nikolai asked, still facing the bag.

Mike nodded curtly through gritted teeth. He swung again and hit the bag with his knuckles, but this time he wasn't focused enough and his fist could barely be considered clenched, sending a wave of pain through his entire arm.

"How many people have it?"

"The controller?" Mike assured himself, then replied, "I have no idea, but there's more than one."
Nikolai folded his arms and Mike saw him turn to him out of the corner of his eye.

"Why do you have it?" He asked seriously.
Mike took a shallow breath, dropped his hand from the bag and looked at Nikolai as well, right into his light brown eyes. The older boy's eyebrows were knitted together, perhaps in disbelief, perhaps in worry, and his face wore an unexpectedly serious expression.

"Because you have some powers?" Nikolai guessed when Mike remained silent. "Is that why you're here? Because you're... Different?"

Different. The simple word shot through Mike like a bolt of lightning, settling in his veins and between his bones, crawling in as comfortably as the fire that slumbered within him.
Because it was true, wasn't it? He was different now.
Mike never thought a single word could be this terrifying.

"Sorry," Nikolai apologized hurriedly, since Mike had no answer. "I shouldn't have asked. You don't have to answer."

With that, he turned back to his bag, but Mike finally spoke; ,,No, it's okay. It's not like you couldn't ask. I would have too."

Nikolai turned his head towards him again and blinked a few times before he narrowed his eyes and asked; "So it's true? The rumors going around the base?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," Mike shrugged. "Remember, I don't understand a word anyone says here."

Nikolai smiled, which eased Mike's tense nerves a little, and shook his head. "True. The thing is... Perhaps since I've been here, there's been talk around the base that this isn't the ordinary base it pretends to be," he said, lowering his voice a little, despite the fact that no one else could understand them. "There's something strange going on in the prison sector and everyone involved is as silent as the grave. There's a bunch of scientists and all these closed, high-security places... And then, of course, the accident that happened a year ago. I won't tell you exactly what it was, because I have no idea, but it was loud. It shook the whole base. Most people think it was just an unfortunate explosion, but I'm telling you, there's something strange about it."

Mike listened to him with growing concern. Somehow he managed to forget that he wasn't the only project the Russians had a hand in.

They were trying to open a portal to the Upside Down in Hawkins. They knew of the existence of that dimension, and probably knew what was in it, and yet they were trying to open it.

Maybe there was more going on here that Mike didn't know about.

"And for the last eight months or so, there have been rumors of human experimentation around the base," Nikolai added without taking his eyes off Mike's face. "On children, specifically. They say they've always been seen going into the lab, but never coming out. After a week or so, maybe two, they brought in more. And so it was repeated... Until you came along."

Mike lowered his eyes to his hands, to his scraped, reddened knuckles.
"You sound strangely calm for a guy who can't be used to these things," Mike remarked. "Don't you think it's crazy? Experiments? People with powers?"

He'd been dealing with these things since he was a kid. He supposed that he, Dustin, Lucas and Will had been exposed to the supernatural before they'd lost that sort of childlike credulity and faith. Before they became adults who don't believe a woman rambling about her son talking to her through the lights.

And then? Then they didn't have a chance to develop that distrust as they faced monsters from another dimension over and over again.
But Mike sometimes forgot that not everyone practically grew up in this.

Nikolai smiled fleetingly. "Of course I do," he nodded. "But... After all, we're in Russia. Don't get me wrong, I love my country, but I know we're capable of some pretty crazy things. People with superpowers aren't that unlikely when we're in the middle of the Soviet Union."

Mike snorted a little in amusement. "Don't worry. Americans are the same way," he remarked, one particular building in mind, with one particular scientist and one particular girl who had spent most of her life being controlled by people who only used her for her powers before she finally managed to escape.

Nikolai took a small nap. "So... What kind of cool powers do you have?"

Mike looked him over hesitantly. He wondered if Shark would be upset that he was talking to someone about it. But honestly, that sounded like her problem, not his. "I guess scientifically it's called pyrokinesis," Mike replied, turning his attention to his fingers and reaching for the fiery power that for once slumbered peacefully within him. A few tiny flames crackled around his knuckles before they slipped from his grasp again, as usual.

It seemed to be enough for Nikolai, however, as he stared at him with his mouth open and his eyes wide. "That's so awesome," he gasped as he looked at Mike in amazement. He looked almost like a child at Christmas. "Oh my God. I knew getting into a conversation with you was a good idea! Misha didn't like it much, but he doesn't like anything. You... You're really cool."

Mike had no idea why he expected a different reaction. After all, when El showed them her powers, he and Dustin were impressed as well. Plus, Nikolai was a teenager who clearly didn't have much to do.

Of course a person with abilities would elicit nothing but enthusiasm in him.

Anyway, Mike was... Pleased and a little reassured. Not that it took away all of his worries about how his friends would react to his abilities – if he ever managed to get back to them – but it certainly raised the odds in his mind a bit that they wouldn't look at him... Differently.

"Thanks?" He replied, and Nikolai saluted him cheerfully.

"You're welcome! Wow... That's so cool. I'm interested in everything now," Nikolai continued, waving his arms around vigorously with every word he spoke.

Mike couldn't help it – he was soaking up Nikolai's enthusiasm like a sponge. Over the past weeks, even months, his mood had been on such a low spectrum that just being around someone so... Alive, suddenly brought so much color to the white void that his mind was slowly but surely becoming.

"That's great, because I have a lot of questions too," Mike said. "How about we satisfy each other's curiosity?"

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, then nodded vigorously and held out his hand. "Sounds like a deal," he said solemnly, and Mike shook his hand.

"But we'd better keep quiet now, because Sonya's coming over and I bet she's going to yell at us for doing nothing," Nikolai added hurriedly, and the two of them quickly turned back to their bags.

Nikolai was right and they both had to listen to her ranting in Russian for a good few minutes, but Mike still couldn't help the satisfaction that curled in his chest.

It was too soon to consider Nikolai a friend, but he could easily say that he had officially become his favorite person on the base.

Notes:

It would have been very convenient if this chapter started with Eleven, but whatever.
This is primarily a dialogue chapter, but we learned some interesting things about the base! And we're far from done with information...

Also, as I said in the last chapter, I'm trying to draw people – it's challenging because I have some drawing skills, but I've been drawing people regularly for about just a three months, so it's still unknown territory for me. I'm sure in just a month I'll hate this, but anyway, it's Mike and Nikolai!!!

Chapter 12: Chapter twelve

The third month

Objective: Get some information, find a way to escape (main objective)

"I know which way to go," Mike remarked the next morning, when he was again awakened by voices and uninvited – but not unwelcome – visitors in his room. "You don't have to come here every morning, you know that, right?"

He had them on his ass, even when he went to brush his teeth and change his clothes, which he had to do in the bathroom as a bunch of guys wouldn't let him out of their sight.

When Mike came out of the bathroom and noticed everyone staring at him expectantly, he looked suspiciously at Nikolai, who smiled guiltily and scratched the back of his head.

"Ah, well... Everyone heard Sonya mention your powers," he explained carefully. "And they were wondering if it was true. They wouldn't leave me alone, so I told them."

Mike sighed in frustration and flicked his gaze to the two soldiers who were leaning against the walls, not paying much attention to them, preoccupied with their own conversation. "You could get in trouble for that," Mike said. "You better hope it's not some ultra-secret information that no one is supposed to know about."

"If it was, they wouldn't let you go anywhere you wanted," Misha remarked unexpectedly as Nikolai translated Mike's words to them. He didn't look very enthusiastic, and his legs were slightly spread as if he was waiting for Mike to try and kill them all.

Up until this point, Misha hadn't spoken to him once, which surprised Mike, but he pointed to the two soldiers in response to his comment. "I can't go where I want," Mike replied sourly, whereupon Nikolai interjected; "Apparently they let Sona train you along with us. And you've got a damn electroshock machine around your neck. They can't expect people not to ask, and as far as I know, no one forbade you to answer, did they?"

"Maybe they didn't think I'd be able to answer anyone since everyone here speaks Russian," Mike retorted before rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. "I'm just saying... Look, it's basically just my fault for telling you – and by that I mean you, Nikolai – so if it really is a problem, I'll try to take the blame somehow, but please try not to spread the word."

Maybe it was nothing, maybe Shark and Morozov didn't give a damn, or maybe they did – either way, Mike didn't want to risk any of these guys getting hurt just because they couldn't keep their mouths shut.

That sounded pretty hypocritical of him right now, but he could afford it. They can punish him in any way they want, but they won't kill him. He was too important to them for that.

Nikolai translated Mike's words to the others, and since they seemed to be talking even longer than necessary, Mike figured he was really trying to get it into their heads not to talk about this anywhere.

Maksimilian and Ilya nodded gravely, Ivan and Alexander grinned a little, and the younger of the boys rolled his eyes as if he thought it was silly, but they nodded too, and Misha just shook his head almost in disbelief.
Finally, Nikolai turned back to him and saluted solemnly. "We'll be silent as the grave, or we'll become graves," he vowed, which sounded wonderfully morbid. He paused for a moment when Maksimilian asked a question – he spoke directly to Mike, though he knew he couldn't understand him, instead of addressing his query to Nikolai – and then translated; "Maks is – very politely, to be clear – asking if you could... Show us something."

Mike raised an eyebrow and stared back at the soldiers. "Maybe later," he replied evasively.

That seemed to disappoint everyone a little – including Misha, who was obviously trying not to show it – but Nikolai just shrugged and suggested; "We have quite a bit of time. We can go sit in the rest room if you want."
Mike, who had nothing else to do anyway, didn't see any problem with that, so he nodded and together they headed down the corridors to the stairs.

"Were these rooms built for other... People like you?" Nikolai asked as they passed a closed doors.

Mike, who had lied last time, now nodded. "Probably," he agreed. "But I seem to be the only survivor so far."

"So far," Nikolai repeated thoughtfully, looking back at his friends.
Mike had no idea what exactly that reaction was supposed to mean and didn't ask, because by then they were already climbing the stairs and entering the hall.

"You said there were more of you," Mike suddenly remembered. "I mean, more people your age. Why have I hardly ever seen you here?"

Nikolai scratched his chin and grinned a little. "Let's just say most people aren't too keen on us occupying their space," he explained. "It took months to beg Sonya to let us come here. And we only succeeded because we're the quietest, most polite group, the least annoying."

Mike looked at him doubtfully. "When I first noticed you, you were standing on the table and you were all shouting across the hall," he remarked, and Nikolai just shrugged; "Like I said, the calmest group. Trust me, you don't want to meet the others."

Mike wondered if Nikolai was simply being biased, because his love and pride for his friends was quite obvious – and honestly, if Mike ever got into a conversation with him about whether Nikolai's friends were better or Mike's, Mike would naturally stand his ground too – but it didn't take long before he was misled.

"Ah no, not those idiots," Nikolai grumbled under his breath, and at the same time Mike heard the muffled, ragged voices of Ivan and Misha. Alexander rushed past them, and Nikolai didn't have time to reach for him before the blond boy stopped just in front of a sofa where a group of five boys were sitting.

Some kind of radar in Mike's head flashed warningly – he'd developed a special sensitivity to certain types of people over the years. The kind that threatened to cut your friends' teeth and make you jump off a cliff, or the kind of people who shouted insults at you just as you walked down the hall.

It was enough to notice certain little things – the lazy, arrogant smile on their face, the dirty shoes placed carelessly on the table and the mischievous, almost evil type of laughter.

He quickly rushed over to Nikolai, who immediately stood at the side of Alexander, who was saying something angrily to the five boys whose attention was focused directly on them.

Even at first glance, they looked older – more reminiscent of Misha, with their lanky figures and disheveled hair, than still almost children, like Alexander and Maksimilian were right now, or even Mike.

One of them, with short, curly brown hair, looked directly at Nikolai and Alexander, a mocking grin spreading across his face. He said something, and although Mike had no idea what it was, his tone was offensive to say the least. He took his feet off the table and stood up smoothly, only to stand directly in front of the two.

Mike saw Nikolai's face in profile and noticed the scowl on his face – he looked like he was about to say something, but by then Ivan had pushed past him, stood at their side and made a loud comment, his arms crossed over his chest.

The tall curly-haired man stopped smiling and narrowed his eyes, while a quiet, amused laugh escaped Alexander's lips in response to whatever Ivan had said.

The curly-haired man shot him a quick glance, but Nikolai forced Alexander to take a step back, despite his protests.

Mike could feel the tension in the air, especially when the other boys got up from the couch and stood by curly's side.

Mike looked around and noticed that several of the adults in the room were looking in their direction, including the two soldiers who had accompanied Mike, but no one moved to do anything.

Nikolai grabbed Alexander's arm and turned around, obviously in an attempt to leave, but the curly-haired man reached forward and tripped his legs.

Nikolai stumbled, and at that moment Ivan moved forward, shouting something angrily and standing so close to the taller boy that their chests were almost touching.

Nikolai turned quickly, put his hand on Ivan's shoulder and shook his head sternly. The curly-haired boy made a derisive remark in response, but neither of them took any notice of him – Nikolai stared earnestly into Ivan's eyes until the other boy squared his shoulders, snorted, and stepped back with Nikolai.

One of the other boys, this time a shaggy redhead, pointed at Mike and asked a question. The curly-haired one also turned his attention to him, ran his eyes over him and started talking – and since Mike understandably didn't understand a word he looked towards Nikolai for help.

"Don't mind them," Nikolai said in English. "It's not worth it, and I'm not translating a damn word they say. Let's go."

With that, he headed to the other side of the break room and everyone followed him, including Mike. Luckily none of the older guys tried to stop them, although they were shouting something in Russian behind them.

They found an empty seat as far away from them as possible and as soon as they sat down, Nikolai started arguing with Alexander, who looked annoyed, as if he wasn't happy with the way Nikolai was talking to him. Or maybe he didn't like what he was talking to him about, Mike didn't really know.

The others joined in the conversation, and Mike logically felt very disconnected from the discussion since he didn't know what they were talking about and couldn't contribute in any way. After some time, Nikolai stopped all their talk, rubbed his face, and went to sit next to Mike, who moved over to make room for him.

No one seemed very happy, but they didn't try to continue whatever they were talking about and instead started talking amongst themselves.

"So... What was that all about?" Mike asked after a moment of silence while Nikolai was rubbing his fingers and looking at the ground.

At the sound of his voice, the brown haired boy raised his head, looking at him briefly before lowering it again. "This is normally our place," Nikolai explained, without his usual energy in his voice. "Alexander was pissed off and wanted them out... Even though it was a damn stupid idea. Those guys you saw... That's one of the worst groups. I honestly don't understand why Sonya let them come here. They must have pressured her, otherwise I can't imagine. They're all sixteen or seventeen. The curly-haired one, Adrik, he'll even be eighteen in a few months. And well... There's been bad blood between us for a while now."
Yeah, Mike kind of noticed that.

"Apart from the fact that all five of them like to pick on the younger ones, because apparently they can't do anything else, two years ago... Well, there was a lot going on. Adrik's older brother died, and I'm telling you straight up, he was a first class bastard," Nikolai continued, his voice sounding unexpectedly sharp and hostile as he spoke his last words. "Adrik holds a grudge against me and indeed our entire group because of this, because he blames us for some weird reason. And it didn't help that it was also the first time anyone had beaten them in the tournament – Ivan. He put down the guys two years older than him, and a year later he did it again. Their fragile egos obviously couldn't take it, so they're still trying to make our lives hell. Whenever we face them in a practice match, it's almost a fight for our lives."

Mike nodded understandingly. He'd lived with the 'victim of bullying' label for years, and it didn't matter how hard he tried to hide it. How he'd kept his mother from meeting with a teacher who wanted to talk to her about it, or how he'd forced Dustin and El to keep quiet so they'd never mention that day on the cliff. Everyone at school knew anyway.

That's why he was looking forward to high school, hoping for a better start, but... He didn't have a chance to experience that now, either.

While his friends had undoubtedly already started high school, he was stuck in the Soviet Union.
Didn't that sound funny?

"I don't expect you to understand," Nikolai added unexpectedly, with a little shrug. "I mean, you have powers. That's cool. I'm sure no one's going to take anything out on you."

Mike snorted, not very amused. "You got it a little wrong," he shook his head. "Me and my friends weren't very popular at the best of times, and at the worst... Well, I can tell you it didn't always turn out great. Besides, I didn't get the powers until I got here. I've been living with them for literally three months."

"Oh," Nikolai breathed. "For that, I'm... I hadn't thought of that. I completely forgot you weren't born with it. I just... I don't know, you seem kind of calm about the fact that you're... You know. They're doing experiments. It's almost like you're used to it."

Mike sat up nervously. "Not really," he said. "I'm not used to this. But there are other things that wouldn't surprise me and might surprise you... There's a lot more going on here than just experiments on children."

Nikolai's pupils dilated with curiosity and suddenly he looked much more alive and like himself again. He seemed about to inquire further, but then he looked around and shook his head. "It will be better to leave it for some time when we have more privacy," Nikolai said. "Speaking in English seems like a pretty good way to keep a secret, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's someone here who's just pretending not to speak English."

"I don't have any privacy," Mike grinned, jerking his head towards the soldiers standing just a few meters away. "The only place I get rid of them is during training, but there's hardly enough time for long conversations."

Nikolai tapped his finger against his chin thoughtfully. "Hey, how much time do you spend in that lab? You're usually there after lunch, right? How long does it take?"

Mike thought for a moment before answering, "I'm not sure. Mostly... I don't quite have a way to check how much time passes. But judging by dinner, I usually have at least a few hours before I have to go to training with Blondie. Depends on when, though. Just yesterday, I was stuck in the lab for almost the whole afternoon and didn't even get to eat properly because Sonya was already rushing me to training."

Nikolai nodded slowly. "That'll do," he said. "I could come and see you some afternoons. I should be done with school by then, so I won't have anything to do anyway. And besides answering each other's questions, as we agreed, I can teach you Russian. Next time you can tell that bastard Adrik that it's his hair that looks like a pissed broom, not yours."

Mike gasped over-dramatically and touched his hair, admittedly a little disheveled and tangled. "Did he say that about my hair?" He asked incredulously.

Nikolai gave him a wide grin. "Among other things," he shrugged. "I'll spare you, his insults aren't very original. Anyway... What do you think of my idea?"

Mike nodded. "As long as my guards don't throw you out, I don't see the problem."

"So it's a deal!"

─┉─ • ─┉─

One less punching of the punching bag and lighting of the pieces of wood on fire, Mike sat on the bed in his white room and waited for Nikolai to arrive. He also pulled out all the books in Russian on the table that Bloncka had brought him weeks ago, which he had barely touched, so they were just gathering dust.

He left the door to the room open, but as soon as Nikolai came in, he closed it behind him, leaving the soldiers standing in the hallway. The iron door was thick enough that Mike was sure the soldiers would only hear muffled mutterings through it, even if they happened to actually speak English.

"Does the light stay on all the time?" Nicholas wondered as he looked up at the white bulb and sat down on the other side of the bed.

"Yes," nodded Mike, who was sitting cross-legged against the wall. "I should warn you, there's a camera. Just so you know."

Nikolai looked around the walls and grinned. "Well, it's not like we're planning on doing anything weird," he remarked, which made Mike stiffen and he was also one hundred percent sure he was blushing.

Nikolai noticed and chuckled. "My God, you're nervous!" He laughed. "It's just a joke, Mikhail, no invitation."
Mike really didn't like the direction this conversation was taking and couldn't help tilting his head a little embarrassed.

"Anyway," Nikolai spoke again after a moment. "Do you want to start with the Russian or the interrogation?"

"Let's not call it an interrogation, please," Mike rolled his eyes in a somewhat uncertain attempt to relax again. He had no idea why Nikolai's comment had unnerved him so much.

"Okay, a conversation between two intellectuals, then," Nikolai corrected himself, shaking his head gravely.

"Where is the other intellectual?" Mike asked, looking around the room in an exaggerated manner while Nikolai gasped in affectation, kicked him with his foot and shouted; "Sassy! Who allowed you to do that?"

Mike felt a small smile spread across his face. "Maybe the other intellectual?" He suggested. "I wonder –"

"Enough insults about me!" Nikolai snorted and waved his hands in warning. "And you didn't answer the question."

"Interrogation," Mike replied immediately. He needed all the most important information as soon as possible so he could start figuring out how he was going to get out of here.

"So shoot. I'm ready," Nikolai said, getting comfortable.

Mike nodded and was the first to ask, "Where are we? I know we're in Russia, but where exactly?"

"Kamchatka," Nikolai replied smoothly. "It's a peninsula in eastern Russia, across the Bering Strait from Alaska and on the Pacific Coast of Siberia. I knew you'd ask that, so I memorized it, the exact location. Appreciate it."

Mike didn't know how to feel about the new information. On the one hand, he was relieved that he wasn't as far away from America as he thought. He might as well have ended up somewhere in the middle of Russia.
But that didn't solve his problem that despite his relative proximity... It was still across the sea. How the hell was he going to get back to America across the sea? Even if by some chance he managed to escape and survive the bitter cold that undoubtedly prevailed here, what then? He doubted anyone here was just ferrying American prisoners back to America.

Once again the weight of his situation came upon him full force. But he tried to stop thinking about it, at least for now, because it would only lead to more despair and hopelessness.

"I see you don't appreciate it much," Nikolai remarked, noticing the drop in his mood.

Mike grinned cheerlessly. "It's true that I don't really appreciate having literally no way to get back home," he admitted.

Nikolai looked at him seriously for a moment before asking; "So you really want to run away? Uh, that sounded a lot different than I intended... You want to escape because you were kidnapped, right? Because you're not here voluntarily."

Mike tapped the electronic device around his neck, which was amply sufficient as an answer.

"Right," Nikolai nodded, then hesitantly asked; "Why you? How did they know you were the one to survive when so many previous ones have failed?"

Mike hesitated. "That's a conversation for another day, I think," he finally said. He was willing to answer questions about his powers and testing and all the things the Soviets had done to him, but getting into the whole mess about Upside Down and Eleven... That was something Mike didn't want to get into yet, if ever. He wasn't sure if the information would just put Nikolai in danger.

Here they weren't in America, where Dustin and Steve could involve a complete stranger and Lucas' ten-year-old sister in all of that.

Nikolai just shrugged, so Mike asked: "You said Kamchatka, but... What exactly is this place? I mean, how big is the base? Do you ever go out? And what all is there?"

The brown-haired boy tapped his chin with his finger. "It's huge," he replied. "Together, it is divided into three facilities – a military base, a research facility and a work camp."

"Work camp?" Mike repeated, though he felt that should be the least of his concerns. But he'd heard about these things back in America, especially a lot of dark... Sayings and similes, and he could admit to himself that he was curious about something he'd only heard about that was actually in his vicinity.

"For prisoners," Nikolai explained. "I've never been there, but I know they have some Americans there. Oh, and there's that prison I was telling you about – the one that nobody knows anything about and where some strange things are happening, at least in my opinion. Anyway, this complex of ours... It's built into the mountain. As you've already found out, it's a mix of everything – barracks, warehouses and labs all rolled into one.

The mountain is close to the other buildings – and by that I mean the prison, the military base, the camp and so on. Like I said, it's a really huge complex, I spend most of my time here myself. Anyway, that guarded elevator we saw, I'm pretty sure it leads to that research facility built into the side of the mountain, because I haven't found it anywhere else, unless they mean the ridiculous lab we have here."

Mike devoured every single piece of information with complete concentration. "So there are two special areas, right?" Mike asked. "The prison and the research facility."
Nikolai nodded in agreement.

Well, that was a question. What was going on in them? It had to be something even more secret than testing on children and seeing if they could survive long enough to become Soviet weapons, given how accessible the lab and especially Mike were, which honestly worried him.

"So... You didn't have any powers when you came here," Nikolai assured himself. "What exactly did they do to give them to you? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

Mike's eye lit up at that moment, almost in response to the bitter, painful memory. He tried to think about it as little as he could.
In general, he tried to focus only on the present and the future – to forget the two weeks in the white room, the twinges of pain as he huddled on the grey, empty floor, the tip of the needle coming closer to his eye...

It was easier not to think about it. To pretend it had never happened, or that it was just someone else's faded memory.
He was sure he'd go mad if he admitted it all.

"I don't know what they did," Nikolai added hastily when Mike paused. "And I'm sorry for whatever my country did to you. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, it's not like I know what it's like."

Mike looked up at him, not resisting a new wave of sympathy for the brown-haired boy – he looked completely serious and sincere, as if he was ready to leave immediately if Mike told him.

"No, it's okay, I was just thinking," Mike waved his hand, then began, "I was stuck here for the first two weeks. I couldn't go anywhere, I didn't know how much time had passed and I had nothing to do. Then Morozov came – I don't know if you know him – he took me to the lab... And that's kind of how it ended. I went there thinking I was probably going to die, they injected me with some kind of substance and... I didn't die."

Mike wasn't going to go into any detail about the following days – he barely remembered anything about them anyway, except for flashes of pain, and that would be hard to explain to a person who hadn't been through it.

"Morozov then sort of told me very briefly and succinctly what he was going to do here – that is, training and tests in the lab – and... That's what I'm doing. All the time," Mike shrugged. "Sorry if that's not very interesting."

Nikolai grimaced. "It's fucking messed up that this is happening," he argued, running a hand through his hair. "This isn't about interesting. I can't... Look, I know my country isn't perfect, I've been through some... Things firsthand, but... This is fucking wrong."

Mike twitched the corner of his lip in a hint of a smile. "I can't do anything about it now, can I?"

"Probably not now," Nikolai admitted, but there was a strange sparkle in his eyes.

"How about starting with Cyrillic?" He suggested after a moment, very nonchalantly and casually. "Learning the language of your enemy sounds like something you should do as a priority."

Mike didn't miss the spark. And when he looked up into Nikolai's face and he returned the look, he was sure in that moment that he had found an ally.

Notes:

Hello, hello, hello! No art today because I'm publishing this at school, since I know I probably wouldn't have gotten around to it otherwise, hehe.
I was in England with the school last week (wohoo, banger trip, although the twenty-six hour bus ride was killing me) and the teachers are clearly jealous because they want us to finish tests and stuff immediately, even though literally three quarters of the class was missing – so simply, I was very busy and that's why the chapter didn't come out and why it's coming out at such an unusual time.

Anyway, we have more information! This whole area in the mountain is my thing, not real in ST (except for the canon one where the Russians were trying to open the portal), but otherwise I'm trying to keep Kamchatka as close to canon as possible – though it's challenging because we saw most of the scenes in the dark. You will have to excuse me for any errors that are likely to occur in describing the area.

And yeah. We're in Kamchatka. Hmm... 🥰

Chapter 13: Chapter thirteen

The third month

Objective: Get through a tiring day, find a way to escape (main objective)

Mike wasn't expecting it, but that didn't mean he was surprised.

After all, he never expected it. He always appeared so randomly, without any warning, and there was no discernible pattern to his arrivals.

Maybe his job was simple – to knock an American boy unconscious at least five or six times a month, but he could take the time off as he pleased. Maybe he just got up every morning, picked out his socks for the new day, and told himself that today he was in the mood to beat someone.

Or maybe Shark was carefully orchestrating it. Maybe he said something she didn't like, maybe he wasn't good enough, strong enough, and so she decided to teach him a lesson.

Mike was tired of the Russians making a punching bag out of him.

But it wasn't like he could do much about it, right?

It was probably one of the most sickening things he had to endure here. Testing and trying to create a special weapon? Yeah, the Americans weren't much better. Combat training and raw training? It made sense.
But this? This had no purpose other than to see if he would break or not. A test.

Sure, Shark was babbling about this being his motivation to try to improve, to figure out a way to finally stop the suffering, to prove he was intelligent and capable enough to do it... But really it was a test of whether he would surrender and submit, whether he would let his captors do as they pleased, whether he would let different kind of flame be extinguished... Or if he would defy it. If he stands up for himself and doesn't let himself be trampled under the hard soles of Soviet boots.

Mike was balancing on a knife edge at the moment, not knowing which side he would fall on.

Every day he spent in that same lab, in that same gym, in that same white room, its emptiness and purity seeping into his skin and digging into his brain with its steady, dull white light, moved him more and more toward the first side.

Today was one of those days when he was leaning toward the desire to submit. Not to move, not to try to fight, not to make any effort to do anything, because what was the point anyway? He could never win.
He was damn tired of it.

He didn't try to land a single one of those blows, because what was the point?

"Are you enjoying this?" Mike snarled as his attacker threw him to the ground and he hit the shiny, white floor. He could smell blood in his mouth, and as he spat to get rid of the now familiar aftertaste, he almost liked the contrast the deep red liquid created on the white surface.

He looked up at his masked assailant, who either didn't understand him or didn't care about what he was saying, because he immediately knelt down, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and drove another fist into him.

Mike was surprised he hadn't ended up with a broken nose by now.

Two more blows followed, and on the third the man let go, causing him to collapse back to the floor, his face pressed against the white floor.

Mike supposed he could try to get up, but he damn well didn't want to. He wasn't strong enough, and he certainly didn't feel like it would have done anything, even if he had somehow tried.

The man in black waited for a single moment, as if giving him an opportunity that Mike didn't bother to take, before he leaned one hand against the wall and started kicking him.

After a while, he got fed up. Maybe he was tired of Mike's lack of resistance, or maybe he was convinced that was enough for today. Eventually, though, he turned and walked out of the room as easily as usual.

Mike wouldn't have tried to pick himself up off the floor at any other time, and he'd probably have fallen asleep right where he'd stayed, but he didn't want to risk Nikolai and the others coming to him again and finding him like this.

It was humiliating enough that all of this was probably seen by Shark and who knows who else on the cameras, it was humiliating enough that he had to be a victim of it himself, he didn't need any more witnesses to his own weakness and incompetence.

That's why, after some time of just breathing, with his face pressed to the floor and his eyes fixed motionless on the bloodstain in front of him, he forced himself to lift his head, rest his palms on the floor and scramble to his feet, just so he and his aching body could sink to the soft, white blankets.

He was too tired to stay awake much longer, and when the pain and awareness were swept away by the soothing wave of sleep, he felt nothing at all.

─┉─ • ─┉─

>

"For God's sake, what happened to you?" Nikolai asked in alarm as Mike stepped onto the training ground the next morning. This time no one was accompanying him – except his usual guard dogs, of course – and he was grateful for that, because his mood had been at a low point from the moment he woke up.

Aside from the dull ache in his body that had wished him good morning the very first moment, a gnawing sorrow and uncomfortable tension settled in his chest at the same time, as if something was missing.

It wasn't that he'd had some sort of nightmare that night – which, much to his displeasure, had become far more commonplace in this place than it had ever been before – quite the opposite. He was dreaming about his friends.

He didn't remember the details of the dream, except that it didn't make much sense, but that didn't change the fact that upon waking he felt nothing but a deep longing and the realization that it had only been a dream.

He wished he could sleep longer, return to a reality where he could laugh alongside Will, Lucas and Dustin, but he didn't want to risk being punished for being late.

And so he got up, not even looking at the food on his plate, nor the red smudges on the floor, and headed straight to the bathroom to get himself a little cleaned up.

However, he couldn't quite get rid of the red scrapes and bruises that littered his entire body, and especially not on the training ground where he was forced to wear short-sleeved clothing, given how quickly he sweated due to the physical exertion.

He sort of expected Nikolai to ask about it, but he wished he hadn't anyway.

He could feel the brown-haired boy looking him over and could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out the way he'd hurt himself when they'd literally said goodbye last night.

Mike ignored him as he tied his shoes, whereupon he stood up and strode wordlessly towards Blondie.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to ignore the one person who at least had the decency to ask him what had happened, and he really didn't want to drive Nikolai away by treating his friends like his friends – that is, like a total idiot – but at the same time, he didn't have the energy to even care.

He wanted to get today over with as quickly as possible.

Even the training itself didn't improve his mood. Blond had only been focused on him the whole time – because he was understandably behind compared to the others – so while they were amicably wrestling with each other or just lazily punching bags, he had to go through one stance after another with her, swinging his fists around as if he didn't just look stupid doing it, and had to endure her constant reminders that he was standing wrong and putting too much energy into useless movements instead of using it in the actual punches.

It only provoked Mike's tired and angry brain, he found it unnecessary and stupid and wasn't afraid to swear back at Blondie even more than usual. He couldn't relax or even have fun like he did on other occasions and wished he could just go to sleep and ignore that today had happened at all.

"Do you want to have lunch with us today?" Nikolai asked when Blondie finally left them alone. "We could show you our room and stuff. You look a little... Well, not in the best of moods, and I'm sure the scientists won't lift your spirits. We can distract you a little."

Mike didn't want to do anything but refuse. Although he appreciated Nikolai's offer, today was too difficult and tense for him to enjoy the company of others, especially one so loud and especially curious.

On the other hand, he was aware of the fact that he should try to deepen his relationship with Nikolai and his friends. From what he knew of Nikolai, he didn't think he would be offended by his rejection, but at this point he should start to get into the habit of pushing aside his moods and complaints if it would benefit his efforts to get out of here.

He felt a little guilty for considering Nikolai and his friends as possible allies in the first place, but the pleasure of more pleasant human interaction could only go so far before it hit a wall.

Mike was certainly glad to have met Nikolai, but a possible friendship wasn't going to stop him from getting out of here as soon as he could.

So, he decided to push aside his fatigue and dislike for the company of strangers and shrugged fleetingly. "Unless you want to hold a tournament in the middle of the dining hall, feel free," he replied, forcing himself to sound calmer than he actually felt.

Nikolai gave him a brief smile and held out his hand. "Deal."

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike didn't have much of an appetite, despite the fact that he'd skipped breakfast, so when he carried his lunch from his room to the dining room to the table he'd sat at with the other boys, he didn't hesitate to share his borscht with them – that this was the name of it was revealed to him by Nikolai, who talked at length about how he had not seen borscht so nicely red in a long time, and that the one they were getting could hardly be called slightly reddish – bread, fruit compote and half-melted ice cream.

They all stared open-mouthed, and when Alexander very discreetly reached for the bowl of ice cream, Mike gave it all away.

He kept only the meatballs and potatoes for himself, because it was already a huge portion, which he was very reluctant to dig into. He had to remind himself that he couldn't skip meals if he wanted to get strong enough to be able to get out of here.

"Dude," Nikolai shook his head in disbelief as he broke the bread into pieces for everyone. "What's with this mountain of food? Are they trying to make you the Hulk or something?"

Mike lifted his head from the potatoes and looked at Nikolai in confusion. "You know the Hulk," he said a little incredulously. He was under the impression that in the Soviet Union they didn't allow Russian children to read American comics – how could they, when hardly anyone here spoke English?

On the other hand, Nikolai was one of those exceptions.

He flashed a smile now. "I'm full of surprises!"
Meanwhile, the other boys took turns thanking Mike for sharing with them – except for Misha, who hadn't touched his bread and was still looking at Mike with those suspicious eyes.

Mike certainly wasn't about to pry into his favor. He had no idea what Misha had against him, but he could very well relate to the fact that he simply didn't like the thought of someone new intruding into their group.

Besides, at least Max wasn't from a completely foreign country back then, and she wasn't hiding some mysterious ability – Misha had every right to distrust Mike, whatever it stemmed from.

The rest of the guys, however, didn't share his feelings. Apparently everyone, with the exception of Ilya, who was reading obliviously with his spoon suspended in mid-air, was eager to have a conversation with Mike.

Which was a difficult business, since Nikolai had to translate every single word, and since Mike was far from talkative and good-humoured, even when he saw them bantering among themselves and gushing with mirth. In fact, it made him feel even worse, as it took him back to Hawkins and the days when he had the same kind of fun with his friends over and over again.

A bite of meatball turned bitter in his mouth, and just swallowing it and forcing it past his constricted throat seemed like a daunting task.

His head was beginning to ache. The harsh, bright white light suddenly burned his eyes and his limbs felt too heavy.

"Sonya mentioned that you could join the weapons training in October," Ivan remarked out of the blue, which caught Mike's attention.

"That's unfair!" Alexander yelled, and Nikolai hurriedly shushed him as he kept translating their words. "Why can he and we can't?"

"Because he's special," Ivan waved his hand and raised his eyebrows as he looked straight at Mike. "Isn't that right?"

Mike put down his cutlery as his hand began to tremble slightly, and it startled him enough to quickly shake off the excess effort.
Only now did he realize how exhausted he really was. Tired, parched to the bone, not just from tonight's ambush, but from the three months when he'd been doing something from morning to night, pushing his limits further and further, without a single opportunity for rest and relaxation.

"Anyone got any coffee?" He blurted out before he could stop himself. He hadn't actually had coffee in his life, but he knew it helped keep a person awake and perked him up a bit.

He still had an afternoon in the lab ahead of him and he was already in a state where he felt he was going to collapse at the first step. He didn't want Shark to give him 'motivational electric shocks'.

"They only give coffee to officers and above," Ivan replied in his rough, gruff voice, jerking his head towards the dispensing window. "Nobody would give it to us even if we stood on our heads."

"Do you think they wouldn't give it to you if you would ask for it?" Nikolai asked thoughtfully while tapping his fingers on the table.

"I have no idea," Mike mumbled, burying his face in his hands so he could close his eyes and relieve some of the increasingly throbbing pain in his head.

He heard someone speak in Russian – he guessed from the louder tone that it was Alexander – and Nikolai said something back. At any other time, Mike would probably be intrigued by how much different someone's voice could sound in a foreign language, but this time he couldn't really focus on it.

That's when he heard the scrape of a chair against the floor and when he looked up, he saw Alexander get up from the table and say something to them.

Misha looked downright disgusted and disapproving, while Ivan grinned encouragingly and shook his head in acknowledgement.

Maximilian asked a question, to which Alexander replied with a proud lift of his chin.
Nikolai looked quite serious, but he didn't look like he was going to stop Alexander from whatever he wanted to do.

Of course, Mike had to wait for an explanation to find out what was going on, so the moment Alexander disappeared from the table, he looked towards Nikolai.

Misha snorted in disbelief, leaned back in his chair, and glared at Mike as if it was all his fault – which Mike still couldn't agree with yet because he had no idea what had happened.

"Sasha decided to thank you for always sharing your food with us," Nikolai explained. He glanced behind him once briefly before continuing; "His ability to steal is usually more of a bit of a joke on our part than a real skill. He's not trying to be subtle. But the fact is, he's pretty quick and stealthy when he tries, and he's snuck into the kitchen a few times like this to steal things for us. He said he'd get you a cup of coffee. Of course, every time he does that he takes a huge risk, because there are heavy penalties for theft here."

Mike blinked in surprise. "He shouldn't have," he replied hesitantly, unsure of how to react to the fact that the blond boy with a quick hands had decided to take such a risk just to get him coffee. "I didn't mean to... I didn't want anyone stealing for me."

Nikolai gave him a small smile. "Don't worry too much," he told him. "The cooks in the kitchen probably won't report him, even if they catch him. Worse would be if a higher-ranking soldier caught him there, but the chances are slim. But definitely expect to have to learn some cool fire tricks in return to make it up to him."

Mike couldn't bring himself to smile back, nor did he feel particularly reassured.

Even though Alexander was only a year younger, he and his brother gave off a much younger impression, still with those childlike features and personality. He didn't feel good about getting him in trouble just for that kind of crap.

He should just man up on his own. He had to find ways to ration his energy enough to keep this from happening – he had to get strong enough to keep it from happening.

Only no matter how hard he tried, he didn't see any results. He was still just an ordinary, all-American kid, and despite his powers, he was barely able to squeak out a spark. He was too slow, too weak, too thin, too clumsy, too tired.

How was he supposed to get out of here when three months in this place had so easily brought him to his knees?

Will he have to spend years here before there would be even a remote chance of him escaping?

He flinched when Nikolai put a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. "I see you're not yourself today," he told him, and Mike resisted the urge to snap, how the hell would he know when they barely knew each other. "I have a vague feeling they don't give you much rest around here, do they?"

Mike let out a frustrated sigh. "It's driving me crazy," he said. "It's driving me nuts the snail's pace I'm moving at. It's been almost three months since I started using those powers, and I can barely do a few sparkly tricks without a lighter anyway. It's nonsense. It should be easier."

Nikolai leaned closer to him, his expression intent. "But you wouldn't know that, would you? You're the only person who has those powers. You can't know if it should be easier. Maybe this pace is perfectly natural."

"Or maybe I'm simply not doing enough," Mike argued, his thoughts circling to Eleven and the ease with which she used her own powers. Their situation was different, but the fact remained that they both could do things that no one else could. It couldn't be that different. "There must be something I'm missing."

"Do you mind if I bring them into the conversation?" Nikolai asked and when Mike shrugged, Nikolai quickly filled the others into the conversation.

Then Nikolai turned back to Mike, and his thoughtful expression, the way he looked at Mike as if to let him know that he would try to help in any way he could, made Mike continue; "I mean... From what I understand, these powers work basically in my ability to rearrange various molecules and substances in the air, specifically the flammable ones. It's not difficult with a lighter, because I already have a flame to work with and focus on. I'm able to control it pretty much at will, and while there are still a huge number of things I'm not good at in this area, I can see progress. Without a lighter? Sparks and the occasional flame. Almost three months now. Gathering all that stuff in the air and then igniting it is incredibly challenging and exhausting, and I feel like my body just doesn't have the energy to do it."

Ivan and Maksimilian looked hopelessly confused as Nikolai translated, while Misha listened intently, though he still hadn't stopped watching Mike warily.

What absolutely surprised Mike the most, however, was when the fair-haired Ilya lifted his head from his book, looked straight at him, and asked; "Could it be because of the lack of sunlight?"

Mike stared at him wordlessly, unsure of what to say, while Ilya slammed the book shut, placed it in front of him and continued; "From what I've heard, your main problem is lack of energy, right? I don't know the nature of your abilities, but I don't think our bodies are at all suited to taking that much energy from somewhere. And food can only do so much.
You're putting too much of your own energy into igniting and I don't know what else, and you have to take that energy from somewhere.

I have no idea how it's possible that you're able to control fire at all, but let's work with the version that you don't have an infinite source of energy in your body that you can draw from whenever you want. I suppose you must have something in you that we don't, but I also suppose that source is depleting and needs to be replenished – just as a person can't go weeks without sleep, food and water, you can't be able to work for three months straight without any rest. I'm sure that sleep and all those basic needs replenish that energy supply to some extent, but given your connection to fire, I have pretty good reason to believe that it's the sun that you're missing.

I mean, what else are you lacking here? You've got a nutritious diet, probably plenty of doctors, and while I daresay you could use more sleep and extra rest, the only thing important to a human that you probably haven't had in three months is sunlight. Which shouldn't be a problem in a normal case, but you're certainly not a normal case, especially given the amount of energy you put into trying to coax some flames out of yourself every day.

To put it in perspective, humans are not capable of generating energy purely from the sun, like plants. But we absorb the sun's energy precisely through the plants and animals we eat. You, however, according to the theory, should be getting much more of that energy and probably should be able to absorb it directly from the sun, just like plants do. Or maybe I'm wrong and have no idea what I'm talking about, what do I know."

Mike hadn't taken his eyes off him for the entirety of his monologue and now he wasn't sure what he should say, which Nikolai obviously found extremely funny. "Oh, I so love it when that happens," he said in English with enthusiasm. "People tend to ignore Ilya because he doesn't talk much, but when he does open his mouth... Hah, the same reaction every time!"

"Wait, wait," Ivan said, scratching his fingers through his short-cropped hair. "If it's so simple, why didn't they think of it? I mean, they're scientists."

Misha, who had been silent up to this point, rolled his eyes and replied; "Precisely because they are scientists. Locked in the lab all day like rats. Do you think they know what sunshine is?"

Mike looked uncertainly at Nikolai, who still had a smile on his face. When he noticed Mike's look, he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "See? Here's a possible solution. Then tell your scientists."

At that moment, someone tapped Mike's shoulder and when he turned around, he saw Alexander standing behind him with a mischievous grin. One hand was behind his back and when he held it out in front of him, he was clutching a single cup of dark brown liquid.

"Wohooo!" Ivan exclaimed in delight, pumping his hand in the air triumphantly, while Nikolai clapped loudly and gave a mock bow.

The cheerful mood at the table increased even more when Alexander handed out one chocolate candy to everyone. He then went to sit next to his brother, cleared his throat and began to talk very dramatically, presumably about his quest for a cup of coffee.

Mike took the cup in his hands and stared at it for some time, at his reflection on the dark surface.

"Is something wrong?" Nikolai asked while the others were preoccupied listening to Alexander's story.

Mike looked up at him, and suddenly exhaustion returned to him like a tidal wave, and a kind of... Despair. And also confusion.
He felt like nothing made sense to him now.

"I'm not sure... If I understand you," he admitted after a moment, encouraged by Nikolai's honest face. "Why are you helping me so much? Why are you... Trying? I have nothing to give you, no way to repay you, no... I'll probably die here, maybe cough up a lung or something. I don't get it."

There must have been some kind of trick to it. Mike didn't understand why a group of Russian guys would be willing to help him, in anything. Whether it was getting coffee or teaching Cyrillic.

They barely knew him. The only person he could get along with was Nikolai, but while he really liked the older boy, it didn't guarantee a friendship on a closer level.

Nikolai's expression softened a little, as if he was all too aware of Mike's thoughts. "'Cause we want to be your friends," he shrugged. "You don't have to look for any science in it, any trap. It's as simple as that. And friends help each other, so why not start with that?"

Mike averted his eyes back to his coffee. "I'm not exactly a prime example of a good friend," he muttered, clutching the cup in his hands. It was already a little cold, but he had a feeling that if he held the cup like that for a while, it would warm it up again. "I'm more likely to hurt people than help them."

Almost every interaction with his friends proved it. It was proven by his broken relationship with Eleven, it was proven by the annoyance on Dustin and Lucas' faces when he refused to do something, it was proven by the way he treated Max when she moved in, it was proven by Will and that stupid fight.
Every time he tried to help, he just fucked it up.

"I'll be the judge of that," Nikolai shrugged. "Besides, you can always light my cigarettes."

Mike couldn't help it – he found a small, amused smile spreading across his face.
"I should probably go," he said finally. "I want to lie down for a while before they drag me back to the lab."

Nikolai nodded in agreement. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

The moment Mike stood up, however, he realized that this was a bad idea – for a moment his eyes went dark and the whole world tilted to one side, as if someone had taken a game board and turned it over. His legs gave out and then everything disappeared.

Notes:

Poor Mike, all tired and not in very good headspace :(

Anyway, the chapter came out later than I wanted, but with the end of the school year around the corner, everything is total chaos. We'll see when the next chapter comes out, it depends on when all the chaos calms down, hehe.

Anyway, lots of things to talk about! First of all, I'm no scientist, so don't take the sunlight thing too seriously. But I did read some information about how it would be scientifically possible for humans to manipulate fire, and one of the mentions was that they would probably absorb energy from the sun. So I figured Mike, who has no sun, might suffer from it. We'll expand on that in the next chapter.

Also, this chapter doesn't have its own art, as you've noticed, but it is a school project that we did. The assignment was to make an illustrated 'diary' and given how free it was, I figured I might as well make something about Mike from this fanfic! Although he doesn't really keep a diary, heh. Anyway, it's a bit ahead of the story, so the last few pictures probably won't tell you anything yet, but that's okay, you'll find out everything 🥰 Also, I hope none of you can speak Czech, that would be a bit of a spoiler 💀 If you happen to, don't take the dates at the beginning of the pages too accurately, I didn't want to count it down, so I threw random numbers in there.

Anyway, that should probably be it, hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'm off again!

Chapter 14: Chapter fourteen

The fourth month

Objective: Enjoy a day off, find a way to escape (main objective)

It's been four months since Mike Wheeler died.

Every time he thought those words in his mind, Will still didn't believe them. They didn't seem real, like they didn't fit the very way the universe and their world had been created, because it didn't make sense that Mike would die.

But he wasn't here. All that was left was silence and coldness and the void he was supposed to fill.

Will thought that leaving Hawkins would make things better. That the silence wouldn't be so loud. That his heart wouldn't race every time he saw a tuft of black hair around the corner. That his breath wouldn't quicken whenever he looked around and saw only the places he and Mike had walked, ghosts of places and times when Mike had existed, when he had walked carefree through his life and lit up everything in his surroundings with his mere presence.

But things weren't much better in California. Sure, it wasn't as stifling – because Mike had never really been here, there were no places that Will's mind could connect with his best friend – but that didn't mean it got any better. That it would somehow soothe the fiery, searing pain of loss, like someone had fired something directly at Will and left him stumbling through life with a hole in the middle of his body, as if he hadn't just lost something vital.

Will lost Mike. And he didn't know how to accept it.

The summer was over, he and El started a new school, and immediately the rumors started to circulate. What Will usually heard, people called them blatantly depressing.
Which he supposed might be true. But he didn't have the energy to care even a little.
After Mike's death, everything seemed kind of bland to him. Unimportant.

Like someone had removed the sun itself from his life and then told him to just move on, that it wasn't important anyway.

Hah? He couldn't do that. How...? How was he supposed to go on?

It was ridiculous to say he wouldn't recover, because logically he knew that despite how he felt now, time would ease the cruel pain. In a few years he would be able to talk and remember Mike and feel the happiness and joy of remembering all they had been through together instead of the wrenching pain that was trying to tear him apart.

He knew because he'd seen it. His mom hadn't been able to talk about Bob without tears at first – and now, when she did, she smiled about it, as if she only kept the good memories in her head.

Only Will was terrified of it. He didn't want it to stop hurting in any other way, that Mike would come back to him. As much as he knew that wasn't possible.

He didn't want to let Mike go. And he didn't want to remember him as someone who had once played an important role in his life, but now he had to move on.

Will didn't deserve this and Mike especially didn't deserve this from him.

Their last major conversation was an argument. They were yelling at each other, and Will tore up a picture of him and Mike. Will had destroyed the entire Castle Byers, and in that moment, with rain beating down on his skin and tears streaming wildly down his face, he hated Mike Wheeler.

And then they went and they left him behind, forgot about him in that mall and left him to die.

No, Will didn't deserve for it to stop hurting, even if he wanted it to.

He and Eleven hadn't made many friends at school so far – and honestly, neither of them had tried very hard.

El hadn't just lost Mike – she'd lost both her boyfriend and her father in the same day. And since El was used to expressing all her emotions completely freely, it was safe to say that she scared the other kids at school. Eleven, even without her powers, could frown or look at someone in such a way that everyone immediately ran the other way away from her because there was an undisguised threat in her gaze and no indication that she wasn't serious.

It was almost as if Mike and Hopper had honed her sharp edges into something softer, more delicate, but when they were gone...

She seemed even more threatening than when she still had her powers. And Will couldn't imagine what it would look like if she actually had them in her current state.
They'd probably have to flee to another state for multiple murders.

Will wasn't much better off. So while he didn't act like he was going to murder half the school, most of the time, whenever someone tried to talk to him, he gave short and increasingly shorter answers until the other person gave up. Eventually, everyone stopped trying, and he was fine with that.

He didn't want to replace his friends at Hawkins in any way. He didn't want people who didn't know what they'd been through, people he'd have to lie to, people who wouldn't understand what he and his family, his friends, had been through over the years.

He didn't want to replace Mike, not with anyone. He wanted to lock him in his heart forever, keep him there despite how much it hurt and never let him go.

Will couldn't let him go. He couldn't, he couldn't. Mike didn't deserve it.
Mike didn't deserve to be dead.

But he was. So every step Will took, every breath he took, every thought, the pain of Mike's silent absence and his fear that it would ever stop was woven into everything.

─┉─ • ─┉─

While Mike's collapse was incredibly embarrassing and, in his opinion, weak, it resulted in enough benefits and changes that he was grateful for it.

Even if he did spill the coffee that Alexander had so carefully stolen from him.

After the scientists made sure he hadn't had a heart attack or passed out due to some fluctuation in his new powers, they concluded that it was purely his body's reaction to being exposed to prolonged exertion without enough rest. Simply put, he passed out because he was tired.

Which led to cutting his entire schedule – which included time in the lab, on the exercise floor and in the gym – by an hour to get at least eight hours of sleep each night.
Except for the ones in which he was ambushed, because the nightly attacks hadn't eased up.

Another important point was freeing up one day a week for his rest. It fell on a Sunday, when Mike could do basically whatever he wanted, which wasn't much, but he was honestly glad for the momentary boredom and the chance to do nothing.

However, he was thoroughly reminded by Shark that this was a reward, not some right of his, and he should be prepared to lose it at any time if he didn't cooperate or stopped trying.

In fact, the system of rewards and punishments had received an upgrade – in addition to the electric shocks, the few things he had were now confiscated, which included crayons and papers. They weren't things he couldn't survive without, but it certainly wasn't pleasant when Sharkette decided to take his pillow and blanket away just because he wasn't trying hard enough in her opinion.

In contrast, though, he was rewarded with various extra trinkets if he did something they liked – Mike usually asked for candy, which he then handed out to Nikolai and the others, or simple, small items like a rubber ball he tossed against the wall, or maybe a blue plastic cup that basically wasn't much use, but its color at least broke up the whiteness of his room a bit.

Mike didn't need any encouragement or threats to try hard enough, because his internal motivation was stronger than anything she took or gave him, but the fact was that the fear of another bout of pain was quite effective on days when he didn't feel like doing anything or simply wasn't in the mood.

What was absolutely the most important and significant change, however, was Ilya's theory that Mike had presented to Shark.

For once she listened to him with an expression other than cold and disinterested, and when he had finished she did not immediately dismiss his words. Instead, she went to talk to her colleagues, and they apparently agreed that it wouldn't hurt to try it.

Mike's hopes of being taken out, however, were soon extinguished – instead, they changed the light bulbs in his room to some type that was supposed to emit UVB radiation, and he was now getting extra vitamin D with his breakfast.

Mike was feeling a bit like a damn lizard, but when he complained to Nikolai, he understood why he hadn't been let out.

"The sun hardly shines here," Nikolai shook his head. "Or, I mean, it does, but very rarely. And when it does, it hardly warms you. Besides, winter is coming. It lasts sometimes more than half the year here, when we're unlucky and it practically only rains all summer. It's relatively nice now, but that will only last a short time and probably wouldn't even make sense."

"And they sure don't want me to know what it's like outside," Mike added bitterly.

But the effect of the new light didn't take long.

Mike's fatigue hadn't disappeared despite all the improvements, as he was still forced to stretch his strength to every one of its limits, but it had certainly eased somewhat and he was unlikely to faint again any time soon.

After two weeks of sleeping under that bright, white light, however, he began to notice that activities that had previously given him trouble or exhausted him in the lab were becoming much easier.

What's more, making fire out of clear air without a lighter had ceased to be an impossible task. He moved from sparks to small flames every time he tried to summon a flame, and from those to a rather large flame.

He still didn't have as much control over the movements and actions of the fire as he did when he used the lighter, since it took some effort just to get the fire going and any further manipulation was therefore a bit more strenuous, but Mike could see progress and that was exactly what he had been missing from the beginning.

Moreover, his skill in controlling the fire with the lighter was being honed to perfection. The abundance of 'sunshine' had helped in that regard as well, and Mike felt that the wild, fiery thing in his veins was suddenly much easier to control, that he didn't have to fight it every time he tried. And the energy of the flame itself had increased – he was now able to keep the fire alive for several minutes, and easily control it from a distance of several feet, which had been a problem for him before.

His precision and general accuracy in what he wanted to accomplish with the flame was also improving – often his task was to burn a small hole in the wood, for example, or to snake the flame around the logs without touching one of them.

Progress meant that Mike played with fire in his room. It meant that he was able to summon it in some quantity anywhere, anytime, and that meant that the vigilance over his person increased even more.

Shark constantly reminded him that he was being watched by cameras everywhere, and the soldiers now carried the remote in their hands almost constantly, ready to disarm him if he tried anything. Even Blondie kept it out, though she didn't have it handy once she were up against him in a fight anyway.

But Mike wasn't planning on hurting Blondie other than with his fists, which he was still somewhat far from doing so far.

He was progressing at a snail's pace in the matches, and the only person he was able to beat was Ilya, who, according to Nikolai's words, never excelled at these physical activities.

Nikolai was the second person he had the most success with, but that was mostly because they fought each other the most often and because Nikolai was actually very easy to distract. Although Mike was unable to beat him, Nikolai didn't have it that easy to knock him down.

Mike liked to wrestle him because Nikolai never took it too seriously, and he also cared when he accidentally hit Mike too hard and almost broke his nose.

The same couldn't be said for Misha though. Blondie had pitted them against each other only a few days ago and Mike knew he wasn't going to get any gentle treatment, especially not given the lingering distrust Misha had for him. Misha was superior to him in every way – taller, stronger, older, faster and more brutal. Mike liked to think of himself as a pretty good dodger, and as having fairly quick reflexes, but Misha was even faster, and Mike ended up on the ground in seconds, his face full of red abrasions.

He hadn't gotten to the fight with Ivan yet – Mike just prayed that he got hit as little as possible, because the more he watched Ivan fight, the more respect he had for the boy a year older than him – and Maksimilian and Alexander were only allowed to fight each other for now.

The two younger boys complained about it constantly, being only a year younger than Mike and Ilya, but Blondie remained adamant with her rule – no fighting until you were fourteen.

Mike was personally convinced that they were both better than him, but he preferred not to mention it to Blondie.

His private Russian lessons with Nikolai continued – Mike was now able to pronounce a few very basic phrases and Nikolai was teaching him Cyrillic.

Fortunately, Mike had always been a good student and had a knack for learning, so it was easy, but he still understandably couldn't understand anything the people around him were talking about, so as long as Nikolai was by his side, he still served as translator.

Therefore, all conversations with others were done through an intermediary, but no one complained about it.

Nikolai never failed to fill him in when a conversation was going on and he couldn't keep up with the translation, so he would disengage from the conversation at some point and just explain to Mike what they were talking about.

Mike appreciated his helpfulness, though he still had no idea what he did to deserve it.

Today, they had invited him to join them at the barracks since he still wasn't there. And since it was Sunday and Mike had plenty of time, he agreed to join them for the evening.

"One day without learning Russian won't kill you," Nikolai said.

"Oh no," Mike shook his head. "How can I live without the never-ending Привет and Пожалуйста?"

Nikolai stuck his tongue out at him. "You have a pretty foul mouth," he replied nonchalantly. "Someone must have taught you good manners."

They walked through the same, huge hall as they did every day, but instead of heading to the training area, Nikolai led him to an open entrance in the wall.

As far as Mike knew, it was the barracks for all the younger residents of the base, divided into several separate rooms. They usually lived in groups of six to ten to a room, and Nikolai had often told him that compared to other military bases in Russia, this was one of the better ones.

"We could have all ended up in one huge room, regardless of age," Nikolai said. "I can't imagine having to live with, say, Adrik, let alone a thirty-year-old guy."

Mike didn't cross paths with the curly-haired seventeen-year-old teenager who had said something about Mike's hair the other day, but Nikolai often translated conversations between the other boys and especially their complaints about Adrik's group. There was a rivalry in the barracks, even if they didn't share rooms with each other.

"The younger and newer you are, the more people dig you," Nikolai said. "You have to clean for them and bring them things and stuff. Fortunately, our group is one of the more experienced ones and we've long since stopped serving Adrik and his cronies as they please. Besides, they're about to be moved to the adult barracks anyway. I can't wait for that because they're going to be the newbies there."

There seemed to be a different kind of bullying at the base than at the school, but it was basically born of the same desire to advance on some imaginary ladder at the expense of the others. The essential difference was that here people could really fight. And kill.

Nikolai didn't go into detail, but the way he sometimes spoke of Adrik's group was indicative of the bad blood that remained between them after what had undoubtedly been a very hostile encounter.

Mike and Nikolai entered a dimly lit, long corridor with several doors in its walls. They walked past most of them before Nikolai stopped at one with the number 7.
Nikolai pulled the handle, opened the door, and bowed over-dramatically to let Mike through first.

The soldiers who followed Mike remained in the hallway, but demanded the door be left ajar so they could peek in at any time, in case Mike decided to murder them all.

"Welcome to room 7!" Nikolai called out as Mike entered.

The room looked pretty much as Mike had imagined it – cold, stone walls and ceiling, not very big, with three bunk beds set opposite each other, one desk with worn corners, two battered wardrobes, all lit by the warm light of several metal lamps scattered around the room.

But Mike was much more interested in the details – books in Russian on the table, a deflated soccer ball sticking out from under one of the beds, a tattered poster of a half-naked woman posted directly across from the door, clothes strewn all over the place, messages in Cyrillic scratched into the wall, a stack of papers and what looked like the cheapest art supplies he'd ever seen.

It didn't exactly look cozy, but it was also so much more alive and personal than the awful, white room he had to spend his nights in.

"It's not a luxury," Nikolai said. "And it's quite cold in the winter, but it's not bad. You should see room 3. An absolute dump."

Ivan, Alexander and Maksimilian were sitting at a table on the floor – because there were no chairs anywhere – playing cards, while Ilya and Misha were both lying in their beds.
Ilya was unexpectedly reading, and Misha just dozed off as Mike entered the room, piercing him with his gaze before turning his back on him to continue whatever he was doing before.

"Mikhail!" Alexander waved at him enthusiastically, gesturing for him to join them at the table.

Mike glanced back at Nikolai, who was already heading to the table as well, so he mimicked him and sat down at the table.
Ivan was frowning intently at his cards while Maksimilian smiled at him impishly from the other side.

Nikolai remarked something in Russian, and Ivan just answered irritably, which caused the whole room to laugh.

"Vanya may be a genius with his fists, but Maks still beats him at cards," Nikolai explained.

"Are you all using nicknames?" Wondered Mike, who had noticed it earlier.

"Almost everyone," Nikolai corrected him. "Ilya can't be completely shortened and Misha is a name based on Mikhail, so it's actually a nickname in itself. But otherwise, yeah. You can call me Kolya if you want."

Mike turned the word over in his mind as he watched the two play. He had no idea what the game was, but he watched with anticipation anyway as one card after another fell on the table before Ivan defeatedly threw his own away and Maximilian, who no longer had anything in his hand, laughed triumphantly.

His brother patted him enthusiastically on the back while Nikolai teased Ivan and Mike couldn't help but briefly wander off into memories of endless DnD campaigns.

What he would do next for the chance to play DnD again. His last game had turned out disastrously because he'd been an idiot and it had resulted in that horrible fight...

"It's called a durak," Nikolai said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Ivan's a durak because he's got cards left over. I'll teach you sometime."

"Sure," Mike nodded his head a little absently. He missed playing with his friends and mentally berated himself for not trying harder last time. That he'd blown Will off like that, even though he'd gone to the trouble of trying to get them excited.

Mike would sign his soul over to the devil just so he could go back to that moment and really play.

Suddenly, Ilya slammed the book shut, jumped off the bed, and headed straight for the table. The blue-eyed boy's white hair practically glowed in the dark room as he spoke to Maximilian, who spread his arms and gestured broadly for him to come to the table.

Alexander turned and shouted to Misha, who just rolled his eyes and didn't move. The younger boy jumped to his feet, walked right up to Misha and threw the deflated ball in his face.

A brief, verbal altercation ensued before Misha finally resigned and joined the table.
Ilya shuffled the cards and dealt them to everyone except Mike and Nikolai.

"You don't want to play?" Mike asked curiously and Nikolai shook his head.

"This is about to get out of hand, trust me," he grinned. "I'll have to referee, or they'll fight amongst themselves."

He scooted backwards on his ass and leaned against the door without letting his friends out of his sight. Mike followed him and sat down next to him.
The warm, friendly atmosphere of the room was comforting, but it also only deepened his own sense of loss.

"Your friends are great," Mike told Nikolai, though he had to force himself to say it a little. It was true, but they weren't his friends.
Turning his head to Nikolai, he noticed that the brown haired boy was watching his friends and their bickering with an affectionate expression on his face. "Yeah," he nodded. "I would do anything to protect them."

Mike turned away from him and turned his attention to the game.
"Me too," he said. He knew Nikolai wouldn't take that as him talking about Ivan, Alexander and the others. He felt his gaze shift to him, but he didn't meet his eyes. "Actually, I ended up here because I was trying to protect two of my friends. And that didn't work either. And now I'm here, and maybe by living, I'll endanger them and..."

Nikolai nudged him with his shoulder. "That's not true," he said stubbornly. "When you get out of here, you'll have cool powers to protect them forever."

"It's not that simple," Mike muttered. "I have no idea how to get out of here. I don't know if they'd even want me anymore."

"If they don't, I'm sure you deserve better friends," Nikolai argued as if it was perfectly logical.

Mike shook his head. "I messed up with the two people I like best," he said. "Really messed up. And now they think I'm dead and will probably just move on sooner or later, and then what? Am I going to come back and claim a place in their lives like I'm automatically entitled to it? I'm starting to think I'm not just going to get out of here anytime soon, so how long will it be before they forget about me?"

Damn, he certainly didn't want to whine to Nikolai here, but he hadn't had a chance to talk to anyone about Hawkins, his friends, Will and El in so long that he needed to get it out somehow.

Nikolai was silent for a while, obviously thinking about what to say in response. "Listen, Mikhail. I have no idea what your friends are like, and I have no idea how they'll react when you get back, but I do know one thing for sure. I realize you don't see it that way, but we already consider you our friend. Alexander adores you, and Ivan's already figuring out how to take your poor fighting skills to the next level. I grew to like you pretty quickly. And like I said, I would do anything to protect my friends. And I couldn't exactly say that staying here suits you."

With that, he waved vaguely in the direction of the electronic device that still clutched Mike around his neck, as well as the several scrapes and cuts that had been inflicted on him by his night visitor a few days ago.

"So if the way to protect you is to get you out of here, we'll try to help you," Nikolai added. "I can't promise that we'll be any great help, but if there's anything we can do, we'll try. We're not going to leave you stuck here."

Mike looked back to him and thought for a moment, wondering what he'd done to deserve it, but decided for once not to follow the spiral of self-deprecating thoughts and instead said, "It's Mike. You don't have to call me Mikhail. Just Mike."

Nikolai gave him a bright smile. "Mike it is."

Notes:

I'm really sorry for the long wait – it's not that I've forgotten about this fanfiction, absolutely not at all, it's still very much alive in my head, there's just been SO MUCH going on lately (including my ongoing four-month obsession with BG3, playing DND with my friends, and finding a new hobby of cosplay making even though I'm a poor art school student) and on top of that, this month is ArtFight, well, quite simply, there's a lot going on and I'm not keeping up with it all as well as I'd like.

But I can absolutely assure you that I haven't stopped wanting to write this fanfiction, absolutely not, I just have to split the time a bit, hehe.

Anyway, I'd like to use the summer to write new chapters, which I can publish again later in the year, so we'll see when the next chapter comes out. I'm really sorry for the wait, I really appreciate your support and the fact that you read this fanfiction and write comments – you are my biggest motivation 🫶

Chapter 15: Chapter fifteen

The fourth month

Objective: Learn about Nikolai's past, find a way to escape (main objective)

The firing range was just one of the many rooms on the base that Mike hadn't had a chance to visit until now. Blondie's decision that he was finally ready to pick up a weapon had come completely randomly, and Mike hadn't had time to bandage his bloody knuckles from his fight with Nikolai before they were both rushed into a large, spacious room that looked exactly how Mike had imagined the firing range to be – wide and oblong, walls of light concrete, and lit by a harsh, greenish light that cast menacing, dark shadows on all the faces, which somehow forced Mike to remain on constant alert, as the stern, icy calm faces of all the Russians present, guns in hand and earmuffs on, only served to create tension in him.

The shooting range was divided into several sections, including its own toilets and rest room, and of course, the largest and longest, with targets divided by partitions.

Blondie walked casually down the long corridor past the shooting stalls and headed straight for the rest room, while Mike twitched with every single, loud shot. The shots were so tremendous that he was slowly losing the ability to hear his own thoughts, and he was sure his ears would have started bleeding soon if Blondie hadn't closed the rest room door behind them.

It wasn't much, just two threadbare couches and one table, but Mike appreciated the silence – or at least the muting of all the bangs.

"Fun, huh?" Nikolai winked at him, but quickly got to translating when Blondie folded her hands at her sides, gave Mike a slightly disdainful look, and asked; "Have you ever held a gun in your hand, Michael?"

Mike had been expecting the question. In fact, he'd been looking forward to it ever since he'd learned he was going to learn to shoot, because for the first time since he'd gotten here, he could show off something he wasn't going to be completely useless at. "I was shooting a revolver," he replied, earning a surprised look from Nikolai and a suspicious look from Blondie.

"My sister taught me," he added, though no one really asked, he just couldn't resist bragging about Nancy.

It was one of his favorite memories of his sister – a few days after El returned and closed the portal, Nancy figured he should be able to defend himself in case of any emergency.

The portal was supposed to be closed, but the fact that they had encountered the Upside Down twice already left them all in slight disbelief, especially his sister.

Mike had taken advantage of this insecurity and paranoia of hers and begged her to teach him how to shoot a gun for so long before she finally relented and spent the next week taking him out to a field somewhere to blast cans and balls.

He knew he would never have gotten away with it – he was a kid, after all, and Nancy was an incredibly responsible person who also didn't have much faith in her own brother – if it hadn't been for the incident at Hawkins Lab and Bob's death. Mike had only just escaped death then, and it seemed to have upset Nancy and altered her perception of his role in the whole mess a little.

After all, they were kids, and all the elders involved in the whole Upside Down situation had always tried to figure out all the dangerous stuff on their own, but it didn't change the fact that Will was the one who'd been kidnapped. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin had found Eleven and were the very first ones to get in on all of this.

Whether they liked it or not, their lives were always on the line if there was even a small, tiny chance that the portal to the Upside Down would ever reopen – which it eventually did.

Just in case, he should be able to defend himself at least a little.

Though Mike had to listen to an incredibly long lecture beforehand about how she never wanted to see him use that thing in his life if she was there – because she was of course the older, more experienced, better shot, and the revolver was hers anyway – that he had to forever shut up about owning something like that in front of their parents, that he would never try to look for that gun in her room, and that he would never try to get his own from someone somewhere and show it off.

She was very serious, and Mike was sure she meant every word she said, and that she wasn't kidding when she threatened hell if he broke any of those rules.

Of course, she only owned the revolver, so she taught him everything on it – about the safety, how to reload, getting him used to the recoil, and then, of course, the trial and error method of aiming and trying to hit.

He clearly wasn't a natural like her – he must have been witness to the loving banter between her and Jonathan a million times, teasing him about how many times he'd missed while she'd managed to hit the can on the first try – but he wasn't as vain as Will's older brother, either, and by the end of the week he was able to blast away almost all the cans.

Mike had enjoyed the week incredibly, because not only did he really enjoy learning about guns, but he especially enjoyed Nancy's attention.

Their relationship had never been the natural, protective and loving bond that Jonathan and Will had between them, and while there were certainly more aspects to it, they were both rather closed off emotionally, and it didn't help that no conversations about feelings ever worked between them.

Honestly, whenever Will mentioned how close he was to his brother, Mike was horrified that he should say the most private things to his sister.

The two of them had been going through things that year – Nancy was still affected by Barb's death and Mike was wallowing in his own grief over El's disappearance – well, then puberty had come upon Mike – which he was reminded of almost every day by his mother and perhaps everyone he knew because he was supposedly obnoxious and cocky to the point of being insufferable – but that moment in between belonged purely to them.

It had only been four months since Mike was still convinced he wanted nothing to do with his sister, but so much had changed since then that he couldn't believe he'd ever thought that.

He missed Nancy. He missed Nancy a hell of a lot, because their relationship may never have been that close or deep, but he would have gladly given his life for her, knowing that she would have gladly killed for him.

"You have a sister?" Nikolai pulled him out of his thoughts. "And she taught you how to shoot? Wow. You Americans are full of surprises."

Before Mike could answer, Blondie was talking again, so Nikolai translated briskly. "She says you'll practice at the range every other night."

Mike frowned in confusion. "What about our regular evening schedule?" He asked. They already had less time to work out because of the shortening of his schedule, he couldn't imagine that they could fit shooting in anywhere.

Nikolai listened for a moment before answering for Blondie; "She says you can manage with matches at the training ground and time in the gym every two days. You know, Mike, I don't know if I should tell you this, but I think they're trying to rush it. They send us to the range too, and we're only a year older, but the fact is we've had years on bases and in the military environment in general. You've been here three months. I don't know what's going on, but this sudden decision makes me think they're in a hurry."

Nikolai spoke quickly so Blondie wouldn't think it odd that he was talking for so long, but she still frowned at him as if she was well aware that he wasn't translating for a few minutes.

Mike didn't react in any way, so as not to seem suspicious, but in fact the thought immediately started scrambling through his head.

The fact was that it had come very suddenly, as if Blondie had been given a sudden order due to some circumstance.

However, it could only be because he wasn't like Nikolai or the others who were going to be soldiers in the future.

Mike wasn't even that. He was a weapon. And he doubted they planned to leave him stranded on some outpost in the middle of nowhere for long. All he was doing here was basic training, probably to increase his strength, endurance, and stamina, but they certainly didn't want him to be just another in a line of soldiers in the Soviet Union.
There were other things they valued him for.

Still, he found it odd – the fact that his training was meant to be accelerated didn't explain the sudden switch to weapons.
It might have been nothing, but Mike's thoughts kept returning to it anyway.

─┉─ • ─┉─

When he walked into the lab after lunch, as he did every afternoon, his suspicions were confirmed.

At the beginning they went through what had become routine for Mike – he called up the fire, stretched it the length of the room, manipulating it smoothly and easily, even though they were separated by several meters.

The lack of space irritated Mike, as he wanted to see how far he could reach with his abilities. Because sure, controlling fire was still exciting and incredible in itself, but he was sure he could do more.

Ever since he had brought Ilya's theory to the Shark and the scientists had arranged themselves accordingly, he had felt much more confident about his abilities.

He was still coughing up blood, which was still very disturbing, but it was now happening only when he was attempting to do things that were too difficult – like melting a smaller piece of iron. Not that it was such a difficult task, but rather it required an enormous amount of time, and the energy required to keep the flame alive for such a long period of time was too much for Mike to handle.

However, everything else was becoming so easy for him that he was getting bored. And also a little annoyed because all the energy that was building up inside him was yearning for release and he had no way to fulfill it.

It had resulted in awkward situations where Mike had accidentally vaporized all the water in the shower, or nearly set Ilya's hair on fire when he sneezed and a flame came out of his nose.

Nothing dangerous, but embarrassing and annoying enough to get on his nerves. Every day it felt like the flames in his body grew and grew and he couldn't help but see the similarities to the week he'd spent locked up after the injection. Back then, the fire came in waves, completely unbridled, and once or twice it built up too much for his body to contain – so he simply let it out.

Mike worried that the exact same thing was happening now. Whereas just a few weeks ago the flames had almost mocked his desperate efforts to squeeze out a few sparks, now, on the other hand, he was having trouble keeping the fire at bay.

Mike wondered if it would always be like this. If his abilities would always be this unstable, and that he would have to get used to and learn to anticipate these waves of power and energy, or if he would somehow manage to channel it.

He'd never seen Eleven have such problems with her abilities, but hers were purer and calmer at the very base – it wasn't something as destructive and volatile as fire was.

Either way, he wasn't the only one who had concluded that the lab wasn't enough.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll switch to training outside the lab," Shark announced to him after watching for a full five minutes as the flames hungrily licked the walls and glass, spreading across the room with the force of a tidal wave.

The scientists had already learned not to leave their belongings in the room whenever Mike came in, and even standing behind him was no longer safe, as the heat the flames produced was too much for them – they had to watch him through the cameras and from behind bulletproof glass.

Mike didn't mind, and would have likened the temperature of the room to a pleasant spring day, but there had been several times when his clothes had caught fire just from the heat.

He'd been told that they were working on something better that he could wear without it catching fire every time he handled the flames - because that really wasn't very practical, despite the fact that the fire hadn't hurt Mike in any way - but for now, he had to accept the fact that he had to keep replacing his burnt shirts with new ones.

Mike now turned to face Shark, noting with satisfaction how she took a step back from him. The remnants of flames and sparks were still burning around him, and the room was thoroughly heated, so he could see strands of black hair sticking to her head with sweat.

The soldier behind her made no effort to hide his wariness – his remote was out and his finger was levitating just above the button, ready to press it at any moment.

Mike knew that one electric shock would bring him to his knees in an instant, and that there was really no risk of him harming Shark – but he still enjoyed the fleeting feeling of power, and the fact that he was gradually increasing his strength enough to force her to be vigilant.

Mike wasn't trying to look threatening or dangerous, though. He obeyed every word and every order, and even if he sometimes talked back and complained – despite knowing that it would earn him a shock every time – it was more to maintain the pretense of a disgruntled, kidnapped American boy.

No one would believe him if he suddenly started acting like he suddenly didn't want to run away – because it must have been obvious to everyone that that was exactly what he wanted to do – but on the other hand, he didn't really want to be seen as a serious threat. He didn't need even more soldiers on his back, or perhaps forbidding him to see Nikolai and the others.

"General Morozov wants to see your results at the end of the month," Shark continued, getting Mike's full attention, as he hadn't heard from the man he'd seen so often in his first months here in quite some time. "We've decided to hold a sort of trial. You'll show your progress in fighting, shooting, and of course, the most important, pyrokinesis."

Mike raised his eyebrows, trying not to show the slight panic the words had stirred in him. "Then you're lucky Ilya figured out what's holding back my abilities, don't you think?" He couldn't resist the cheeky remark. "Sad that a fourteen year old had to figure it out. I wonder –"

Sharp pain. Shock. Feeling as if his heart had stopped.
It was all so incredibly familiar by now that it didn't surprise Mike, but it still never stopped hurting and never failed to incapacitate him completely.

His thoughts stuttered, stopped in one painful moment when his whole body screamed at him that something was wrong, and the next moment he realized he was gasping for breath with his hands braced against the still heated floor.

The world blurred before his eyes, everything was spinning and unclear and made no sense, but still he heard a sharp, woman's voice: "If I were you, I would put all my effort into the trails. Otherwise you'll regret it."

─┉─ • ─┉─

The shooting range was added to the list of locations Mike had drawn on his makeshift base plan.

When Nikolai came to him later that afternoon for their daily Russian lesson and saw what Mike was doodling, he was immediately intrigued. "This is actually quite accurate," Nikolai remarked admiringly as he jumped up on his bed and took the paper with floor -1 marked on it without asking. "Some of the room dimensions are a bit odd, but otherwise..."

"I'm not an architect," Mike snorted. "I just need to know where what is."

In the third plan, floor 0, he had drawn the least amount – only the barracks, bathrooms, training area and now the firing range. And, of course, the mysterious, guarded elevator that kept nagging at his mind.

"Архитектор," Nikolai repeated, nodding. "That will be your word of the day."

Mike looked at him obliquely, but he pronounced the word himself – it wasn't too far from his English counterpart, so he assumed he'd remember it easily enough. Not that he'd use it in casual conversation.

Nikolai tried to talk to him most of the time. Learning to read Cyrillic and know the words was incredibly important, but Mike didn't have enough time to learn the language like he would have in school. So he tried to listen, guess what words meant and guess the meaning of a sentence based on the few things he knew.

One of the things Mike had noticed at the very beginning of his incarceration here was an often repeated word in the lab – Поджигатель.

When Mike asked Nikolai about it, he was told it meant Arsonist. And that it was apparently a popular nickname among the people on the base.

"Popular?" Mike asked when Nikolai said that.
He raised an eyebrow. "All the scientists are silent, but even so, it's not exactly easy to hide your existence. I mean, in the sense of what exactly they did to you and what happened to you. It's just theories and conjecture, people argue amongst themselves all the time about whether it's true or not, and half of them dismiss it as a fabrication, but the fact remains that a lot of them call you Arsonist."

Mike didn't know what to make of the fact that he had been given his own nickname, so he preferred to let it go.

When he and Nikolai finished their private Russian lesson and Mike shared dinner with him, Nikolai mentioned; "Blondie let us go to the shooting range with you."

Mike looked at him in surprise and Nikolai smiled; "Like, it was kind of obvious with me, because without me, Blondie wouldn't have been able to explain a word to you. But I managed to talk her into taking all of us – except Alexander and Maximilian. They're endlessly annoyed because they're only a month away from turning fourteen. But what can they do, right? Anyway, we usually have our own time at the shooting range, but there's nothing to do in the evenings anyway, and at least we'll be ahead of the others."

Mike nodded and found himself relaxing a little. Having a bunch of teenage boys with guns behind him shouldn't be particularly reassuring, but it was certainly better than having a bunch of grown, trained Russians with guns behind him.

"It's here... Freer than I'd expect from the army," Mike voiced a thought he had since he'd met Nikolai and the others. He may have had some distorted ideas, but he assumed that there was a strict order and schedule in the army that must not be disturbed under any circumstances.

Nikolai shook his head. "You're right about that," he admitted, straightening up as he always did when he was serious and explaining something. Mike had to admire how easily Nikolai went from a carefree smile to this focused, thoughtful expression. "There are more aspects to it, I think. First, we are really in such a distant, remote part of Russia that no special results are expected from us.

Secondly, and this is what I think, most of the troops are here primarily for cover. At least it seemed that way to me, and since you showed up, I'm even more confident. Understandably, the soldiers are here to oversee the prison sector and keep the base running, but at the same time, I think it's a cover for the more important things that are going on. The experiments and research and so on. Thirdly, I'm sure it's also Sonya's influence. She's the only one in charge of all these kids and teenagers because no one wants to give her a better job. Just the fact that she ended up here, of all places, proves it. And so Sonya kind of privately retaliates against them with her disrespect for the rules and regulations. No one will punish her for it as long as we get results and she knows how to work with us to get them. And finally, as for us younger ones... Why do you think we're here?"

Mike stared at him wordlessly. That was one of the other questions that constantly piqued his curiosity, because he couldn't figure out what they were doing here.

"Things can be crazy in Russia," Nikolai continued. "But we don't send child soldiers into battle. There's compulsory enlistment from the age of eighteen, for two years. None of us are even eighteen yet, and I can say for myself that I've been here a few years. The thing is, we're the children of inconvenient people. Traitors, spies, prisoners, murdered politicians, orphans with no family and little education. Just the scum that they didn't know what to do with because we were basically guilty of nothing, so they threw us in here."

Mike wasn't sure what to say to that. He never would have thought of that in his life, but then again, he didn't have many theories on how Nikolai and the others ended up here.
Nikolai was stretched out on his bed, legs dangling over the edg, hands behind his head, face turned toward the bright, white light.

"My father was a spy," he said in a calm, easy tone. "I mean, he lived for a time in America and other similar countries. I wasn't born yet. Then he came back to be with me and my mother. We spoke a lot of English at home, which is why I can talk to you now. My dad also showed me all the comics and movies and stuff like that that you have in your country. I absolutely loved it. Your candy could make me drowsy. You've got more sugar in them than we have in our sugar bowls, for the record. It's absolutely disgusting, but delicious. We had a pretty good life. He was successful, especially in the past, and so everyone was willing to ignore his almost obsession with American things, food and so on. Even the fact that his son spoke more English than his mother tongue. But it all took a turn when one day he decided we were better off in America. I don't know why so suddenly. Maybe he messed something up, maybe he pissed someone off, maybe someone decided to get rid of him, or maybe he'd just had enough of Russia and wanted to run away and take us with him. But that didn't happen. They were both killed. I was eleven when I ended up here. And I haven't left Kamchatka since."

Mike inhaled quietly and then exhaled, his eyes fixed on Nikolai. But before he could say anything – any words of comfort or anything like that – Nikolai continued, "You could say I didn't exactly grow up to be a patriot. A bit of a weirdo who speaks English and wrinkles his nose at Rot Front candy. I probably wouldn't have survived if it wasn't for Vladimir. Vladimir Lopatin."
Mike blinked in surprise when he heard the familiar last name.

Nikolai turned his head toward him and nodded. "Yeah. Ilya's brother and Misha's best friend. He was probably fifteen or sixteen at the time, maybe, with his ten-year-old brother, in a military base in the middle of nowhere. It was a year before Sonya was assigned here, so we didn't even have anyone who cared about us then. All the kids here were completely wild, neglected and punished for their parents' actions. Vladimir, who was the oldest of us, took us under his wing. Together we trained, practiced, learned, and so on, until all those higher up stopped looking at us as just annoying, extra hungry necks, but as people who could grow up to be good soldiers. Vladimir paved the way for us, got us the kind of treatment we would have gotten if we had attended training at eighteen.

A year ago, he suddenly disappeared. We were told that he had died, but we never saw the body and never learned what the cause of death was. Ilya still believes he's here somewhere. That they're hiding him somewhere and that he's alive. I think he died. Because it was just after the huge explosion I told you about and because a new lab opened up shortly after. The one where they took the kids who never came back. I think Vladimir might have been the first."

Mike couldn't look at him any longer. It wasn't surprising that Misha couldn't stand him – his best friend probably hadn't survived the operation where the scientists had tried to implement some abilities into him, and a year later Mike would show up here, alive and more or less healthy after the exact same operation, only to intrude into their group as if he had a right to. It must have been a huge slap in Mish's face to see Mike survive what his friend didn't.

"I'm sorry," Mike muttered, trying to shake off the huge wave of guilt.

"Me too," Nikolai nodded. "Vladimir was a huge role model of mine. Since then... Well, I've kind of been trying to be like him. I don't want anyone else here to feel lost and alone."
Mike looked at him briefly. He had something on his mind, but maybe it was too bold to say.

Almost as if Nikolai had read his thoughts, he added immediately afterwards; "Yeah, that's kind of one of the reasons I was so quick to seek you out and bring you to us. Apart from the fact that you speak English too, which makes me feel a flood of nostalgia. I was afraid I'd forget how to speak English, but then you showed up, not a word of Russian! The long hair, the soldiers behind your back, some sort of thing around your neck, and most of all the utter sadness in your eyes. At first glance you were too interesting to let you go."

Mike couldn't help himself - an amused snort slipped out.
"I suppose I'm grateful," he said finally, and Nikolai gasped in affectation.

"I suppose," he frowned dramatically and shook his head. "Otherwise you would lose our wonderful company."

With that, he straightened, ruffled his light brown hair and said; "Enough of the depressing and gloomy debates. Let's shoot."

Notes:

I don't want to make excuses again for why the chapter hasn't been out for a long time, but at least this time I can swear it was supposed to be out last Friday, but at that moment rivers were flowing all over our country and there were floods almost everywhere 😭 And my town was almost the worst affected 💪 I'm still without electricity, I'm publishing this in complete darkness and on my mobile data, but at least I'm a flat rat so at least my house isn't flooded 🤗

Anyway, some information around chapter releases, two a month is probably not realistic right now. I still have a lot of pre-written chapters, so you don't have to worry about not hearing from me for six months, but I'm just not quite in the mood to write this fanfic right now, and I don't want to push myself into something of poor quality, which means I'd hate to hit a point where I don't have pre-written chapters anytime soon. It would help if ST 5 was already out, but that's just not going to happen, so I'm just going to release the chapters I have written and in the meantime write little by little whenever I feel like it.

Thank you for being patient and reading this 🫶

Chapter 16: Chapter sixteen

Notes:

THIS FANFICTION IS NOT ABANDONED AND NEVER WILL BE, AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED – unless I die or lose my memory, or all my limbs, or something like that.

Okay, now seriously, I deeply and sincerely apologize for not posting an update for almost a year. This was entirely my fault, because as you know, I literally HAVE several chapters written in advance, I just needed to PUBLISH them. The problem with this chapter arose because I had to rewrite some things due to a change in the plot later on, and I didn't feel like doing it AT ALL, so I put it off for an extremely long time, and well, then it turned out like this 💀 Of course, the fact that I was incredibly busy with other things also played a part, and I'm afraid that this coming school year won't be any better, because it's my final year of art school and I'll also be dealing with college applications, so I'm afraid that updates will still be coming out at a snail's pace, BUT I have enough written to hopefully find the time to publish them 😭🙏 I'm really sorry, this is entirely my fault because I just kept putting it off and then forgot about it.

Anyway, if you've forgotten the plot during that time, nothing is stopping you from reading it again, wink wink, but I'm going to write a quick summary of all the important information here – hopefully by the end of today or tomorrow, I just want to publish this first because you deserve it. You deserve it for your insane support and for loving this fanfiction even though its author is a bit of an idiot 💀
So yeah, that should be it, enjoy the chapter 🔥

(Edit)
Important information from previous chapters:

-A man named Oleg Morozov is, to some extent, leading and supervising the experiment Mike underwent, and the woman Mike calls Shark is the lead scientist.
-Their motivation for kidnapping Mike was primarily his connection to the Upside Down.
-They used two methods for the experiments, and Mike was told that they tried the second one on him.
-He has a device on his neck that allows anyone with a control device to send electric shocks to his body. Two soldiers accompany him everywhere on the base.
-He trains his physical endurance and, more recently, hand-to-hand combat with a blonde, very assertive woman named Sonya (Mike calls her Blondie).
-Mike coughs up blood when he pushes himself too hard.
-On random nights, a man dressed all in black attacks him in his room. According to Shark, Mike's task is to defeat him.
-Mike has met a group of boys his age, led by Nikolai, who is the only one of them who speaks English. Mike quickly became close to him, and Nikolai is willing to help him as much as possible, teaching him Russian and providing information. He also often wrestles with all of them during training. There is also a certain rivalry between them and another group of boys.
-According to Nikolai's information, several experiments have been conducted on children at the base over the past eight months, and no one has seen them since. Mike is the only one who survived. It is likely that one of Nikolai's former friends was one of the victims.
-Mike learned that the complex in Kamchatka, where he is located, is divided into several parts - a military base, a research facility, a labor camp, and a kind of special prison.
-Mike's abilities were very limited for a long time, and it was extremely exhausting for him to use them without a lighter - one of Nikolai's friends, Ilya, wondered if it was a lack of sunlight, and Shark then tested the theory and installed special lights in Mike's room.
-After he fainted from exhaustion, his schedule was shortened a bit and he was given a day off so that it wouldn't happen again.
-Morozov wants to see Mike's powers and progress in combat and shooting at the end of the month.

The fourth month

Objective: Training, find a way to escape (main objective

Mike got his hands on something called a Makarov – an elegant, small, pure black pistol, surprisingly much heavier than Nancy's revolver.

While he was examining it and trying to get used to the unexpected weight in his hand, Blondie explained everything he needed to know – she pointed out the safety catch, made him change the magazine several times, showed him the rounds he would be using, and explained that this pistol was double-action and that he didn't need to pull the hammer back before pressing the trigger.

This had never occurred to him before, because his sister's gun worked the same way, but he immediately decided that it would at least save him time.

He wondered if it was the same gun Nancy had taken from the Soviet soldiers Eleven had defeated in Starcourt.

If so, he hoped his shooting skills wouldn't disappoint her.

Blondie then showed him the correct way to hold the weapon and adjusted his grip slightly – either revolvers were held a little differently, or Nancy had simply found a different way to shoot. After all, she had no professional training, certainly not at the time she taught him. Although she had since gone to the shooting range several times behind her parents' backs.

And that was all. Blondie seemed disappointed that she couldn't mock him for his complete incompetence, as she did with everything else he did, so she grumpily handed him protective goggles and earplugs and sent him straight to one of the shooting ranges.

Mike glanced hesitantly at Nikolai at his side, who was holding another pistol much more confidently in his hands, and faced his target.  Mike mimicked his stance – straight, with his knees lightly bent and his feet slightly apart – and raised the pistol exactly as Blondie had shown him.

When he practiced this with Nancy, his hands shook constantly. He was unable to hold them outstretched and clenched like that for more than a few minutes. He could already feel a change in this regard – he had spent so much time in the lab with his arm extended and on the training ground with his fingers clenched into a fist that he felt no significant discomfort.

Mike narrowed one eye and focused on the target, which was dozens of meters away. He aligned the sight with the center of the target, put his finger on the trigger, took a deep breath, and then pressed the trigger as he exhaled. It was a little harder than with Nancy's revolver, but there was still a satisfying bang, the force of which was fortunately muffled by the headphones. The recoil threw his hands up slightly, but he was prepared for this and did not loosen his grip or stance.

He had no idea how well he had hit the target, if at all, but he continued until he had emptied the entire magazine. When he turned to Blondie, she nodded at him, so he pulled out the magazine, loaded new rounds, and continued.

By the end, his hands were starting to hurt from the recoil and from being stretched out constantly, but he fired sixteen more bullets before Blondie stopped him, along with the other boys.

"I'm dying," Ivan groaned grumpily as he shook his hands.

Nikolai replied something in Russian and grinned at Mike: "So what do you think? How are you enjoying it so far?"

Mike, who was stretching thoroughly to loosen his stiff muscles, replied briefly, "I definitely have more confidence in this than in fistfights."

"Your sister must have influenced you, I guess," Nikolai remarked amusedly. Mike was glad to see him back in his usual mood. "Which reminds me, why haven't you mentioned that you have a sister until now? And such a cool one at that?"

Mike shrugged guiltily. "I guess it never came up," he said. He had never been one to talk much about personal matters, and talking about his family was too painful for him to bring up on his own. However, Nikolai had shared the fate of his own family with him today, so he could at least try to reciprocate a little. "I have two sisters, actually. An older one and a younger one."

Nikolai nodded intently. "I can totally see that ten-year-old teaching you how to shoot," he said with complete seriousness, earning himself Mike's famous Wheeler look – that's what his friends called it. It was said to be a mixture of contempt and a kind of cold conceit, as if the Wheelers knew everything best.
Mike didn't think it looked that way, but he wasn't going to argue with them.

"Holly isn't even five," Mike rolled his eyes, then paused. "I mean... She wasn't when I last saw her."
Suddenly, he was overcome with panic. How many birthdays had he missed? He'd only been here three months, but... Max. He'd missed her birthday.

It was supposed to be shortly after he was kidnapped. Weeks in advance, he had a gift ready for her, a portable skateboard ramp.
Mike was aware that his friends hated it when he bought them expensive gifts – especially Will and Max – which was precisely why he was willing to empty his wallet every Christmas and birthday just to annoy them. He had to beg his mom and dad for months beforehand to increase his pocket money, but it was worth it for the look on their faces. He wondered what they had done with the gift. Whether they had given it to Max, whether she was enjoying it or not.

"Nancy is the one who taught me how to shoot," Mike continued slowly, trying to get rid of those unpleasant thoughts. Not that thoughts of his family made him particularly happy, but it wasn't as disturbing as the fact that he had missed one of his friends' birthdays. "I would never say it out loud, but she's really cool. Incredibly smart and extremely talented as a writer."

That was one of the things he always envied her for and at the same time saw her as a role model. From the early days when they started playing DnD, he became very enthusiastic about stories. And even though he didn't have as refined a vocabulary as Nancy, he knew he could tell stories – that he could make them up. His lack of ability and constant comparison to his more successful older sister had turned him away from this hobby and perhaps also his childhood dream – a future as a writer? – but now he regretted it.
Like many other things.

"And she can shoot a revolver," Nikolai added admiringly. "You don't mess with the Wheelers."

Mike grimaced a little sourly. "I honestly don't know where we get it from. Our parents... They're okay? They're fine, sure, but... They're not..."

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, unsure how to describe them. Of course, he missed them – he felt like a little boy every time he thought about his mom and the fact that she wasn't there.

But the fact remained that a growing gap of contented lies and pretense was forming between them. They were growing further and further apart, and while it was certainly not Karen Wheeler's fault, as she couldn't have known that her children had been fighting monsters from another dimension for several years, she never made any significant effort to expose the pretense, even though she must have known that something was wrong. Mike knew that she loved both him and Nancy, but he also sometimes felt that much of her motherhood, understanding, and care was more of a pretense that she put on for the world so that no one would actually see how disconnected their whole family was.

Hell, their parents didn't notice that Mike was hiding a stranger in the basement. So much for how much they cared.

And Ted Wheeler was, of course, a topic of his own. It wasn't that Mike hated him or felt any aversion to him. The problem was that he felt almost nothing toward him. If his father ever decided to leave or mysteriously disappeared, it probably wouldn't change much in Mike's life.
Mike was mostly fine with that, until he became the target of those unemotional, calm but strangely stinging remarks about how he should play more sports and hang out with other kids besides Will Byers.

"They're not perfect," Mike finally summed up. "I miss them, but honestly, I'm not sure if anything has changed for them since I've been gone."

Oh. Saying it out loud hurt a lot more than he expected.

Not that he didn't think so and know it all along, but... It sounded wrong. Something told him it shouldn't be that way, but that's how the Wheelers worked. They loved each other, but only within certain limits, in their own separate spaces.

"And I certainly can't imagine my father holding a gun," Mike added with a feigned smirk to lighten the mood, even though he saw the hint of thoughtful concentration on Nikolai's face. "My mother, more likely. If I ever go back, I swear she'll kill me with her own hands."

If his friend wanted to say something, he didn't get the chance, because at that moment Blondie returned and handed Mike a black piece of paper riddled with holes.

"At least there's something you're not useless at," Nikolai translated Sonya's words, while Mike watched his result with due satisfaction.

Most of the holes were concentrated around the center, very close together. Only about three of them were completely off target.
And finally, one of them hit the exact center.

─┉─ • ─┉─

The next day, during a classic sparring session at the training ground, Mike wasn't so much focused on the individual punches he was mechanically delivering to the punching bag in front of him, but rather on his own thoughts.

He needed to plan the next few days, as the end of the month was going to have something like a test for him. After yesterday's results at the shooting range, he wasn't so afraid of shooting anymore and was sure that he would polish his skills to a level that would satisfy Morozov within a month. He had no idea what they would want from him in terms of his abilities, and rather than not being able to show anything, he was afraid that he would not be able to precisely control the growing power and ferocity of the fire, which was becoming more and more turbulent. However, he didn't think that Shark would want to make a fool of herself, so it was likely that his task would be something she was sure he could do, but at the same time would be impressive.

His greatest uncertainty stemmed from the match. He was stronger than before, he knew that – it was impossible not to be, given that he had spent every morning and evening doing some kind of physical exercise up to this point. At the same time, he had also gained some weight, and his appetite had increased dramatically after the lights were installed. It seemed to be a natural result of the new wave of energy that was building up inside him and that demanded more than just light.

However, none of this magically accelerated his relatively slow progress in combat. Mike wasn't strong, fast, or experienced enough, and clenching his fists and punching someone in the face still didn't come naturally to him, so he was afraid that he would just embarrass himself in this part of the test.

Under other circumstances, he wouldn't have minded – he even considered messing up on purpose to give Sharky a hard time – but in the end, he knew that he would be the one to suffer the consequences, and he didn't need to get everyone on his bad side. The regime here was demanding, exhausting, and stressful in many ways, but Mike appreciated the degree of control he had over his training, especially with Blondie. He didn't want to be assigned to someone else because they thought his performance was inadequate, and he certainly didn't want them to tighten up his schedule so that he couldn't see Nikolai and the others anymore.

He wanted to be an exemplary, perfect soldier for them, so that they would have no further reason to punish him and take away the things he had learned to value here.

Mike was constantly amazed at how quickly Nikolai had befriended him, but at the same time he realized how deeply attached he himself had become to Nikolai and the others. He was certain that if Nikolai had never spoken to him, Mike would be a completely different person right now.

Nikolai and the others reminded him that there were other things besides cold, white rooms, injections, crackling flames, and the unemotional expressions of people who saw him as nothing more than a weapon.

They brought him back to reality and, above all, gave him hope – because Mike, despite how unlikely it really was, desperately believed Nikolai's promise that he would try to help him. He clung to their presence like a lifeline, because they were the only people in the world who currently knew he was alive and cared about what was happening to him.
They reminded him that he was still human.

"What's so interesting about that bag? Did someone draw a pretty girl on it or something?" An unexpected voice interrupted his thoughts, and Mike realized that he had been staring ahead silently and motionless for some time.

"Ivan said that, not me," added Nikolai, nodding toward the short-haired boy standing beside him. "Blondie wants to see you two fight."

Mike took a breath and glanced between Nikolai and Ivan to see if they were serious.
Ivan grinned in a way that was probably meant to be friendly, but instead looked quite scary. Nikolai rolled his eyes. "There's no need to be afraid," he waved his hand. "Ivan will kick your ass, but he won't kill you or anything."

Mike knew that, but at the same time, he was sure that every single blow would hurt a lot.
And on the very day that Shark decided to take him somewhere outside the lab, damn it. She wouldn't be happy seeing him limping on both legs. Nevertheless, he decided not to make any excuses or complain and resignedly headed for the marked area, while Ivan stood opposite him.

For a moment, he considered giving up and accidentally "falling" after ten seconds of the match, but in the end he dismissed the idea, reasoning that if he was going to learn how to do it from someone, it would be Ivan.

Blondie's lessons could only go so far – she showed him all the moves, stances, fist positions, even dirty tricks, but in the end, none of that would be of any use if he didn't learn to use them himself and get enough practice. And he couldn't get that practice any other way than by repeating it over and over and over again.
So he decided to put everything he had into it, even though he was sure he would lose.

When Blondie blew the whistle, Ivan started the fight like most others – he swung at Mike with the intention of knocking him down with one incredibly powerful blow. Which would have worked if Mike hadn't prepared for it in advance, jumping back just to the elimination line and then jerking to the right, so that Ivan's boot, which he wanted to knock him over the line with, flew through empty air.

Mike tried to attack Ivan from the side while he was off balance, but his opponent was understandably faster – so Mike took the first blow directly to the shoulder, as he managed to step back.

With that, Ivan lunged at him, but Mike ducked again and escaped his reach.
Ivan shouted something at him in Russian, which Mike preferred not to understand, and instead concentrated on dodging again.

Each lunge he resorted to was successful in some way, but at the same time resulted in a much more painful blow from Ivan – he managed to kick him in the knee pit, but a moment later Ivan turned so quickly that Mike couldn't dodge when his fist hit him in the side of the head. Mike then tried to attack Ivan's face, but instead of hitting his eye, he hit the edge of his jaw and received such a strong blow to the stomach that he was unable to breathe for a moment. His slightly less successful attempts, where he only rubbed his knuckles against Ivan's arms and muscles, were always deflected by a kick or a much stronger blow from his opponent, until at one point Ivan simply jumped on him and knocked him to the ground so hard that Mike almost hit his head.

For a moment, he was afraid that the older boy would start beating him senseless, as he had seen in movies, but he just waited a few seconds while Mike tried to recover, and it didn't even occur to him to try to get up before Blondie blew the whistle and Ivan straightened up and offered him his hand to help him up.

"Хороший бой, Михаил," which Mike understood with his improving Russian and just gave a thumbs up, even though his hands were still shaking from the effort.

As he limped back to the bench and Ilya sympathetically patted him on the shoulder – he himself still had a black eye from his last fight with Ivan – Nikolai joined him.

"Give me that," he said as Mike clumsily tried to wrap a piece of bandage around the joints of his right hand. Regular matches meant that he rubbed them raw again and again, and they never had time to heal completely, so now they bled at the slightest touch.

"It wasn't that bad," Nikolai continued as Mike handed him the roll of bandage and let him bandage his hand. "You have the advantage of being pretty fast and having natural reflexes. And now that you're not stumbling over your feet and getting out of breath in the first few seconds, I think you'll soon be the best of us at fighting Ivan."

Mike looked at him doubtfully, even though Nikolai didn't return his gaze, bent over the bandage. "Soon won't be enough for me," he remarked a little grumpily. "If they send me to fight Ivan at the end of the month, I don't know what I'll do."

Nikolai looked up at him in confusion, and Mike, realizing he hadn't told him about the test, quickly explained, "Shark got orders from Morozov. At the end of the month, he wants to see all my progress related to fighting, my powers, and shooting. I'm not worried about the last two, but fighting? The only person I can beat is Ilya, and he never really tries, so it's not much of a victory. And sure, I still have a month, but a month can't make up for Ivan's talent or your years of experience."

Nikolai narrowed his eyes, tightened his bandage, and straightened up. "I can try to persuade Sonya to send me against you," he suggested. "If she supervises it. I'd let you win."

"That's cheating," Mike pointed out, and Nikolai gave him a quick smirk.

"Does that bother you?"

Mike shook his head. In fact, he didn't care at all, as long as Shark and Morozov would be at least somewhat satisfied.

He would have preferred to win on his own merits rather than by cheating, if only so that he could rely on everything he had learned here in the future, but even he wasn't naive enough to think that a month would change anything significantly.

"What do you do on Sundays?" Mike asked suddenly, as an idea popped into his head.

"Hmm, nothing exciting, usually," Nikolai shrugged. "Sometimes we party in the evening, like stealing some vodka or other alcohol and inviting people from other rooms over to play stupid games or something, but the rest of the day we're mostly just bored."

"Do you think Ivan would mind meeting me at the training ground every Sunday morning?" Mike asked hesitantly. "If he wanted to, of course."

Nikolai looked at him a little disapprovingly. "Didn't they give you the day off mainly because you literally fainted from exhaustion?"

Mike felt quite embarrassed that he had said it out loud, and even more so because it was true. "It would only be three or four hours," he objected. "And only until the end of the month, until I've got that stupid test over with."

"You know, I'm starting to think you're a masochist. Because who would voluntarily spend time with Ivan in the ring and let him beat them up? I wouldn't do it even for money."

"Are you going to ask him?"

"Sure. If you insist."

─┉─ • ─┉─

Mike was nervous. He walked into the lab like he did every afternoon, and when he noticed that everything – the beds, tools, cabinets – was back in its place, he knew that Shark was serious.

But what really surprised him was when the dark-haired woman approached him wearing something other than her typical white coat – she was wearing a thick, long dark green coat, tall, heavy boots, and even an ushanka. The resulting impression was less sharp, cold, and hostile than the striking contrast of white and her hair, but at the same time she looked much more like a Russian woman who had just emerged from a snowstorm and declared something about loving these spring rain showers.

Several other scientists, including Rat, were dressed similarly, so Mike felt somewhat out of place in his wide pants and thin black long-sleeved T-shirt.

Why are they dressed like this? He thought, trying to stifle any rising hope.

"Let's go," Shark ordered him sternly, nodding to his usual military escort, who didn't forget to take the controllers out of their pockets, and left the laboratory.

Mike decided not to ask any questions and followed her, immediately finding himself in a crowd of soldiers and scientists – for which he was grateful for once, because he didn't feel the stares that otherwise accompanied him everywhere.

When he started spending time with Nikolai and the others, it encouraged many other Russians to come see him. Either they found him interesting, or suspicious, or they simply wanted to know the truth about everything that was being said about him – Mike, of course, didn't understand a word they said (and even when he did understand the context, he preferred to pretend he didn't), so they always left empty-handed. However, that didn't mean he avoided all the attention, and he always felt uneasy when he moved around the base without Nikolai or even Shark.

Now, in their unusual group, in which Mike tried not to step on anyone's toes, they climbed the stairs to the ground floor and then, to his utter amazement, headed to the very end of the hall, to an iron door.

A door that he knew very well led outside – if he remembered correctly what Nikolai had told him, helicopters landed there and a military base could be seen from it.

Mike tried in vain to suppress his excitement at the thought that for the first time in more than three months, he might finally see sunlight. And that he would get out of this stifling, violent, depressing base.

Suddenly, every step seemed extremely slow to him, the pace of the soldiers placing one foot in front of the other evenly and the shuffling of the scientists seemed to turn into a snail's crawl, and Mike's effort not to step on anyone's feet increased, given that his own pace quickened as they walked through the hall and the metal doors were getting closer and closer.

And then suddenly they were standing in front of them, and Shark pulled a card out of her coat pocket and swiped it across a sensor on the wall – Mike carefully committed this information to memory – and the metal doors slid open with a metallic click, revealing... A short, poorly lit corridor.

Mike tried not to show his disappointment, but he still hadn't given up hope. Nikolai wouldn't have lied to him about this – and besides, at the end of the corridor, which cast a dull golden light on them and with a ceiling curved into an arch, with deep black shadows on the walls, there was another metal door.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt a cold breeze on his skin, and when he took a deep breath, he almost slipped on the cold floor, and one of the scientists reached out to support him. Mike pulled away from his touch and stared at the floor and the puddles of water all along it. It was as if a lot of people had been walking through here, shaking the snow off their shoes.

They reached the second door very quickly, and Mike found himself holding his breath as Shark reached out to open it again. A narrow, white slit appeared between the double iron doors.   Mike craned his neck to see over the soldiers' and Sharks' shoulders as the crack of light widened and grew stronger until Mike had to avert his eyes and look away from the brightness. Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed into the hallway, swirling several snowflakes wildly in the air.

Snow.

Mike turned sharply, ignoring the burning in his eyes from the light, and took a deep breath of the frosty, sharp air – it smelled of fuel and smoke, but he felt as if he had never smelled anything better. Thanks to the fire in his veins, he didn't even feel the cold, just the pleasant caress of the wind on his face.

The shark waited until the door was open wide enough and then stepped outside, her group of scientists and soldiers following her, with Mike in the middle.

Mike had to squint again, blinded by the light reflecting off the white snow surrounding them like a soft blanket on all sides.

Just as Nikolai had said, they stood on a large concrete platform with several helicopters waiting. Beyond the metal railing of the platform, Mike could see snow-dusted rocks and the military complex Nikolai had mentioned. A short distance behind them, snow-covered mountain peaks towered menacingly over the entire area that had become Mike's prison. Snowflakes swirled in the air, and judging by the steam coming from everyone's mouths – his especially – it was probably very cold, although he wouldn't have been able to tell for sure even if his whole body hadn't been filled with excitement.

He was outside. He was finally outside.

However, the soldiers didn't let him look around for long – they practically herded him inside the helicopter, and although it was supposed to be Mike's first time flying in something like this, he couldn't care less about all the buttons and how the thing was controlled – instead, he immediately pressed his face against the window, determined not to miss a single detail.

Lively conversation in Russian flowed around him, and although he probably should have made an effort to listen – he had the feeling he heard two scientists complaining about the ingratitude of some Czechoslovaks, while Shark communicated with the pilot – he couldn't quite concentrate on it.

However, it took quite a long time for them to get off the ground, so in the meantime, Mike's enthusiasm cooled a little and was replaced by more sensible thinking.

Now he knew how to get out of the base, but that didn't really help him. If he guessed correctly, this runway, this floor, was located on the side of a mountain, which probably meant that the only way to get down was by air.

Mike suspected that this could not be the only way out and that there must be another exit that the soldiers used, which he would have to find so that he could use it later in his escape.  He might have learned a lot during his few months here, but it was certainly impossible for that to include piloting an airplane or helicopter.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a loud rumbling and then a tremendous roar – fortunately, someone had put headphones on him, so there was no danger of him going deaf when the metal blades above their heads began to spin.

He immediately turned his attention back to the window, and when the helicopter lifted off the ground – and Mike congratulated himself on not throwing up – he finally had a chance to look around.

Just as he had expected, the landing platform was built like a ledge protruding from the snow-covered rocks of a tall, massive mountain that was part of a large mountain range stretching far to both sides. Mike turned his head wildly, trying to catch any other details of the mountain, but they turned away from it, so instead he focused on a group of buildings and towers in the distance – the prison and military sectors, other parts of the base.

Given how vast it seemed even from such a distance, it made more sense why there were so many soldiers at the base – there must be a large number of prisoners to watch over.

Mike let himself get carried away for a moment by the idea of how he could incorporate the prisoners into his escape plan if he ever got to them, while continuing to look around.

There was snow everywhere. Thick, bright white drifts of snow, so clean that they almost blended in with the whitish horizon of the sky.

Now Mike understood why it was necessary to install a special light and not just let him go outside – if it was always cloudy like this, it probably wouldn't do any good anyway.

Mountains surrounded the entire base on one side, probably protecting it from unwelcome visitors, and on the other side Mike saw dense strips of forest, which was honestly a better environment than he had expected.

He was a little worried that the base was located in some snowy wasteland, something like Antarctica, and that he would never be able to get lost in such a space once he managed to escape. But forests... That was something else.
He still hoped to find a way to get to America across the sea, but if he fails, he figured he should theoretically be able to survive in the wilderness until he reached a city, where he would decide how to proceed.

The biggest problem didn't concern him – he literally couldn't freeze to death, and if he waited a while longer, he would probably be able to defend himself against most threats with his skills. Food would be worse.

Sure, he could fry a squirrel, but what would he do with it then? He had never killed an animal in his life, let alone gutted it and prepared it for eating.

These were all things he would have to figure out in the future – like most other things – but it didn't hurt to think ahead about what he would do once he got out of there.

He refused to consider any other possibility.

It didn't take long for them to land, which only confirmed Mike's suspicion that they had flown by helicopter so that he would have no idea how else to get out of there. The attempt was relatively pointless, given that Mike was friends with Nikolai, but the truth was that Nikolai would probably only have been able to describe another route to him, because there was no chance that Mike's armed escort would allow him to wander around the base as he pleased.

When Mike jumped out of the helicopter into the crisp, soft snow, he felt a bit like a child at Christmas who woke up to find it was snowing.

He ignored the scientists and Shark behind him, simply kneeling in the snow and scooping a handful into his palms – it was pleasantly cold, although it melted in his grasp within seconds, leaving him with nothing but wet slush.

He raised his head to the monotonous, white sky and took a deep breath of the fresh, crisp air, which had that typical, frosty scent mixed with the more distant smells of conifers in the distance.

It reminded him of Hawkins in winter – his trips to the Byers' house, which was so close to the forest that they spent whole days building snowmen in the woods and playing endless snowball fights, using the trees as shields and hiding places, so sometimes they stayed in the woods from morning to night, while Joyce brought them gingerbread cookies during the short breaks when there was a truce.

Mike was always on the same team as Will. It was their unspoken agreement, even though the rules of snowball fights were every man for himself. Still, they continued to do so.

After Will disappeared and came back, they never repeated that tradition.

They stopped doing a lot of things they did as children, and sure, maybe it was a natural progression as they grew up, but Mike didn't have to act like a jerk about it.

The argument with Will was burned into his mind like a brand he would never completely get rid of.

He and Will were a team.
They were supposed to be a team.

"Get up," Shark ordered him, and Mike did so without complaint, even though he didn't particularly want to.

"Your task is simple. Release the fire as far as you can," Shark told him, her dark, cold eyes fixed on his face as she waved her hand toward the empty, snow-covered area directly in front of them.

Mike turned away from her so she couldn't see his face, and for a moment he considered the idea that he could probably blow up the helicopter and escape, but then what?

He would get lost in the woods and try to find the nearest town without knowing if there was one? It could be dozens of kilometers away, and he didn't even know how many animals lived in the local wilderness, even if he knew how to do something with their meat.

No, speeding up his escape and then starving to death in the middle of the forest wouldn't help him at all.

So he took a deep breath, took a few steps forward, and began to gather the enormous well of energy that was building up inside him. There was too much of it, and it was too twisted and resistant to his control to force it into anything coherent.  But if he had to just let it out...

He felt his fingers begin to tremble slightly as the tension and hidden flames in his veins began to roar in response to his call. He spread his legs slightly, unsure if he would be able to maintain his balance under the pressure, and raised his hands to at least direct the energy in the right direction.

Several tiny sparks crackled in the air – a warning of the wave that was to come.

Blood roared in his ears as he gathered more and more of the accumulated energy, pulling it up and pushing it laboriously so that it would not spread throughout his body, but go where he wanted it to go.

Then someone behind him cleared their throat loudly, Mike lost his concentration, and the fire got out of his control.

Right in front of him, a huge wave of flame materialized, which immediately spread forward with the hissing sound of melting snow, like water flooding the streets of a city. Without restraint or limitation, it spread, grew, and stretched almost to the distant trees, filling the world with a violent, golden glow and an angry hiss as it sucked more and more energy from Mike so it could spread even further like a disease.

The air became a boiling hell, the fire writhing in its grip, and the moment Mike intervened to prevent an accidental forest fire, the flames rose high, almost like a living creature, the spirit of fire itself, a demon from the depths of the underworld towering over their pitiful, tiny silhouettes in final judgment.

Mike felt control of the fire slipping from his fingers, which were shaking wildly from the effort. The red, golden flames twisted in disagreement, in refusal, trying to spread in all directions, to engulf the whole world and leave it in ashes, killing everything and everyone, including Mike himself.

Because the fire was merciless, cruel, and furious, with a single purpose – to consume.
Mike's head spun. The hissing, the heat, the sweat, the intense glow that almost covered the sky, the steam that surrounded them and enveloped them in its grip, and then suddenly he fell to his knees and coughed, staining the wet snow slush beneath his feet with bloody hues.

He hadn't had such a bad coughing fit in a long time, and he hadn't been so deeply afraid of how much blood he was coughing up in a long time.

He heard voices around him. They were all muffled, as if someone had submerged his ears under water, and when he looked up, his vision was blurred, his eyes stung, and he couldn't see much.

However, the glow of the flames evaporated, and a wet, muddy area now stretched out several dozen meters in front of them.

Notes:

Honestly, I'm glad I got stuck in the less emotionally charged parts, because I can't imagine making you wait a year after chapter twenty-one. It's going to be absolutely crazy, you can look forward to it 😋😋

Anyway, yeah, thank you for your support, otherwise I probably wouldn't have gotten around to publishing this. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I HOPE we'll see each other soon and not in a year 💀✊