Chapter Text
The basement of the Russell household was a subterranean sanctuary, smelling perpetually of cold cement, musty air vents, and the sweet, lingering fear of their collective failure to defeat the latest Dungeons & Dragons boss. A single, bare bulb hung precariously low, casting an unforgiving, yellow light on the battlefield drawn onto the worn laminate table.
George Russell, the Dungeon Master and unquestioned commander of the group, was completely immersed. He wore his father’s heavy, black-framed aviator glasses, which perpetually slid down his nose, giving him an air of intense, almost clinical, focus. He leaned so far over the map of the 'Valley of the Shadows' that his breath fogged the plastic sheet.
"The air thickens with ozone and static," George narrated, his voice dropping to a theatrical, gravelly whisper that belied his twelve years. "The shadows writhe around you. You have backed yourselves into the Hall of Bones, and before you, its seven serpentine heads coiled and ready, stands the ultimate manifestation of chaos: the ultimate Thessalhydra!"
Lando Norris groaned, a long, theatrical sound that vibrated the table. Lando, the group's highly-caffeinated, incessantly talkative rogue and technical specialist, was currently playing a character named 'Sebby the Quick.' He wore his bright orange cap perpetually backwards.
"The Thessalhydra? George, honestly, I am going to have words with your DM ethics," Lando whined, throwing his hands up. His boundless energy, usually a source of levity, now translated into genuine panic. "I told you I’ve got zero hit points left! I literally used my last healing potion, a very rare potion of restoration, by the way—on Alex! My armor class is pathetic! I am essentially a crispy chicken nugget waiting to be devoured!"
"It was necessary, Lando," Alex Albon stated quietly, gripping his twenty-sided die like a prayer bead. Alex was the anchor, the thoughtful, often anxious Cleric of their group, named 'Alex the Just.' Alex sat directly next to George, their shoulders and knees perpetually bumping beneath the table in a comfortable, non-verbal affirmation of their deep friendship. "The Goblin King's poison was a Lethal Save or Die. George knows we have to risk our pieces for the greater good."
"Sacrifice? Alex, that’s beautiful and noble, but you're practically inviting the monster to eat you!" Lando argued, kicking his feet repeatedly against the table leg. He was the one who always had to be moving, always thinking three steps ahead.
George, the maestro, ignored the technical dispute, his eyes glowing with the pure, ruthless joy of an artist observing his masterpiece of stress. He fixed his intense gaze on Alex. "The beast’s eyes are the colour of spoiled milk, and they are the size of dinner plates—are locked on your Cleric, Vettel. It senses your weakness. It senses... the pure, blinding light you carry."
Alex shivered, a visceral reaction despite the basement's stuffy warmth. He reached out and used his token to push Lando’s rogue further back, away from the coiling heads. "I use my Shield of Solitude," he whispered, his voice strained. "I step forward to draw its attention. I invite the attack. I roll for a saving throw against the Fear Aura."
George nodded, a flicker of profound pride in his eyes for Alex's selfless, almost suicidal move. "Roll it. You must roll a natural 20 to survive."
Alex cupped the smooth plastic die in his hands. The only sound in the basement was Lando's frantic, whispered prayer to the god of critical hits. Alex rolled. The die clattered once, twice, bouncing off the character sheet before settling on a perfect, glorious 20.
"NATURAL TWENTY!" Lando screamed, vaulting out of his chair and nearly tipping the table. "A critical hit! We're saved! We're saved, George! Alex, you beautiful, magnificent bastard, you did it!"
"Lando, sit down! You didn't even roll!" George snapped, slamming his hands onto the table to restore the hard won order. "But yes. Alex the Just holds his shield firm. The Thessalhydra’s eyes flare with incandescent rage, and it strikes at your shield, Cleric. It is a critical hit, but your divine providence holds! The beast is wounded, not by your strength, but by your sacrifice!"
The moment of victory, however, was instantly crushed by a heavy, persistent THUD-THUD-THUD from the floor directly above.
"BOYS!"
The door at the top of the stairs flew open with an audible CRACK. Lewis Russell stood there, his shadow stretching down the stairs like a cartoon villain, a figure of paternal exhaustion in his expensive silk dressing gown. He worked long, irregular hours at the Hawkins Power & Light Laboratory, and the stress showed.
"That is enough! The noise is unacceptable!" Lewis’s voice was low but carried the absolute authority of a man who desperately needed eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. "It is ten o’clock! You have school in the morning! This is a Tuesday night! Wrap it up!"
George’s shoulders slumped in utter defeat. "But Dad! We were right on the cusp! The Thessalhydra is literally wounded by divine providence!"
"The Thessalhydra can wait until next week," Lewis said, rubbing his temples with a sigh. "Nico is up there having a nervous breakdown about the noise and the mess. He has cleaned the kitchen for the fourth time tonight, George. Out, now. Lando, tell your parents you're coming home."
Lando shoved his dice into his backpack with a rare, unusual quietness. "Alright, Mr. Russell. Sorry, Mr. Russell!" he called toward the ceiling, referring to Lewis's high-strung, fastidious husband.
As they packed their gear, George and Alex exchanged a deep, meaningful look; a shared understanding of the crushing disappointment of interrupted heroism, and the familiar burden of George's parents.
"I’ll see you at the corner tomorrow, Alex," George mumbled, his voice thick with a lingering need for affirmation.
"You're taking the radio?" Alex asked, already pulling on his thin canvas jacket.
"Always," George confirmed, patting his worn walkie-talkie, which was their most sacred ritual. "But tonight, you hit the button when you get inside, Alex. I want to hear your voice. I worry, you know."
"Will do, George," Alex said, forcing a cheerful tone he didn't feel, trying to alleviate George's anxiety. His own bicycle, an older model, was notorious for its weak headlight. "Over and out."
Lewis followed them up the stairs, whispering sharply to them: "Lewis, please, I feel chaos in this house! The dust motes are multiplying!" they heard Nico’s frantic, hissing voice from the kitchen.
Outside, the cold hit them like a wet, dirty towel. The suburban street was eerily silent, the only sound the faint, high-pitched thrum of the nearest power transformer.
The three friends split at the intersection of Mirkwood and Cornwallis. George turned left, heading toward the well-maintained, brightly-lit center of town. Lando sped straight, toward the newer, slightly larger housing tracts.
Alex, however, turned right. His route was the quietest, the darkest, winding along the sprawling, tangled woods that bordered the huge, sprawling Hawkins Power & Light Laboratory complex, the same place George's father, Lewis, worked.
Alex was the quiet one, the solitary figure, often lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughtful anxiety. Tonight, the oppressive silence and the dense blackness of the trees felt less like a protective barrier and more like a patient, waiting predator.
He focused on the hypnotic, rhythmic movement of his pedals, trying to distract himself. He started humming the theme song to Miami Vice, imagining himself driving a white Ferrari, safe and fast.
Crackle. Pop.
The robust headlight on his bike, the one Lando had recently fixed for him with a new capacitor, suddenly spluttered and died.
"Oh, come on, not again!" Alex muttered, slapping the handlebars.
He was in complete darkness. The sound of the wind rushing through the trees was suddenly too loud, too close.
He heard it then. A sound that was definitely not the wind, and not the creak of old branches.
It was a wet, heavy, rhythmic clicking, like bone against wet stone. Like shifting gears in a gearbox filled with bile and slime.
Alex froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. The road ahead was an absolute black void.
"George?" he whispered, reaching instinctively for the heavy walkie-talkie in his backpack.
The bushes to his right rustled violently. Not a gentle wind rustle. A heavy, sickening, tearing noise, like something massive and desperate, was trying to break free of the undergrowth.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized his chest, overriding rational thought. Alex slammed his feet onto the pedals, taking off. He didn't look back. He pedaled harder than he ever had in his life, his breath tearing at his throat. The world blurred into a tunnel of desperate, tunnel-vision fear.
He veered onto his long, slightly overgrown gravel driveway. His house; a small, familiar ranch he shared with his single father Sebastian and his older brother Carlos, was thankfully visible. The house was dark. Seb, his dad, a man prone to both deep anxiety and deep exhaustion from his mechanic shifts, would be asleep. Seb was the worrier, the protector, the fraying wire of Alex’s life.
Alex didn't make it to the front door.
A shadow fell over him. It wasn't the shadow of a tree or a truck. It was a complete absence of light, towering, impossibly tall. He could feel its heat, a sudden, choking wave of stagnant air that smelled like burnt meat and ozone. No face. Just… overwhelming, endless hunger.
Alex screamed, a raw, strangled sound. He swerved his bike off the path and crashed hard into the small wooden shed, the metal frame buckling beneath him. He scrambled free, kicking the bike aside, and slammed himself inside the flimsy wooden structure.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Something heavy impacted the outside wall. The shed shook violently, dust and old paint flakes raining down.
Alex fumbled with the latch, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold the metal pin. He backed away, knocking over a can of turpentine. His eyes desperately scanned the tools hanging on the wall until they settled on a pair of heavy-duty gardening shears, the closest thing to a weapon he could find. He gripped the metal handles, trembling, pointing the blades toward the door.
The lightbulb above him that had been dead for three months, suddenly flared to life. Bright. Painfully bright. Then dim. Bright. Then dim. The bulb started to vibrate, humming a terrifying, high-frequency pitch.
Zzzzt....
The lock on the door slid open. Not forced. Not broken. Opened. On its own.
Alex raised the shears, a pathetic, desperate defense. The door creaked inward, revealing nothing but the dense, dark night. And the sound. The sickening, shifting, clacking sound, now right outside.
Then, the wall behind him separating the shed from the thickest part of the Mirkwood woods dissolved. It didn't break. It peeled away, the wood grain turning into a viscous, pulsing black void. A great, gaping maw opened in the fabric of his reality, stinking of ozone and decay.
Alex didn't even have time to scream again. The shears clattered to the floor, forgotten. He was gone.
Chapter 2: The Fraying Wire
Chapter Text
The Vettel House: 10:17 PM
Sebastian Vettel woke up with a start.
He wasn't sure what had woken him. He lay rigidly in his bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his small bedroom. The house was usually quiet; almost too quiet, now that it was just him and Alex (and Carlos, who was often out late). It had left Sebastian with a perpetual, dull ache of singular responsibility. He was the anchor, and now his cable was fraying.
Then he heard it: a faint, distant sound of scraping metal, quickly silenced. The shed. Alex must be home.
Sebastian relaxed, sighing into his pillow, already calculating how much sleep he had left before his early shift at the garage. He's home. He's safe.
But then, the lights.
The lone, bare bulb in the hallway outside his room began to flicker violently. Not a gentle power surge, but a rapid, stroboscopic flash that pulsed with a horrible, silent energy. It went on for maybe five seconds, then stopped, plunging the hallway into unnatural, profound darkness.
Sebastian shot upright. He looked at his cheap bedside clock: 10:17 PM.
He swung his legs out of bed, his feet padding on the cold wood floor. He checked the hallway, found nothing. He checked the kitchen—the old refrigerator hummed loudly, but the lights were stable. He checked Alex's room. Empty, but that was expected. He checked Carlos's room, confirming his older son was still out.
He went to the back door, leading to the yard and the shed. He opened it slightly, letting the cold air in.
"Alex?" he called softly. "You alright, buddy?"
Silence. Only the faint wind rustling the dead leaves.
Sebastian stepped outside, squinting into the darkness. The porch light was on now, stable. He saw the faint silhouette of Alex's bike, tipped over near the shed.
His anxiety spiked. Alex was meticulous about his belongings. He would never leave his bike like that. Sebastian walked over, his steps crunching the gravel. He reached the shed door. It was slightly ajar.
"Alex, this isn't funny," he said, pushing the door open, his voice tighter now.
The beam of his old flashlight cut through the dark interior. There was an overturned can of turpentine, a small scuff mark on the wall. And on the floor, near the workbench, was a discarded radio cord. It wasn't cut. But it was twisted, the internal copper wires somehow knotted into a tight, unrecognizable helix, violently disconnected from the walkie-talkie set which lay intact beside it.
Sebastian knelt, his hands trembling as he picked up the cord. It was cold, strangely brittle.
"Alex?" he whispered again, the cold knot of terror tightening in his stomach.
He stood up, his jaw clenched, and Sebastian ran back into the house, grabbing the phone. He called George's number, then Lando's. No answer. He called Lewis Russell, George's father, at the Lab's office number. Only Lewis's clipped, professional answering machine.
Sebastian ended up pacing the kitchen, unable to sleep, watching the cheap wall clock until the first signs of dawn began to bleed through the cheap curtains. He knew, with a certainty that clawed at his soul, that this was not a prank. His son was not a runaway.
The Russell House: 7:00 AM
The Russell kitchen was a study in organized, manic chaos.
"Kimi liebling, you need to consume this toast and these scrambled eggs, or you will not have the adequate energy reserves to be a great, world-class race driver like your father," Nico Russell insisted, placing a perfect plate of eggs and fruit in front of his younger son. Nico, Lewis’s husband, was a picture of nervous precision, his typically high-strung energy ramped up by the sudden disappearance of George's best friend.
"Ollie doesn't eat toast," five-year-old Kimi stated happily, already using a miniature Ferrari to smash his scrambled eggs into submission. Kimi and Ollie, Charles Leclerc’s younger brother, were inseparable in their shared world of kindergarten mischief.
"Ollie is irrelevant right now. You are Kimi. Eat," Nico commanded, grabbing a wet rag and frantically wiping a spot on the counter that wasn't there. "Lewis, did you check the forecast? I fear a chaotic weather pattern."
Lewis, already dressed in his clean-cut lab clothes, sat at the head of the table reading the local paper. He was the calm, frustratingly rational center of the storm.
"Nico, George is ready, Kimi is fed, the house is clean," Lewis murmured, not looking up. "Breathe. The boy is probably fine. Teenagers."
"He is not fine," Nico whispered, dropping the rag and placing his hands flat on the counter. "I had a feeling, Lewis. That power flicker last night.…it wasn't normal. The house felt wrong."
George sat slumped at the breakfast table, pale, his eyes wide and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He hadn't touched the eggs. He hadn't heard from Alex. He had tried the radio ten times since 6:00 AM. Nothing but static.
"Alex didn't answer the radio last night," George mumbled, pushing his plate away.
"He's probably sleeping in," Lewis said dismissively. "It’s Alex, George. He misses the bus every other week."
"No, Dad. He always answers the radio," George insisted, his voice trembling with certainty. "Always. Especially when we finish a campaign. He knows I worry."
George stood up, grabbing his backpack. He looked out the window. His gut twisted into a cold, hard knot. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He sped through the morning rush, finding Lando already waiting outside his house, impatiently clicking a new, modified flashlight on and off.
"George! What's up, man? You look like you saw the actual Thessalhydra," Lando chirped, immediately sensing his friend's profound anxiety.
"Alex didn't answer. I tried calling his house, but Seb sounds... broken," George said, his voice strained. "He said Alex isn't home. Lando, the radio cord was mangled."
Lando’s wide, infectious grin faltered. "Mangled? What? Like, cut?"
"Like twisted," George clarified, climbing onto his bike. "He said it looked like a helix. Like something impossibly strong did it. Let's go. We have to check his house before school."
The Vettel House: Early Morning
The small Albon ranch was usually silent at this hour, but today, Sebastian’s low, desperate mutterings were audible even from the front yard.
Carlos, Alex’s older brother, was parked awkwardly on the gravel driveway, his beat-up Ford Escort looking out of place. Carlos, slightly older and often distant, was an intense observer, always hunting for the 'truth' behind the façade of their boring town, often through the lens of his 35mm camera which now hung heavy around his neck.
He walked inside to find his father, Sebastian, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal.
"Dad," Carlos said, his voice flat with suppressed concern. "You called me at five in the morning. What's going on? Where is Alex?"
Sebastian whirled around, his eyes red and hollow. "He's gone, Carlos! He's gone! He didn't come home last night. I looked in the shed, I looked everywhere! The police won't listen. Mark just thinks he's a runaway."
Carlos ran a hand through his hair, taking in the scene: the pacing father, the untouched sandwich on the counter, the sheer, paralyzing anxiety in the air. "Alex doesn't run, Dad. He's sixteen, he worries about his homework. And he hates being cold. Did you see anything?"
Sebastian grabbed the mangled walkie-talkie cord off the counter and thrust it at Carlos. "I saw this. And I saw the lights. And I felt the static, Carlos! Something took him."
Carlos took the cord. Unlike the Chief, he didn't dismiss it. He looked closely at the copper wires, noting the impossible tension required to knot them like this. He pulled out his camera and, with a few precise clicks, photographed the cord, the shed, and the overturned bike outside.
"I believe you," Carlos said quietly, lowering his camera. "I'm going to look around the woods. I'm going to school. If Alex is gone, someone knows something."
Carlos gave his father a brief, rough hug—a gesture of comfort and confirmation that Sebastian was not alone in his frantic terror.
Chapter 3: The panic
Chapter Text
Hawkins High School was a brutal hierarchy, and at the absolute peak stood the seniors, led by the impossible pairing of Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc.
Max, the abrasive, denim-clad rebel, and Charles, the elegant, composed prince, were terrifyingly close. They moved through the halls like twin forces of nature—beautiful, aloof, and utterly ruthless. They were leaning against Max's meticulously clean, bright blue Camaro, the morning sunlight glinting off its chrome.
"I still can't believe you failed that pop quiz," Charles sighed, running a hand through his immaculately styled hair. "We had the answers, Max. You just had to memorize the periodic table."
"Chemistry is overrated, Charlie," Max grunted, chewing his gum with the rhythm of a demolition crew. "Trouble is far more interesting than Hydrochloric Acid."
"Trouble is predictable," Charles countered, a bored smile touching his lips. "But terrifying trouble—that’s where the fun is. And we are terrifying, are we not?"
"We terrify trouble itself," Max smirked, pushing off the car.
Suddenly, Carlos appeared, striding quickly across the lot, ignoring the crowd. He stopped directly in front of Max and Charles.
"Have you seen him?" Carlos demanded, his voice low and intense. "Have either of you seen Alex?"
Max stopped chewing. Charles raised an eyebrow. "Your little brother, Alex? No, Carlos. Why would we?" Charles asked coolly.
"He didn't come home last night," Carlos said, meeting Max's intense gaze directly. "He's missing. If you hear anything, Max, anything at all, you call me. This isn't a joke."
Max stared at the dark, serious look in Carlos's eyes—a look that mirrored the silent panic on George and Lando’s faces earlier. Max felt a flicker of unwanted recognition. He looked at Charles, who just shrugged, unaffected.
"If I hear anything," Max promised, his voice unnervingly quiet, "I'll let you know."
Carlos nodded once, curtly, and then ran off. He was done with school. He drove toward the Albon house, hoping George and Lando were there, knowing the police weren't going to help.
The Albon House: 10:30 AM
The small Albon ranch was now a cold, stark center of official bureaucracy. Two police cruisers sat on the gravel driveway, their blue lights flashing silently, an unwelcome beacon in the quiet suburb.
Sebastian Vettel was well past hysteria. He was a study in profound, terrified clarity, his exhaustion burning away in the face of primal fear. He paced the living room, gripping a cold cup of coffee, his clothes wrinkled and his eyes wide and hollow. He was the embodiment of a single, raw nerve.
"He wouldn't do this! He wouldn't!" Sebastian insisted, stopping in front of the stern, weary face of Mark Webber, the Police Chief. Mark was a large, cynical man who had seen too many missing kids turn into runaways.
"Mr. Vettel, Sebastian, please," Mark said, his voice flat with routine. "We've filed the report. Teenagers run away. Happens every summer. Maybe he got spooked by the dark, maybe he's hiding out at a friend's house. Maybe a girl—"
"A girl? Alex? No," Sebastian cut him off fiercely, his voice cracking. "Alex is... he's quiet. He worries about me! He wouldn't put me through this. And the radio, Chief! The radio!"
Sebastian grabbed the knotted, ruined cord he had found in the shed and thrust it into Mark's face. "Look at this! This is not an electrical failure! This is a knot! Twisted like string! Twisted like wire pulled from an impossible tension! And the shed door was locked, but the lock was slid open! Who can do that, Chief? Who can do that without a key and without breaking the wood?"
Mark Webber took the cord, examining it with tired, dismissive eyes. "Looks like a faulty wire, Sebastian. Happens all the time with this old equipment."
"And the lights? Did he tell you about the lights?" Sebastian dropped his voice, his eyes darting around the room, as if the walls might be listening. "Last night, right after I heard the bike fall, the hallway light went crazy. Violent flickering. It sounded like static."
"Old house, old wiring," the Chief concluded, placing the cord gently back on the coffee table. "We've got half the town on aluminum wiring. We'll find him, Sebastian. We always do. Give us 24 hours. We’ll organize a search tomorrow."
Sebastian felt a desperate, cold certainty settle in his gut. The police were useless. They saw runaways. He saw the void that had swallowed his son.
Sebastian ran to the kitchen, opening the fridge. The half-eaten sandwich Alex had packed for lunch was still there, sitting exactly where Alex always left it. Turkey and provolone, cut into precise squares.
"He wouldn't leave the sandwich," Seb whispered, clutching the plastic wrap, burying his face into the cold, familiar scent of the bread and meat. "He loves provolone. He wouldn't leave provolone."
He knew then. His son was not a runaway. His son was gone. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that whatever had taken him was somehow connected to the strange electrical energy that had been haunting the town since the Laboratory opened ten years ago.
Lando, his face grim, rode his bike home, George tailing him. They had tried to stay at school, but the waiting was agony. When Lando’s bright bike beam cut through the mid-day shadows of his driveway, Mr. Norris was waiting on the porch. Lando's father, Mr. Norris, was a study in controlled terror, his typically cheerful demeanor replaced by a rigid, white-knuckled grip on the porch railing.
"Lando! Oh, thank God, you're home!" Mr. Norris rushed forward, hugging his son tightly, smelling faintly of worried perfume.
"Dad, I’m fine, I'm with George," Lando said, pulling away gently. "Did you hear anything? About Alex?"
Mr. Norris shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. "No. Mark is working on the missing persons case. He's the one who took the report, but he thinks Alex ran off. But I… I don't know." Mr. Norris glanced nervously at the house. "The lights, Lando. The clock radio went back to 12:00 twice last night. And the TV, the static, was loud. Mark said I was just stressed."
Lando, the technician, frowned. "Weird. Never had that problem." He looked over at George, who was staring fixedly at the house.
"It's just the old power grid, sir," George said, echoing the Chief's dismissal. But his voice lacked conviction.
Mr. Norris looked at them, his eyes full of desperate intuition, mirroring Sebastian's own fear. “Seb is right. Alex wouldn't run. Something is wrong with the town. Something is wrong with the power."
Chapter 4: 081
Notes:
yes double update guys i might be gone for some time. enjoyyy :)
Chapter Text
Benny’s Burgers: Late Evening
The fluorescent lights of Benny’s Burgers hummed loudly, trying to pierce the gloom of the rainy evening. Benny, a kind, bearish man with a permanent layer of grease on his apron, was wiping down the counter, the smell of burnt onions and comfort food thick in the air.
He went out back to toss a trash bag. The rain was cold and miserable.
He stopped dead.
A child stood near the edge of the treeline, absolutely still.
The child was wearing an oversized, filthy hospital gown that flapped in the cold wind. Their head was shaved to a buzzcut, and they were shivering violently, barefoot in the mud.
"Hey," Benny called out, his voice instantly softening. He was used to strays and oddballs in Hawkins. "Hey, kid. You okay? You look soaked."
The child turned.
It was a boy. Small, maybe George's age, but with a terrifying stillness. He had striking, intense brown eyes that seemed to hold centuries of pain and confusion. On his left wrist, a faint, almost faded tattoo read: 081.
"Food," the strange boy whispered. His voice was flat, hollow, unfamiliar with the simple concept.
"Yeah," Benny said, stepping back to open the service door. "Yeah, I got food. Come on in, you’re freezing. My name's Benny. What's yours?"
081 didn't answer. He just stared past Benny, towards the diner’s large, buzzing neon sign that flashed B-E-N-N-Y-'S. The light seemed to hurt his eyes, causing him to squint.
He tilted his head slightly, a barely perceptible twitch of his neck muscles.
ZzzzzzzzzT.
The sign immediately stopped buzzing. The neon stabilized, flashing with perfect, uniform brilliance. The high-pitched whine of the transformer outside ceased.
Benny stared at the sign, then back at the boy. "Well, that's some trick," he mumbled, stepping aside.
The boy stepped out of the rain, moving with the gait of a wounded animal, and stumbled into the diner's warmth.
Benny immediately brought him a tray of fries, a burger, and a large Coke. He ate with a desperate, savage hunger, tearing the food apart with his hands, stuffing the entire burger into his mouth like an animal.
"You gotta talk to me, kid," Benny said gently, leaning on the counter. "Where's your family? Where'd you get that gown?"
The boy looked up, his mouth full, his eyes wide. He reached out and pointed one trembling finger at the Coca-Cola can.
Benny shrugged. "What? You want another one?"
He didn't speak. He stared at the aluminum can. Suddenly, the can crumpled inward, flattening into a silver pancake with a sickening CRUSH sound, as if an invisible, massive hand had clenched it.
Benny gasped, staggering back. "Holy smokes!"
The little boy looked terrified, his eyes darting to the door.
Benny quickly recovered. He knelt down, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe here. Nobody saw that. Nobody has to know."
Outside, two large black cars with tinted windows pulled up silently across the street. Men in matching suits and dark glasses sat inside. They looked nothing like the local police. They were cold, precise, and utterly terrifying.
They had been following the power surge, the sudden, impossible EM spike that had just occurred.
One of the men, cold and precise, raised a walkie-talkie. "Target located. Static interference confirms location. Proceeding with retrieval. Secure the perimeter."
Inside the diner, Benny was whispering to the boy. "Look, I’m going to call Social Services. They'll help you. Just stay quiet, okay?"
The kid shook his head violently, his eyes pleading. He pointed a finger at the window.
Benny looked up. The two black cars. The men in suits.
"Crap," Benny muttered. He looked at the boy. "They your parents?"
081 shook his head again, fear replacing the hunger in his eyes. He pointed to the shattered Coke can.
Benny stood up straight, his face hardening. He walked to the back, grabbed an old deer rifle from beneath the counter, and slammed it down.
"Look, kid," Benny said, aiming the rifle at the diner door. "I don't know who you are, or what you did to that Coke can. But nobody is taking you without a fight. You're safe here."
The glass of the front door shattered violently inward, spraying shards across the floor.
"Hawkins Police! Stand down!" a voice boomed—but it wasn't Mark. It was the sterile, flat voice of a federal agent.
"Social Services is here for the child," the agent stated, stepping over the threshold, his face devoid of emotion.
Benny raised the rifle higher. "Get out of my diner."
The agent didn't flinch. "Release the asset."
A brief, terrifying standoff. A quick, brutal struggle. The sound of a gunshot.
Mark Webber arrived at Benny’s Burgers ten minutes too late, sirens wailing in the rain.
He found the front door shattered, the lights flickering violently, and Benny on the floor, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the chest.
Mark knelt down, checking the pulse. "Benny! Who did this?"
Benny coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. He lifted one trembling hand and pointed to the back of the diner.
"The... the kid," Benny whispered, his eyes wide with a protective intensity. "The little one. They... they took him. They tried to take him. I saved him, Chief. I saved him."
Mark followed the line of his gaze. The back door, leading to the alley and the woods, was wide open. There was no sign of a boy, only a small, wet footprint in the mud.
He looked at Benny, then at the shattered Coke can on the counter. It was perfectly, geometrically flat.
"The little one," Benny repeated, his voice fading. "The one with the number."
Mark stood up, looking at the mess—the dying Benny, the mysterious agents who had fled, and the flattened can. He felt a cold dread settle in his gut. This was not a runaway. This was not a normal night in Hawkins.
He walked to the back door, stepping over the threshold, his flashlight cutting into the dark.
He saw the footprints. One small set, leading into the woods.
And beside the small footprints, a set of three deep, massive claw marks dragged through the mud. They were too large for any known animal in Indiana. They were the size of a man’s torso.
Mark shut the back door, silencing the world outside. He stared at the claw marks, then back at Benny’s body, and pulled out his walkie-talkie.
"Get Lewis Russell on the line. I don't care if he's sleeping. Tell him this town has a problem. A big one."
The faint, almost inaudible sound of static whined in the receiver, a sound that Lewis Russell, the scientist, would instantly recognize: raw, unregulated, extra-dimensional energy. The signal was fading, following a new, faster target.
Meanwhile, 081 was running, shivering, deeper into the dark, tangled woods, listening to the muffled sounds of the siren fade behind him. He clutched the wrapper of the burger Benny had given him. He was alone, hunted, and powerful.
He had to find the one who was lost. He had to find Alex.
Chapter Text
The Vettel House: Wednesday Morning
The small darkroom Carlos had jury-rigged in the laundry room was humid and smelled heavily of fixer and developer chemicals. The air, already thick with the palpable, suffocating anxiety of the last 18 hours, felt heavy.
Carlos worked with manic precision, his face illuminated only by the faint red glow of the safelight. He pulled the print from the solution: a clear, stark image of the mangled walkie-talkie cord. He clipped it up to dry, then stared at the copper strands twisted into an impossible helix, not frayed or cut, but subjected to inhuman rotational force.
“They won’t see it,” Seb Vettel muttered from the doorway, his voice flat with exhaustion. He hadn't slept, pacing the house all night, drawn to the chaotic energy of the electrical wiring. He was holding a pair of Alex’s worn sneakers like sacred relics. “Mark saw a broken toy. I see… a message. A void.”
“It’s not just a faulty wire,” Carlos confirmed, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “Look at the stress fracture on the shed door lock, Dad. Not forced; melted. Like a localized, super-fast electrical surge.” He pulled a photo of the overturned bicycle. “And Alex’s headlight. Lando replaced the capacitor last month. It’s impossible it just failed.”
Seb didn’t look at the photos. He was staring at the string of Christmas lights Alex had haphazardly strung up around the living room doorway back in December, now dusty and ignored. They hadn't been plugged in since January.
“They’re blinking, Carlos,” Seb whispered.
Carlos looked up. The tiny, multicolored bulbs were indeed flickering. Not rapidly like the surge the night before, but slowly, deliberately. Flicker… pause… flicker… flicker… pause.
“It's a residual charge, Dad. Happens with old wiring,” Carlos said, instantly seeking a rational explanation.
“No,” Seb hissed, shaking his head slowly. He set down the sneakers and walked toward the lights. He reached out and touched the dusty, cold wire. He concentrated, his brow furrowed with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. “Alex! If you’re here, blink once for ‘yes’!”
He waited, his breath held tight in his chest.
The lights remained still for five heart-stopping seconds. Then, slowly, painfully, the red bulb on the far left of the doorway flickered. Just once.
Seb staggered back as if struck, his face contorted in a silent scream. “He’s here. He’s here, Carlos! He’s trying to talk to me! It’s the electricity! He’s stuck in the wiring! He’s stuck in the grid!”
Carlos, the rationalist, felt his blood run cold. He looked at the unplugged lights, then at the single, definitive blink. He lifted his camera and started snapping pictures of the static bulbs, documenting the impossible.
Hawkins Middle School
Carlos drove the Escort back toward the Mirkwood entrance, a map of the area spread across the passenger seat, circling drainage points and maintenance tunnels. He was avoiding the main entrance of the woods where the police search party (a completely useless effort run by the Boy Scouts and worried parents) was now operating.
He pulled over near a secluded access road, noticing the bright blue Camaro parked aggressively near a maintenance gate. Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were leaning against it, smoking.
Carlos got out, his camera already in hand, the lens momentarily settling, almost involuntarily, on the effortless perfection of Charles’s profile before he sharply redirected his attention to Max. "Max."
Max extinguished his cigarette on the sole of his boot, his eyes instantly hardening. "Look, I told you I haven't seen your brother, Carlos. Why are you harassing us?"
"I’m not harassing you. I'm telling you to keep your eyes open," Carlos said, taking a step closer. "You're supposed to be in the search party, right? You're supposed to be out there."
"I did my five minutes of community service for my mother," Max spat, nodding toward the distant, main search area. "They're searching for footprints in the mud, Carlos. Your brother is probably getting high on the other side of town."
Charles, sensing the tension, intervened with a calm, analytical tone. "Carlos, let's be rational. Alex is not high, but he is a boy who likes puzzles. Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe he took off for the nearest town. What do you actually expect to find in that shed that the police haven't seen?"
Carlos held up the photo of the twisted cord. "I expect to find the truth, Charles. Not the lie Mark Webber is selling. Look at this."
Charles took the photo, examining it carefully. He ran a finger over the smooth, unnatural knot in the copper. A faint flicker of something—intrigue, perhaps even fear—crossed his usually composed face.
"That's interesting," Charles admitted, handing the photo to Max.
Max studied it for a moment, then crushed the photo in his hand. "Static discharge. It means nothing."
"It means everything," Carlos insisted, his voice rising in intensity. "Alex’s backpack is still in his room. His money is gone, but his keys are on the counter. He took nothing. He was taken."
Carlos turned away, walking toward the gate. He lifted his camera and started snapping pictures of the Lab fence line, looking for gaps or tracks.
Max watched him go, then uncrushed the photo and smoothed it out. He looked at the impossible twist of the metal, then at Charles.
"You really think something happened to the kid?" Max asked, his voice low and devoid of his usual arrogance.
"I think Carlos has the right idea," Charles murmured, looking toward the dark forest. "Puzzles are only fun when they’re impossible to solve."
George Russell was useless in history class. Every thought was a frantic, mental checklist: Did Alex get out? Is he just hurt? Did the Thessalhydra win?
Lando Norris sat beside him, nervously tapping a complex binary code on his desk with his pen. They both knew the police were doing nothing.
"We have to go to the shed," George murmured, not looking up from his textbook, which he was pretending to read. "We have to see what the police missed. Mark thinks it’s a runaway. It’s not."
"I know, I know," Lando whispered back, his eyes darting to the clock. "But Chief Webber probably sealed the area. We can’t get caught, George. I have too much experimental gear in my backpack to get confiscated."
"We go to the shed," George insisted. "Then we follow the path along the Lab fence. We need to find his radio—the transmitter must be close to where he disappeared."
Lando sighed, knowing George was right. Alex was the heart of their triad, and without him, they were incomplete. "Okay. When the bell rings, we skip third period. You get the map, I’ll bring the magnetometers."
They ditched school, biking furiously down the road toward the Vettel house. The cold, crisp air whipped Lando's hair back from his forehead as he pushed his legs hard. They found Alex's house silent, but the patrol car was gone.
They dismounted and walked the last stretch down the gravel driveway. Alex’s bike was still lying there, but the damage to the shed was noticeable.
“Look,” Lando breathed, stopping dead.
The impossible tear in the wood that Alex had described had been clumsily boarded up. The police had used a few pieces of scrap wood and bright orange tape, hastily attempting to cover the unsettling hole.
George approached the patched-up wall, his hand trembling as he peeled back a corner of the tape. Beneath it, the wood was still blackened and smelled faintly of ozone.
"It looks like a blast," George whispered. "But smooth. Like something peeled it."
Lando knelt down, pulling a small, handheld metal detector from his bag. He waved it near the ground. "Nothing metal here. But… look at this." He pointed to the thick, slick mud near the corner of the shed.
George followed his gaze. There, beneath the patchy repair, were three massive, parallel gouges in the earth, ending abruptly at the treeline. The claw marks Mark Webber had seen the night before.
“That’s… not a bear,” George stammered.
“No. It’s too big. And too clean. It looks like three… blades,” Lando said, his voice unusually subdued. He pulled out his prized possession: a highly modified walkie-talkie with an extended antenna and a tiny, glowing LED screen.
“I’m going to scan the area for residual EM,” Lando announced, his technician’s instincts kicking in, pushing his fear aside. “If whatever took him caused that power surge, there has to be an echo. We’ll find him with the noise.”
Lando turned the dial slowly. Static hissed and popped. Nothing but the normal interference from the nearby Lab complex.
"Alex, this is George. Can you hear me? We're at the shed. Talk back to me, buddy. Over."
Nothing. Just the slow, mournful crackle of the radio.
The Hawkins Lab Perimeter: Wednesday Mid-day
Mark Webber was not a fool. He knew a cover-up when he saw one, and the sight of four men in matching grey suits removing Benny’s body, cleaning up the shattered glass, and casually dismissing his entire investigation was chilling.
He drove his cruiser to the outer perimeter gate of the Hawkins Power & Light Laboratory. The chain-link fence, topped with menacing coils of razor wire, stretched as far as the eye can see, separating the town from the source of all its quiet terrors.
Lewis Russell, dressed in a crisp, white lab coat that looked too big for his slight frame, was standing by the intercom system, looking out of place and deeply agitated.
Mark parked and stepped out, the wind whipping his uniform coat around him.
"Lewis," Mark called out, his voice clipped and cold.
Lewis turned, his usual veneer of calm rationality immediately cracking. "Mark. You shouldn't be here. This is federal property."
"I know what your property is, Lewis," Mark said, walking up to the gate. "Your property killed Benny. Those men in the grey suits—they weren't from the FBI. They were covering something up. Now, where the hell is Alex Vettel?"
Lewis swallowed hard, running a hand over his tired face. "Mark, I don't know anything about a missing child. I told you, I was home with Nico. The lab has nothing to do with this."
"The Vettel boy's shed was practically destroyed by an energy surge, and ten minutes later, a child with a number tattooed on his arm shows up at Benny's, demonstrating abilities that flatten a Coke can, and then your federal buddies execute Benny to get him back," Mark hissed, lowering his voice. "Don't insult my intelligence. You work with the energy. You know what's happening."
Lewis stepped closer to the gate, his eyes wide with a terrifying mixture of denial and fear. "I can't talk about this, Mark. You have to drop it. For your son's safety, you have to just call it a runaway. Those men—they are serious. They will watch you. They will watch your family."
"They're already watching me," Mark said, his jaw tightening. He looked past Lewis, toward the imposing, block-like structure of the Lab building. "I'm going to find Alex. And when I do, I'm going to shut this whole damn thing down."
Mark turned and walked back to his cruiser, leaving Lewis standing frozen by the intercom, his secret now partially shared, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch. Lewis watched the cruiser drive away, then quickly keyed the entry code, disappearing into the cold, concrete safety of the Lab.
Notes:
hi! i'm backk :)
Chapter 6: Kids
Chapter Text
Mirkwood Forest: Wednesday Afternoon
George and Lando had followed the gravel driveway into the woods. They were moving slowly, Lando scanning the trees with his detector. The deeper they went, the stronger the subtle hum became.
"It’s getting stronger," Lando whispered, consulting his modified walkie-talkie. The LED screen now showed tiny, erratic spikes. "Definitely a localized EM field, George. Not the Lab’s main frequency. This is… chaotic."
"Try calling him again," George urged, his heart pounding in his chest.
George took the radio. "Alex, it’s George. Can you hear me? We're in the woods by the fence. Talk back to me, buddy. Over."
Crackle. Sshhh-Www. The radio only hissed back static.
Lando pointed ahead, toward a narrow, overgrown clearing where the trees grew impossibly tall, their branches meshing together in a dark canopy. “The detector is maxed out, George. It’s right there.”
They pushed through a final thicket of pines and stopped dead.
In the clearing, beneath the thickest canopy, was a large, moss-covered concrete drainage pipe, half-buried in the mud. It smelled of stagnant water and earth.
George’s face fell. "It's a dead end, Lando. It's just an old pipe."
Lando ignored him, focusing on the radio, which had begun to scream. Not just hiss, but a high-pitched, metallic E-E-E-E-E-E-E that vibrated painfully in their hands.
"It's overloading!" Lando yelled, yanking the battery out, trying to silence the awful noise.
FZZZZZZT.
A pulse of invisible force hit them. George and Lando staggered back, hitting the ground. Their ears were ringing, their eyes watering. The trees around the clearing shuddered, the leaves rattling violently.
Lando looked down at his walkie-talkie. The battery was smoking, the internal wires fried.
"What was that?" George gasped, scrambling to his feet. "Was that the Lab? A test?"
"No," Lando whispered, pointing at the drainage pipe. "It came from there."
They approached the pipe cautiously. George aimed his flashlight beam into the dark, damp opening.
The beam landed on a pair of eyes—wide, intensely brown, and full of raw, terrifying power.
A little boy was huddled inside the pipe, terrified and exhausted. He had heard the radio calling out, the static cutting through the silence of the woods, and the sound of the boys’ voices. The sound, the first human communication he had heard since he ran, had drawn him in. But when the light hit him, fear took over, and his power had instinctively lashed out, frying the electrical device.
"Who are you?" George asked, his voice shaking.
The boy said nothing. He stared past them, his head tilting slightly. He could sense their emotional state; the fear, the loss, the confusion. He could also sense the residual electrical energy clinging to them, the same energy that smelled like the void where Alex had vanished.
The boy lifted his hand, pointing a trembling finger at the radio still smoking on the ground. Then, he looked directly at George, and whispered the only word that mattered.
"Gone."
He then looked past George, toward the dark, ominous silhouette of the Lab complex, and then pointed again, more forcefully this time.
"Him. Lab."
George Russell’s Basement: Wednesday Evening
The basement was cold, smelling of damp concrete and old comic books. George and Lando sat on the floor, watching the boy they had rescued from the woods. He was wearing a thin, dirt-stained hospital gown and shivering, his large brown eyes darting toward every shadow.
Lando offered him a slightly smashed cereal bar. The boy took it with trembling hands, devouring it in seconds.
"He doesn't talk much," Lando whispered. "But the radio... he didn't just break it, George. He used it as a conduit."
George leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. "You said 'Lab.' You said Alex is 'gone.' We need to know who you are. Do you have a name?"
The boy looked at them, his gaze lingering on a technical drawing of a car Lando had left on the table. He pulled back the sleeve of his gown, revealing a stark, blue-ink tattoo on his inner wrist: 081.
"Not a name," Lando breathed, his face paling. "A serial number."
The boy shook his head slowly. He picked up a felt-tip pen from the floor and, with painstaking effort, wrote five letters on a scrap of cardboard:
O-S-C-A-R
"Oscar," George read aloud.
Oscar nodded once, then pointed toward the stairs. He looked at the walkie-talkie Lando was trying to repair. He tapped his ear, then pointed down, toward the floorboards. He wasn't just hearing them; he was hearing the hum of the house's wiring, the same static echo that was currently haunting the Vettel household.
Larrystan28 on Chapter 3 Thu 18 Dec 2025 04:58PM UTC
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ivorysinner on Chapter 3 Fri 19 Dec 2025 01:18PM UTC
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beenle_w on Chapter 4 Wed 17 Dec 2025 02:35PM UTC
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ivorysinner on Chapter 4 Wed 17 Dec 2025 03:02PM UTC
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Larrystan28 on Chapter 5 Fri 19 Dec 2025 02:16PM UTC
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