Chapter Text
The first thing you notice when you walk into the Hawkins National Laboratory is the smell of the air—so strongly of disinfectant it nearly makes your eyes water; of machines; and of something sterile that reminds you of hospitals. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, their harshness casting starkly bright highlights and deepening dark shadows. They make the walls, tables, chairs—everything—look almost black and white. But maybe they are, here. You step through the reinforced doors, six inches thick and made of solid metal, badge clipped in place and clipboard in hand.
They tell you this is a consultant position, meant to be neutral and objective. To be a control variable, compared against the anomalies present in the lab’s results. Your role is to observe, to record, and to measure. To be the unbiased eyes in a room full of expectation. Yes, you were trained to do this. You were trained to help people. You can do this.
When you enter the observation room, he is already seated at the table. His posture is rigid, practically perfect, hands folded in front of him. Subject 001. You don’t know what you expected him to look like when you read his file, but it wasn’t this. One is dressed smartly in a white collared shirt and slacks, both starched impossibly white, segmented by a black leather belt. He looks like he would sooner wait a table than be a test subject in a maximum security laboratory. He’s tall, thin, and pale, and pretty for a man, with a straight nose, plush lips, and a full head of downy, blond hair. His features might be delicate, but his blue eyes are severe. There is a story there, you think. Pain. His gaze is intense, practically piercing, scanning the monitors with that same strange awareness you’ve read about in every briefing. You know the numbers, the records, the experiments that shaped him—but knowing him on paper is nothing like seeing him now.
When his eyes finally lift and land on you, something shifts. There is a subtle pause, and his breath skips just slightly with something between recognition and calculation. He studies you, and his eyes narrow—not with suspicion, nor aggression, but with curiosity. It is sharp and electric, like a bird of prey circling something far down below.
He feels it immediately: a calm air surrounds you, time seeming to slow down. As if the very motes of dust in the air around you suspend, frozen. This reaches him. It… affects him. Not in the way the researchers expect, not in the way you were instructed to be “neutral.” His pulse ticks differently. The sensors might record a slight lowering of agitation, subtle restraint in his telekinetic output. His posture loosens, just slightly, perceptible only to you who sits directly in front of him. He tilts his head in an owlish way, considering if you are threat or anomaly. He hasn’t decided yet.
Dr. Martin Brenner, a brilliant scientist whose reputation preceded your meeting of him, speaks over the intercom then. His voice is confident, clipped and professional: “Consultant, proceed. State your name for the record.”
You do. Subject 001—One—tilts his head slightly. He pauses again, and room fills with that searching quiet. Then, he speaks. “You don’t hear me.”
It’s not framed as a question. The air in the room seems to thicken, onlookers waiting with bated breath.
Your face flashes with confusion before you can check it. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re… quiet.”
The words are simple, unadorned, but they carry a weight. His words lack a tone of interrogation or questioning. He is not judging, but simply noticing.
Briefly, you think of hospital ceilings. Of the way time once loosened its grip, space filling with silence so complete it felt like being folded inward. Like reality itself disappeared.
You do not say any of this. You only meet his gaze and answer honestly. “People say that a lot.”
Behind the glass, in the control room. unseen hands begin to write. Data spikes are already registering, and his monitors record something the files fail to capture: subtle restraint, mild stabilization. Brenner purses his lips with intrigue, his face absent of displeasure or alarm yet. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
You step closer to the table, clipboard held at your side. One doesn’t move. The silence between you stretches, measured and tense, before you ask, “Shall we get started?”
You are brought into Hawkins Lab as a neutral third party—a consultant, a control variable, a presence meant to observe rather than interfere. You don’t know it yet, but neutrality will not be possible here. As it turns out, things might not be all black and white after all.
Neither of you knows just how much that will change everything.