chapter three:
❛ 007 ❜

PLEASE DONT BE A GHOST READER!!
COMMENT AND VOTE

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Dr. Sam Owens stared at the photos of Chrissy Cunningham laid out before him, his mind racing. The FBI agent across from him watched intently, waiting for a response. The images revealed the haunting truth: there were no visible injuries, no signs of struggle. It was as if Chrissy had simply died without explanation. The agent leaned forward, voice low and deliberate.

"There were no signs of any attacker. No bruises. No struggle. It's as if her attacker was a ghost. Does this remind you of anything, Doctor?" the agent asked, his tone sharp.

Owens shook his head, keeping his expression neutral. "No, it doesn't."

"Are you sure?" the agent pressed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Owens furrowed his brow, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Why are you really here?" His voice was firm, laced with suspicion.

The agent shrugged, feigning indifference. "I'd like your opinion."

Owens scoffed, tossing the photos back onto the coffee table. "I was fired, in case you forgot."

"A foreign government invaded our country, all under your watch. There had to be consequences. Certainly, you understand that," the agent responded smoothly, unfazed by Owens' growing irritation.

Owens stood, pacing the length of the living room. "What I understand," he began, his voice rising slightly, "is that something is happening in that town that nobody fully comprehends. And I also understand that military strength is not the answer."

The agent leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "So, what is the answer, Doctor? More scientists? Because it was men of science, men like you, who created this problem in the first place."

Owens tensed as the agent pulled out two photos from his coat pocket, sliding them across the table. Owens' stomach clenched as he recognized the images immediately. One was of Eleven, her head shaved, wearing the hospital gown that was all too familiar to him. The other was Seven—Scarlett—with a pixie cut, her expression defiant as she crouched near an air vent, moments before making her daring escape.

"Everything that has happened in Hawkins can be traced back to Brenner's little pets. Wouldn't you agree?" The agent's voice was laced with accusation.

Owens stared at the pictures, his jaw tightening. He forced himself to remain calm as he slid them back across the table. "What you're suggesting is impossible," he said, his tone colder now.

The agent's eyes glinted with suspicion. "Is it?"

Owens didn't flinch. "Eleven is dead. And Seven's location has been unknown for years. She escaped, and there's been no trace of her since."

The agent smirked, leaning forward again. "I'm not convinced. The night Seven escaped, there was a girl found at Benny's Diner who matched her description. I'm convinced someone found her... and they've been hiding her this whole time."

Owens' pulse quickened, but he kept his face impassive. "Okay, so where has Eleven been? Hm?" he asked, lying as smoothly as he could, though he could feel the tension creeping into his voice.

"There are rumors that Eleven is alive," the agent continued, watching Owens closely. "And that she's receiving help from someone on the inside."

For the first time, Owens faltered, his carefully constructed facade cracking just slightly. The agent caught it, his eyes narrowing. "Are you saying I'm helping them? Is that what you're saying?"

The agent stood up now, his voice lowering, more menacing. "If I wanted to chat, Doctor, I would've picked up the goddamn phone." He took a step closer, looming over Owens. "Now, you can make this easy and tell us where they are, or we can do this the hard way."

Owens stared back at the agent, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew the weight of the threat in the agent's words, but he wasn't about to give in. Not now. Not after everything.

"There's nothing to tell," Owens replied, his voice steady despite the growing dread inside him.

The agent's eyes bore into his, a silent warning hanging in the air. "We'll see about that," the agent muttered, turning on his heel and heading for the door. "This isn't over."

As the door clicked shut, Owens let out a slow breath. He was in deep, and he knew it. But there was no way he was going to betray Eleven—or Seven. Not now, not ever.

Scarlett sat on a cold, hard bench, her body trembling as if she couldn't control it. Rink-O-Mania was buzzing with confused whispers, flashing lights, and the eerie hum of paramedics' voices. But for Scarlett, it all seemed distant. Her mind was somewhere else—deep in the lab, buried in memories she couldn't shake. Her body rocked back and forth, her arms gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles were white. She kept repeating the same phrase under her breath, like a mantra, "She deserved it... She deserved it..."

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, not from a mechanical fault, but from her powers, simmering beneath the surface, struggling to break free. The other kids in the rink gave her a wide berth, watching the odd scene unfold from a distance but too afraid to get close.

Across the rink, Angela was being attended to by paramedics. Her face was still swollen, blood crusted under her nose, and her eyes glassy from the shock. Stacy stood beside her, pressing gauze against Angela's nose while the paramedic knelt beside her, trying to keep her focused.

"Can you tell me your name?" the paramedic asked, his tone calm and steady, though he couldn't ignore the flickering lights.

Angela blinked, trying to shake the daze. "Um... Angela," she stammered, her voice small and shaky, the pain and confusion still clouding her mind.

"Angela, do you know where you are?" The paramedic's voice was patient, almost too patient.

"Rink... Rink-O-Mania, I think," she muttered, her tone uncertain.

"Rink-O-Mania. Very good." The paramedic nodded, continuing his assessment as if trying to ground her in the present.

Meanwhile, Harvey, still wide-eyed from everything that had just unfolded, couldn't deal with it anymore. He looked at Will, shaking his head, his voice low but hurried. "Wi—Will, I'm going home. This is insane. Call me if you wanna hang out, okay?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying his unease.

Will, his face red, only managed a quick nod. "Yeah, sure. I'll call you later." Harvey didn't need any more encouragement—he turned and made his way toward the exit, escaping the scene as quickly as he could.

Will exchanged a worried glance with Mike, whose face was tight with concern. Their attention turned back to the bench where Scarlett sat, hunched over, as if the weight of the world was crushing her. Eleven was beside her, her arms wrapped tightly around Scarlett's frame, pulling her sister close.

Scarlett's breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the memories assaulted her mind. Blood, dead kids strewn across the cold, sterile floors of the lab. She could hear the screams, feel the cold metal of the restraints that had once held her captive. Her eyes were wide but unseeing, glazed over as the memories twisted and warped inside her head.

Eleven tightened her grip, trying to hold Scarlett together as she began to unravel. "It's okay, Scar," Eleven whispered softly, her voice gentle but pleading. But Scarlett didn't respond. She just rocked back and forth, faster now, her muttering growing more frantic. "She deserved it... She deserved it..."

Mike stepped forward cautiously, his heart thudding in his chest. The lights flickered again—more violently this time—and a deep hum filled the rink, reverberating through the walls. It wasn't just the lights; it was the very air around them. Mike could feel the pressure building, the raw energy radiating from Scarlett, threatening to explode at any moment. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he tried to reach out.

"Scarlett," he called gently, his voice shaking with uncertainty.

But Scarlett didn't hear him. She was trapped, locked inside her own mind, her powers feeding off her fear, her anger, her guilt. The '007' tattoo on her wrist began to glow, pulsing with a soft blue light that flickered in time with the overhead lights. The energy crackled around her, almost visible now, like tiny sparks in the air.

Eleven's grip tightened even more, her face filled with concern as she whispered to her sister, "We're here, Scar. You're safe. You're with me." But even Eleven could feel it—the rising tide of power that Scarlett was struggling to control.

Mike, standing just a few feet away, felt helpless. He could see the fear in Scarlett's eyes, the way she trembled uncontrollably, but he didn't know what to do. He exchanged a quick look with Will, whose face was pale with worry.

Will, taking a tentative step forward, tried to speak, his voice soft but filled with concern. "Scarlett, it's okay. We're here for you. You're not back there."

But it didn't reach her. Nothing was reaching her. Scarlett's breathing grew more erratic, her powers reacting violently to her inner turmoil. The bench beneath them began to vibrate slightly, as if the very ground was shifting under her emotions.

Eleven, sensing the danger, tried to soothe her sister. "Scarlett, look at me," she whispered, pulling Scarlett tighter against her. But Scarlett's gaze remained distant, her body stiff as the memories continued to haunt her.

The lights flickered again, this time staying off for several long seconds before they snapped back on, brighter than before. The buzzing sound grew louder, more insistent, as if the whole rink was on the edge of a blackout.

Scarlett clenched her fists, the glowing tattoo on her wrist intensifying, casting a soft blue light that shimmered and pulsed. A single tear slid down her cheek, unnoticed by anyone but Eleven. The memories were too strong, too vivid. She could still hear the screams from the lab, see the bodies, feel the blood on her hands.

Mike's heart raced as he watched the scene unfold. He wanted to help, wanted to say something—anything—to pull her back. But he didn't know how. All he could think about were the words he had spoken earlier, the words that had probably pushed her deeper into this spiral. "Scar, what did you do?" he had asked, his voice filled with shock, and now those words echoed in Scarlett's mind like a curse, feeding her guilt and fear.

Scarlett rocked faster, her body trembling as the pressure built inside her. She could feel it—her powers clawing at her, trying to break free, trying to release the energy that had been building for so long. The lab, the experiments, the death—it was all coming back too fast, too strong.

And then, without warning, the lights exploded.

Scarlett sat in the back of the van, knees drawn up to her chest, her body slowly rocking back and forth, an unconscious effort to calm the storm still raging inside her. The events at Rink-O-Mania felt like they had happened hours ago, but the tension and chaos still clung to her like a second skin. Every few minutes, her thoughts would spiral back to that moment, the lights flickering, the feeling of power barely restrained, and the horror on Mike's face as he asked, "Scar, what did you do?"

Mike sat beside her, but his gaze was distant, lost somewhere in his own thoughts. His silence made Scarlett feel even more alone. Eleven sat across from her, frowning as she tried to process everything too. Will, on the other hand, was staring out the window, his face expressionless but his mind clearly elsewhere.

Jonathan and Argyle, high as usual, were in the front seats, with Argyle lazily guiding the van down the road. Scarlett barely registered the quiet conversation between them, her focus inward, battling the guilt and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She tried to ground herself, to focus on her breathing, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the blood. She heard the screams.

"I know this may be, like, upsetting and shit," Argyle suddenly said, breaking the silence in the van with his usual laid-back tone, "but that future prom queen is gonna be fine. It's just, like, rubber wheels." He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes half-lidded, his words dragging.

"Plastic," Jonathan corrected, his voice sluggish, words slurring together as he blinked slowly.

"Ohhh," Argyle nodded, as if he had just discovered something profound. "Not like, hard plastic, though. Just... you know, the soft kind."

Jonathan seemed to agree, lazily nodding his head. "Totally."

Scarlett sighed, rolling her eyes at their nonsensical ramblings. But as ridiculous as they were, the inane conversation between Jonathan and Argyle had a weirdly calming effect, like white noise in the background of her turbulent thoughts. She let out a deep breath, her body relaxing slightly as she leaned her head against Mike's shoulder, seeking comfort, something solid to hold onto.

Mike shifted, pulling his shoulder away from her without even glancing in her direction. Scarlett frowned, the rejection cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. She pulled back, feeling the familiar sting of tears welling in her eyes, but she blinked them away, turning her face toward the window to hide the sadness that threatened to spill over.

"So people don't get hurt when they get shmacked," Argyle continued, his voice drifting through the van like smoke. Scarlett barely registered his words, her focus drifting outside, watching the trees and the darkening sky blur together as they sped down the road.

"Oh," Jonathan murmured in agreement. "Yeah... 'cause it happens more than you think, man. Roller skate attacks." He sounded as if he had just come to some deep realization, his words tumbling out in a sleepy drawl.

Argyle nodded sagely, eyes still half-closed. "Man. Hey, at least it wasn't an ice skate," he added, his voice lifting slightly as if he was trying to make a point. "That nose would've been sliced clean off, man."

Jonathan gasped, his eyes wide, nodding fervently. "It could've been so much worse."

Scarlett clenched her jaw, willing the tears away as she stared out the window. Argyle and Jonathan's idiotic banter filled the van, but it didn't do anything to soothe the ache growing in her chest. The guilt gnawed at her like a parasite, eating away at her resolve, and Mike's coldness only made it worse.

"So much worse," Argyle repeated, his voice floating through the air like an echo.

Jonathan agreed, "So much worse," his head bobbing in time with his words.

"You guys aren't helping," Eleven finally said, her tone exasperated as she glared at the two of them. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of the moment, but neither Jonathan nor Argyle paid her any attention. They were lost in their own little world, their conversation spiraling into oblivion.

"In the grand scheme of things," Jonathan mumbled, "it's just a little blip."

"Blip," Argyle echoed, a slow smile spreading across his face as if he found the word amusing. "That's a funny word, man."

Jonathan chuckled. "Blip."

"Blip," Argyle repeated, giggling softly.

"Blip, blip, blip, blip, blip," they both chanted in unison, their voices a surreal soundtrack to the emotional turmoil swirling inside the van.

Scarlett pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her reflection staring back at her with hollow, tear-filled eyes. The rhythmic chant of "blip" echoed in the background, but it was drowned out by the chaos inside her mind. The guilt, the shame, the confusion—all of it built up like a pressure cooker inside her, threatening to explode.

Her breath hitched, and a single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. She blinked quickly, brushing it away before anyone could see, her heart aching with the overwhelming weight of it all.

She had hurt Angela. Badly. And even though part of her believed Angela deserved it, the guilt gnawed at her. What would happen if her powers spiraled out of control again? What if next time, she didn't stop? What if she became like the monsters in her memories—the lab, the blood, the dead kids who had never stood a chance?

As the van rolled down the dark highway, Scarlett found herself lost in those thoughts again, zoning out, her gaze fixed on the endless stretch of road ahead, tears silently falling as she struggled to hold herself together.

As Scarlett, El, Will, Mike, Jonathan, and Argyle walked through the front door of the Byers' home, the sound of Russian music immediately filled the air, an unexpected addition to their already chaotic day. Scarlett furrowed her brows, exchanging a glance with Eleven as Will called out, "Mom?"

The group made their way toward the kitchen, following the scent of something cooking, and when they rounded the corner, they were greeted by a strange but oddly familiar sight: Murray Bauman, the conspiracy theorist from Hawkins, standing at the stove with an apron tied around his waist, stirring a pot of risotto. Next to him, Carrie, Scarlett's mom, was pulling a tray of cookies from the oven, her face lighting up as soon as she saw them.

"Hey, lovelies!" Carrie greeted, her voice cheerful as she placed the cookies down on the counter, a broad grin spreading across her face. She wiped her hands on her apron before turning to the group. "Well, well! Aren't you lot a sight for sore eyes, huh?"

Scarlett blinked, completely thrown off by the sudden domestic scene in front of her. It was surreal. Since when did her mom and Murray become a dynamic duo? She shot El another confused glance, but Eleven just shrugged, equally perplexed.

"Hi, Murray," Jonathan waved lazily, still clearly under the influence of whatever he and Argyle had smoked earlier. His hand wobbled a bit, and he leaned against the doorframe for support, chuckling to himself. Scarlett rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Of course, Jonathan's still high.

"Well, hello there, Jonathan!" Murray responded, giving him an exaggerated wave. His eyes gleamed with that conspiratorial energy he always seemed to have. "You kids like risotto?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if the question held some deeper significance.

Scarlett and Eleven exchanged another look, unsure of how to react. "Uh, yeah," Jonathan answered with a goofy laugh, clearly unbothered by the strangeness of the moment.

Murray smirked knowingly, then went back to stirring the pot, humming along to the Russian music. "Good, because Carrie and I have been working on this all day. It's a recipe I picked up during my... travels." He winked, and Scarlett couldn't help but roll her eyes again.

"Is this really happening?" she muttered under her breath to El, who just gave a small nod, equally bewildered. The scene felt like something out of a strange dream—a bizarre juxtaposition to the emotional chaos that had unraveled earlier at the rink.

Carrie beamed at her daughter, waving her over. "Scar, sweetie,