PLAY ALONG.

                              WAKEY-WAKEY, EGGS PANCAKEY!

I’m Killjoy and this is a blog for a bunch of OCs  ( a couple of which are canons at this point )  I love very dearly.  Here’s a handy navigation for this blog and all of its key pages and muses to save you the trouble of page-hopping  -  and me the trouble of making a new theme lol.

             RULES  |  LORE  |  WRITING  |  ART  |  NSFW SIDEBLOG.  |  PROMO.

                                        MAIN  MUSE  PAGES:

                              SIMON  |  KIP  |  JAGGER  |  CTHUGHA  |  KURO   

The woman’s initial response nearly makes Nancy laugh. 

❝ That’s true of everyone. We’re all perceived differently from person to person. That’s not new. ❞ In truth, she’s not trying to fit anyone into a box — Nancy is simply trying to figure out who is an immediate threat to Henry and herself — and who isn’t.

                    I don’t know anything about what happens here.

     Ah — of course.

❝ It seems the Doctor really doesn’t do any of his own dirty work, huh? Well, that’s not a surprise. There’s a reason you don’t know about the children he experiments on and abuses, and a reason no one leaves — shit, half of them would probably be killed if they tried. ❞ 

     The secrecy in this lab isn’t new to Nancy Wheeler; ever since Barb’s death, Will’s disappearance, meeting Henry — well, she’s wanted to blow this place open for a long time.

             God, Henry, I’m sorry.

❝ — You should probably find a new job, you know. When we get out of here, he isn’t going to leave this place standing. ❞ It’s a sober admission as Nancy opens her eyes, the tinge of empathy for the other hard to miss; she can’t hold a simple job against someone, after-all, especially if they’d had no knowledge of the true motives. ❝ Who do you think follows up on all of those Russian translations? You think Brenner would ever get his hands dirty? No, he puts it all on those poor kids. ❞ 

     It’ll be over soon — Nancy just has to succeed tonight, has to do well enough so that Henry and herself can go.

❝ You won’t want to be here tomorrow morning. ❞ She doesn’t want this woman to die — if she really had no idea about what was happening, Nancy doesn’t want Henry to kill her. 

Because of course he intends to kill them all, and she can’t pretend not to know.

❝ Stay home, and rest assured I won’t have a target on my back for much longer. ❞

May falls silent.  Though she isn’t outwardly worried, things are beginning to click into place.  It had been seven years ago at this point, but she’d heard it;  a young boy being quietly scolded for being out after curfew.  She’d shuffled back into her office to avoid being seen.  She wasn’t even supposed to be there.

                                                                                                        I’m sorry, Papa.                                                                       A crease forms in her brow.  Creepy.

      ❝ The person you came with, ❞  she utters belatedly, scratching at her elbow with evident distress.  Her own lab coat all but touches the floor.  Though there had been an offer to tailor it, she’d turned it down, too proud to accept a service that she couldn’t yet pay for.  Then she’d simply grown accustomed to it.  ❝ That’s 001, right? ❞

She doesn’t need a PHD to discern that.  She remembers that boy, so full of rage and pain, and she shies away from the familiar image as if it has the power to burn her.  It reminds her of her own fourteen year old self, choking back tears and clutching the remnants of a bloody whiskey bottle, a dead man face-down in her living room.  Though she doesn’t know what Henry went through, she knows not to hold that sort of scorn against a man;  he’s been through something, something dreadful, and the ramifications of that pain should be as severe as he deems fit.  That’s the way of the street:  there is no rule, other than the rule you create.

What Nancy tells her leaves her at a crossroad.  The employee in her should warn her colleagues of their impending doom–  should interfere with whatever Nancy has up her sleeve.  She holds the power to.  All she has to do is slink to her superior’s office and tell him about this conversation…  and yet the idea fills her with revulsion.  Mayday, Little Demon, she’s many things, but a  snitch  is not one of them  —  especially not when she’s beginning to doubt her own alignment.

No, she won’t tell.  And not just because she isn’t a snitch, but because she no longer trusts that her employer is who he says he is.  If there’s one thing she can’t abide by, it’s the abuse of children. 

      ❝ … fuck. ❞

It’s blurted out as she comes to lean against the wall, head thunking dully against the tile.  It seems that the moment she gains some kind of stability in her life, everything collapses inwards.  Can’t she have a moment of goddamn peace?  Why does the universe insist on destroying everything she builds?

     It’s been over a month that Henry and herself have been captive within Hawkins Lab. After several failed escape attempts —along with multiple beatings and electrocutions — Nancy is tired. 

     It’s not a feeling she lets Henry see; he’s struggling enough, what with being chipped again, not to mention being back here — and it’s her fault, so the very least she can do is put on a brave face.

               Even if she’s terrified.

     This is the second time she’s come across this woman, and while their conversation had been brief and somewhat bleak, Nancy was grateful for the small bit of assistance. She’s not in the mood for harsh realities today, though — Nancy’s skin burns from being hit too hard, and the longer they stay here, the more of Henry she sees disappear. 

❝ It’s not only about escaping. ❞ She doesn’t know how much the other knows about Henry, or about any of the children here, but it doesn’t seem as though this woman is privy to all of the doctor’s intentions. ❝ If we only escape, he’ll just come after us again. ❞  No, escaping alone isn’t an option — they need to remove Henry’s chip, and Nancy knows he won’t leave until this place is in ashes. 

     Even so, she does have a plan; and though it’s one that makes her stomach churn, it may very well be the only shot she has at catching one of the guard’s mistakes. Nancy’s memorized the schedules by now — she knows the man who looks at her too long will be in the infirmary later tonight, and if she makes herself known during that time — well. Whatever happens will happen, but she’s hoping a scalpel or some kind of tool can be procured.

               And then they’ll be free, and Henry won’t keep disappearing.

                    I just wish I could save you.

                    You have, in every meaningful way a human being can save another.

Shit.

❝ —I don’t get it, you know; how you can work here with these people, how you can help them. ❞ It’s perhaps too bold, and Henry certainly wouldn’t approve of her antagonizing any of Brenner’s staff, but the words hold no malice. 

     With her back slumped against the wall, Nancy lets her misted eyes close — it’s a brief reprieve from pain even to just sit and exist on the floor without being dragged around, gawked at, tortured, or made to watch Henry suffer. And the woman doesn’t seem to pose a threat to her — at least, not at the moment, and this is what prompts Nancy’s next words:

 ❝ You just don’t seem like a terrible person; not like everyone else I’ve met here. ❞

      ❝ Depends who you ask, ❞  May replies.  She won’t pretend to be a good person, but at least she can say that she’s not actively trying to hurt people.  The rules of the street don’t translate to this sleepy little town;  in Hawkins, she can afford to relax somewhat.  No turf wars.  No bombs being launched through her windows.  No seedy men sitting on the balcony across from hers, just waiting for her to fall asleep.  ❝ If you keep trying to fit people into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ boxes, you’re going to wind up hurt. ❞

Part of her snippiness is because of who she is.  She’s been raised to not take shit lying down.  People can only intimidate her if she lets them.  Part of it is because Nancy seems to know a lot about her boss that she herself doesn’t, and the niggling sensation in her brain ever since she shook the doctor’s hand has only grown worse since they crossed paths.  Doctor Brenner has always made something in her prickle, like a hedgehog on the defensive, but she’s convinced herself that he’s harmless.  He’s a little intense when it comes to the workload, but hell, she supposes she’d be intense if she gave a fuck about the Russians too.

                                           Sorry, Doc.  I’ve got people in my own country to smoke out.                   I don’t have time to worry about guys who wear fur hats of their own volition.

May folds her arms tight across her chest, one hand fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

      ❝ … I don’t know anything about what happens here, ❞  she admits, voice now hushed.  She’s outspoken, has been described as crass by far too many, but she knows when it’s time to lower her voice.  ❝ I noticed that a lot of people who work here…  they don’t leave.  It’s like they live here.  Like they’re dumb little drones in lab coats.  It gives me the creeps.  But I’m not one of them. ❞

And as long as she has a choice in the matter–  which, as far as she’s concerned, will be always, for she’d sooner kill a man than bow to him–  it’ll stay that way.

      ❝ I just translate things.  Messages.  From another country. ❞  Careful.  ❝ It’s…  like doing assignments at school.  I just tell him what they say, and then I leave.  That’s all there is to it. ❞  The look she gives Nancy is vaguely disapproving.  ❝ You think I’m hanging around these hoighty-toity PHD-having-fucks for fun?  Shit isn’t free.  I need cash.  This place delivers.  It beats what I used to do. ❞

Or at least, she tells herself that it does.  The similarities between her and her now-dead father are staggering, and as long as she can do something to steer her destiny, she wants that gap between them to keep increasing.  Being a street assassin with her brother-in-arms may sound like an exciting life, but there’s a reason she packed up and left.  There has to be something else she can offer the world.  She may not have finished school, but she knows all that she needs to and then some;  what she doesn’t understand in mathematics and science, she makes up for with intensity and street smarts.  A second, valuable language, too.

      ❝ What the  fuck  are you on, brother? ❞  Not only does he think pumpkin spice is criminally overrated, it can’t get you drunk.  Granted, you’d have to drink a lot of cider to even get tipsy, but that’s beside the point;  the point is that it can contribute to inebriation, and therefore is superior.  ❝ Come back to me when you’re tripping balls on fucking pumpkin.  Christ. ❞

It’s a dry question  —  one that’s accentuated by the jut of her hip and the toss of a hand-made bomb, as if it’s little more than a tennis ball she’s playing with.  The police may have an advantage in that they’re allowed to exert force against the unruly, but her people have the element of illegitimacy.  Nobody brews explosives quite like those with no rules, and May’s speciality lies in only the  fizziest  of death sentences.

      ❝ Do bodies make you squirm?  In that case, it’s toootally a prop.  Totally. ❞

                                             One of her boots nudges the dead man’s head.  Totally.

She isn’t only desensitised to the carnage of the streets, she doesn’t care about a loss of life when it concerns her oppressors.  The wealthy are constantly hurting her, and others like her, and to see one of them face-down in a gutter brings a dull sense of pride.  Fuck you.  We’re all the same when we die, no?