𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗜𝗧 𝗟𝗢𝗨𝗗!

[john david washington, cismale, he/him] who’s that? oh it’s [john “jack” baldwin taylor]. i hear they’re [38] and are known as [the Blue Collar] around [Compton, California] and [Uncle Jack] at [the trailer park]. they’re known to be [principled + hardworking] and [obstinate + explosive]. some people say they remind them of [big dreams abandoned for duty, becoming a man at ten years old, marching for your right to live at fifteen, constantly looking over his shoulder]. 

— ☁ —

I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. That’s all Peter could think as he clung to the corner of the wall in town hall. He heard the questions about Homeland Security and about the commune. They were catching on and that just meant that Peter was fucked. The cops tried to deflect as much as they could, but those bozos knew less than Peter. They were covering their own asses and had no information to give. Who was shocked? Certainly not Peter! Of course a couple of clowns dressed as police officers wouldn’t know shit.

He waited for everyone to file outside, sticking to his corner as if it would make him unnoticeable. Throughout the Q&A, he had chuckled a bit at some of the questions, tensed when he heard shitstains like Joanne Foreman ask about people vomiting black goo. Now that wasn’t good for business, was it? With the cool summer air on his face, now officially outside of the stuffy town hall, Peter wasted no time reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes as he walked towards a sidewalk to get back to his car. Having some guy approach him, Peter almost waved him off as he stuck the cigarette in his mouth. Max Mayfield. His temporary neighbor who he hadn’t seen since she tossed a rock through his window. “That ankle biter? No, I haven’t seen her,” he shook his head, lighting his cigarette, then saying, “if you do, tell her there’s still a big gaping hole in my kitchen window.”

Taking a puff, he looked up and down at the guy. Too old to be a boyfriend, Peter deemed that much. Father, maybe, but Peter was sure he had only seen two other people other than Max at that trailer and none of them resembled this guy at all. “Who the fuck are you?”

xx.

Jack hadn’t approached this man for any reason other than he was close in proximity. He almost groaned out loud when the man leveled an accusation against Max. What the fuck had she done to this guy’s window? He wasn’t entirely surprised at the supposed recklessness, what with her being carted off to jail, but this guy didn’t need to know that. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Jack echoed the guy’s annoyed expression. “What does your window have to do with my niece?” Whatever she’d done or hadn’t done, Jack was a big believer in keeping family stuff in house, like his mom had always done. 

Letting his challenge hang in the air, Jack turned back to the crowd pooling around them, searching for any semblance of a familiar face. He was taken aback by the stranger’s abrasive question-- Who the fuck are you?-- and turned quickly back to him on his heel, eyes flashing between incredulity and anger. He tried not to get defensive, for at least a few seconds, but this guy was certainly not appealing to his rational sensibilities. “Why do you ask?” 

Then, it dawned on him. The other had evaded his question about the explosion so casually that it felt almost... rehearsed. Not dissimilar to the way the mayor and chief of police had. He wasn’t one for conspiracies, but if there was anything he’d learned, it was that the craziest shit could certainly be real. And it often was. “Are you a cop or something?”

as a trauma therapist in a town where something traumatic happened, apparently, every two weeks, gabe felt obligated to attend town hall and get what information he could, so that he was up to date for his patients. however, when the event came to a close he was mostly left with an outstanding disappointment. he wasn’t surprised that law enforcement was bumbling around in the wake of hardship, but that was really something else. it wasn’t gabe’s business though. he got the information he needed for his own business and was ready to head home when he was stopped.

have you seen max mayfield? 

gabe shook his head, “no. not since she was drinking from a flask in my group therapy session.” he chuckled, deep and warm as he extended a hand to the other. “gabe diaz. are you max’s father?” he didn’t know much about the girl other than she should probably pay him a visit. the stranger had such a concern in his eyes gabe had only seen from family member to family member, so gabe figured he’d clarify how exactly this man fit into the picture. the more questions he asked, gabe sighed, shaking his head. the carnival had been a true tragedy and gabe was sensitive at heart. the whole thing confused him. they said eddie and billy hargrove did it, but gabe was eddie’s therapist in chicago. he didn’t see the kid doing something like this. it was a whole other quandary, he’d put it off, for now, so he could provide some insight. “there was an attack at the fourth of july carnival. a bomb, they’re saying. five people died. very tragic.” wondering how he hadn’t heard about it, gabe thoughtfully asked, “you’re new to town?” he smiled, “me too. well. kind of.” 

xx.

Jack thought his capacity for being surprised had peaked during the town hall meeting-- bombs, people dying at a carnival, a new hallucinogenic drug making its rounds-- but this man implying that Max had gone to therapy stopped Jack in his tracks. His mouth gaped open for a moment as he processed the new information. He wouldn’t believe him-- would claim he was talking about a different Max-- if not for the detail about her drinking from a flask. That sounded about right. 

The man, Dr. Diaz, holding out his hand shook Jack out of his thoughts enough to offer a smile and a firm handshake. “Jack Taylor. I’m her uncle,” he offered in the way of explanation. But, he was still stuck on the first part. “You’re her therapist?” he asked, brow creased in obvious confusion. The man seemed nice enough-- warm and easy to talk to, even-- but Jack couldn’t picture Max in a therapist’s office, inviting another person into her mind freely. Maybe he was projecting his own hesitation, though, and she was seeking therapy. She could be doing worse things.  

Jack frowned at the word attack. In his experience, that didn’t bode well. His first thought was the bombing at 16th Street Church in 1963. He couldn’t fathom Hawkins, Indiana being anything like Birmingham or even L.A.-- which had resembled a war zone for a lot of his life. “An attack? Who would target Hawkins?” Jack figured he had some calls to make to ex-Panthers in Chicago, see if they’d heard anything. But, he kept his lips pressed tightly together; the last thing he needed was to seem distressed in front of his niece’s therapist. Something about the guy put him at ease, though, so the thoughts whipping his brain into a frenzy evaporated for a moment, long enough for Jack to return Gabe’s smile and nod politely. “Just got here to... check in on Max.” The doctor’s addition of ‘kind of’ provided Jack an out, a way to deflect their conversation from bombings to something lighter. “Kind of? What brought you here?”

𝐓.𝐖.

Wonders never ceased. The town of Hawkins remained as fucking insane as it’d been the day Troy had left it so long ago. Missing little kids and property damage wasn’t enough for the citizens, no they needed explosions. It was a wonder that they hadn’t quarantined the town with the same status as the Bermuda Triangle. He wondered, comparatively, what Hawkins death count had been compared to other communities. At this point Troy would take a bet that the death toll was a great sum larger then the living ( of course, most places were all the same. There was a lot more dead then living in general, but still. Hawkins must have been some kind of special fucked up, Troy was sure of it ).

He remembered his parents attending town meetings when he’d been a kid, his father acting all high and mighty for going. Now somewhat of an adult himself, Troy failed to see the big deal in it. You walk in, they reiterate shit you already know, and act as if they’ve been helpful. Useless. Not to mention, the police presence made him somewhat uneasy. He thought back to his ma’s blubbering and the state they’d left his father in, one day if the boys in blue got a call asking to bring the Walshs downtown he wanted to make a good impression. For the police to say, them?? Shocked at even the suggestion he and his ma were anything other then model citizens. The only wrench in his plan was the actual plan itself. Troy was never too good at making friends, especially shitheads he didn’t wanna be friends with. But– fuck it, for ma’s sake he needed to force a good impression. 

An actual person talking to him. The time was now if he was gonna actually execute his plan. “Never heard of him.” It was the truth, something that felt odd on Troy’s tongue. He was more familiar with telling the lie that would piss someone the most off ( it was a nice sense of control, something he had lacked so much at home. now, just ma and him. he didn’t need to fight for that inch of control anymore. it was weird, but not bad. ). “I’m standing in the same boat as you man,” Wait, this guy was way his senior. Was calling him man something that could piss that guy off. Semi-annoyed at himself for already fucking up, and having to amend himself, Troy did just that. “Sir?” The word felt like rot in his mouth ( it reminded him of his dad and fuck did he hate that ). 

xx.

Just his luck. Not only did the kid not know Max, he didn’t know what was going on in town. “Her,” he corrected curtly, not that it mattered, but still, it felt nice to be more in the know than someone. Jack looked over the kid once before returning to the crowd, searching for any one of three familiar faces-- Max, Lucas, or Sue Sinclair-- to no avail. A sigh and a curse under his breath, Jack shoved his hand into his back pocket, locating his keys. 

Sir was weird to hear-- it made him feel old-- but Jack didn’t know this kid from Adam and certainly wasn’t one to give a false sense of closeness to a stranger, so just Jack was out of the question. Mr. Taylor didn’t sound much better; he was no ‘mister.’ Giving the kid a withering look, he decided on none of the above. “Great. No welcome center or PSA for tourists, huh?” he remarked, though his mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, he was wondering where Max would’ve gone, where she and the Sinclair boy had run off to. “I’m guessing you don’t know your way around town, then,” he said, when the kid didn’t automatically run away. Maybe he could be helpful yet. 

where: The Hideaway

what: you look familiar!

Jack was trying to do better about giving Max her space. She loved reminding him that she was nineteen and she’d been taking care of herself for a while now. Though he hated it, she had a point. She’d left about an hour ago, mentioning something vague involving Lucas Sinclair (of course), so Jack had taken to the streets, looking for something more interesting to do than driving around aimlessly, tempting his transmission to overheat again. 

As luck would have it, he turned onto a street with a fairly crowded-looking bar. The Hideaway. Jack didn’t drink much aside from the occasional beer, but it was better than walking circles around the grocery store off Main street. Slipping through the pockets of people in the poorly-lit bar, Jack ordered a Coors and scanned his surroundings. He wondered how many of these people knew Max, though it seemed like a bunch of adults taking advantage of the happy hour specials. 

There were a few people alone, like him, and his eyes landed on a man on the opposite end of the bar. The man was already looking at him, and Jack raised a quizzical brow. He looked away, took a sip of his beer, and looked back to see the guy still staring at him. He looked familiar-- his eyes did-- but it was hard to place him. Maybe Jack had seen him while he was looking for Max the other day. But no, that didn’t feel right. 

He had nothing to lose, and really, he could use a friend or two while he was in town, so Jack abandoned his seat in favor of the one next to the mystery guy. “Seat taken?” he asked, before sitting down and lifting his beer to his lips. “Have we met before?” he asked, propping an elbow on the bar so he could look directly at the man. “Or do you always stare at strangers?” 

where: a random back road probably!

what: where have you been, why are you beat up, etc etc

After the town hall meeting, when Jack had failed to find Max, he decided to be cool for once. Give her an hour or two to run off with Lucas Sinclair and be a kid. She’d been taking care of herself for years now, and was more or less fine. So Jack decided to let it be and retired to the trailer, nothing but the shitty TV and a joint to keep him company. It was nice for a while, even if he was still confused about the bomb situation, but then he looked up and it was damn one a.m. and there was no sign of Max. So, Jack piled into his piece of shit truck and drove the now-familiar route to the Sinclair house. No sign of her or Lucas, now that he’d figured out which window belonged to him. He took a lap around town, another lap perpendicular to his first, and didn’t see anything promising. 

By the time he’d returned to the trailer, Jack had convinced himself that she’d skipped town with Lucas Sinclair and that he needed to figure out where they would go. So, like the first night he was in town, Jack parked in front of the trailer and made a beeline to Max’s room; he didn’t guess she was the type to keep a journal or anything, but maybe she had a map or a note or something indicating where she would have gone. Rummaging through her bedside drawer, he pulled out a stack of letters, one of which was addressed to him. Jack sat tentatively on the edge of her bed and slipped the letter out of the envelope. 

As he read the letter, Jack’s chest hollowed out. He forgot to breathe, and his grip on the paper caused a tear on the edge. ‘My last request is that you get my body back to California, okay?’ Jack almost crumpled up the letter then, but... if she hadn’t sent it, and obviously hadn’t acted on it, surely things had changed. With shaking hands, Jack folded the letter back up, slipped it into the envelope, and put the stack back exactly how he’d found it. He felt tears on his cheeks, but he didn’t bother wiping them, instead stumbling to the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and emptied his stomach’s contents into the toilet. Jack’s frame, rendered weak from the sheer stress he felt, fell backwards against the wall. He didn’t know things had gotten so dark, but he should’ve. He should’ve known, he should’ve been here. 

He felt powerless in that moment, like so many moments before in his life when he’d been utterly out of control. Powerless to keep Martin alive, powerless to give his mother the life she deserved, powerless to create any lasting change, powerless to help Max. It wasn’t self-pity, really, that was his vice. It was rage. He’d built up so many barriers in his life, he was so prepared to be disappointed and to feel powerless. Except for with Max. She was his last remaining weakness, the only person he really cared about. And to think about her, at fifteen, feeling so defeated? He couldn’t think too hard about anything other than the fact that she was here. Somewhere. She was fine.

If she wasn’t out there somewhere, Jack would’ve stayed on the bathroom floor all night and cried. For all the years he missed, for the part he played in her pain, for being another person to fail Max. He was under no impression that simply being here would fix anything, but Jack was more determined than ever to do right by Max. It wouldn’t change the past, but maybe it would change the future. In a flurry of motion, Jack cleaned up the bathroom, brushed his teeth and gargled Susan’s mouthwash before making his way out to the truck again.

He didn’t actually know where he was going, or if it would yield any results, but Jack drove the perimeter of Hawkins once more, eyes bleary with tears he didn’t realize he was crying. And then, like it was no big deal, he saw the unmistakeable silhouette of one Max Mayfield ahead, the headlights of his truck illuminating her messy curls. “Max?” he called, shoving the truck into park and jumping out, scrambling to the front so he could confirm that it was her. 

Not caring to consider her boundaries, not now, Jack pulled his niece into a hug, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Fuck, Max,” he breathed, finally. Jack let her go after that, ran a hand across his face and began: “I was worried--” His sentence was cut short by the sight of her face. “What the fuck? Who the fuck did that to you?” he asked, his voice low but brimming with rage. “Don’t fucking lie. Was it Sinclair?” The connection was obvious, he was the last person Jack had seen Max with. And if it wasn’t Lucas... why the fuck hadn’t he stopped whoever it was? What good was he, anyway? Fists clenched at his side, Jack refused to move from the road until he got answers. He felt bad for her, marginally, but he could play nurse later. 

where: outside town hall!

It was obvious that Jack had bitten off more than he could chew by coming to Hawkins. He knew before he crossed the border into Nevada that this wouldn’t be easy, because of who Max was. Because they’d always been similar, and he had a tendency to be stubborn and could hold a mean grudge. But after the first night, the big blowup, things had been... evening out. He hesitated to say they were on good terms, Max was still acting like a caged animal some days, but they were getting used to each other again. The hostility was less blatant. 

When Max had mentioned a town hall meeting, Jack had to bite back a groan. Town hall meetings were never for good reasons, that much he knew, and when Max got dodgy about what was going on, Jack knew he had to attend. If only to keep an eye on things with her and this Lucas Charles Sinclair. So, he fished out the singular button-down shirt he’d packed, halfway smoothed out the wrinkles, and taken a seat in the back of the room. If he hadn’t been so goddamn shocked by the mention of an explosion that killed five people, Jack probably would’ve applauded his niece’s thinly-veiled disdain for the boys in blue. 

..

Unsurprisingly, the cops gave little to no information, and Jack could tell that everyone was just as frustrated as him. Still, he was sure Max knew something more about this-- why else would she have avoided telling him about it? When the Chief ended the meeting, Jack stood up and scanned the room for his niece. The chair she’d been sitting in was vacant, and he didn’t even see her boyfriend, who easily stood a head above the crowd. Jack pushed through the crowd to get to the street, which was a dead end too. Frustrated, he locked eyes with the first person he saw: “Have you seen Max? Mayfield?” He paused, cast another cursory glance at the crowd milling around them. If he knew Max, she was long gone by now. But, maybe this stranger could help enlighten him on whatever the hell was going on. “What exactly is going on? What’s the explosion all about?” Jack asked, not thinking to clarify that he was new in town and not pulling the stranger’s leg.