#*zoneral

suffocation pit rattles with the sound of chaos, roar of creature that shakes faulty wooden structure as it slams against walls in frantic chase. firecrackers like gunshots fire off in a domino effect following the howl of hawkins’ monster, and steve stumbles through mineshaft window, casting an exhausted salute in the direction of battered dreamwalker in the lower pit. demo-dog will be busy for at least a few moments--he hopes. sunglasses lower as he bends, hands at knees and sputters smoke. “what’s up, smith?”

scissors and saws on shiny trays and needles in the neck–a metal confine hundreds of feet below ground. the very vision had dropped him in the trial, fingers clutching in matted hair as electricity pulsed on nerves and uprooted scream from the bottom of his lungs. vision of monsters, vision of nancy and jonathan and the blinking christmas lights in the byers’ house. he’d have let himself die in there if quentin hadn’t dragged him staggering from the trial. 

and now, at the campfire, he’s blinking back tremors, fingers curled in quentin’s jacket like surfacing from the heavy dark of a nightmare. he realizes what he’s doing, releasing the fabric in whitened knuckles. he laughs, oddly. “w-what? did he burn my eyebrows off or something?” words come out wobbly and joke unconvincing. quentin is stabilizing him at the shoulder, reassuring motion and concern in tired eyes. “i’m fine– man i’m. i’m f-fine. just… just need a second.” 

but his breathing shakes out of chattering teeth. panic this steep is unusual, carving out canyons in his chest cavity where he can’t breathe. he doesn’t know what to do with it, where to put it. i can’t. saltwater stings at his eyes but won’t shed, and he finds he can’t look at quentin now–dam weakened beyond salvaging. he was supposed to have their backs. he was supposed to protect them.