#cal001

The bunker was still as a grave.

Nobody dared make a noise for fear of what was out there, waiting for them. What might hear them and decide to come in.

Yes, the bunker was quiet. But Faust’s mind refused to shut up.

It’s your fault. Everyone is in danger and it’s your fault.

These words looped on repeat in his head, pounded in his ears- the words were persistent and vile and achingly true. Faust curled in on himself as if he could vanish into his little corner of the bunker. 

It didn’t work.

Footsteps approached him; Faust looked up and caught the eye of one of the others that were cooped up in the bunker with him.

It was the marksman. Faust struggled to remember his name...Cal, maybe?

“I’m not very good conversation right now,” Faust informed him. His voice still sounded ragged and hoarse from far too much crying.

beep beep bweeeeeooop. beep! chrrzzck beep.

bweeop.

it had seemed like a good idea at the time. yes, theo played the keyboard so he wasn't expected to be doing much dancing when they performed, but he'd watched enough x factor to know that bands who could do more than just one thing tended to last longer. and theo wanted electric touch to hit it big. preferably sooner than later. he'd signed them up for a pop class at rose blush assuming it was a beginner's class. by the end of the hour session, his calves were burning, his t-shirt damp, and his hair in sweaty strands around his face. he'd kept up okay for about the first sixteen count. after that? he'd watched the hips of the dancer in front of him and was half a step behind the rest of the way.

"holy shit," theo wheezed once the class broke. he slid down the wall to the floor and laid flat on his back, chugging from the bottle of water he'd thankfully remembered to bring with him. "promise me you'll never let me do that again."

if chance hadn’t already been sold on the idea that there was something dark-sided and supernatural happening in hawkins, the ‘rabid’ dogs at the junkyard would’ve been confirmation. the group he’d been with all night had narrowly escaped getting mauled by the hounds and it was only once they had finally driven off in a rickety bus, towards safety, that chance loosened his grip on the gun he’d been clutching since they arrived at the junkyard. 

the journey back to his house was a blur. he couldn’t remember where they parked the bus or how he and chrissy got back to his truck, but at some point in the dead of night, the two siblings made it home. chance’s plan had initially been to just collapse into bed the second he got back...but the sight of his cal and his ambulance in the driveway quickly altered those plans. 

“yo,” chance greeted hoarsely, waiting for chrissy to enter the house before approaching cal who was doing god-knows-what inside the ambulance. without waiting for an invitation, chance hopped into the back of the vehicle himself and plopped into the seat that he figured was meant for an EMT or a relative of whatever patient was being tended to. “you’re up late,” he observed. cal looked as tired as chance felt (and looked, probably). he figured that meant that the excursion to hawkins’ lab had been almost as harrowing as dealing with the junkyard dogs.  clearing his throat as he rubbed at the back of his neck which was definitely sore, he asked, “what happened at the lab?” 

“Oh -- you are here to pick up those colour pallet’s I’ve been working on for Steph, aren’t you? They’re just in the back. Let me get them for you.”