Chapter Text
There are few people Max Mayfield can confidently say she knows personally. She doesn’t really make a habit of it, or she didn’t, not till Hawkins. Then… Lucas happened. Then Mike. El. The Party.
And now, unfortunately, Henry Creel.
“Goddamit!!” Max yells, stomping in a way that’d make her turn red with embarrassment at its childishness, but after spending so long trudging through her would-be murder’s memories, she, quite frankly, doesn’t give shit. She just wants out. But nooooo, instead she’s back in the creepy-ass playroom with rainbows on the walls again. She cringes at the dead body at her feet, shakes her head, and tilts her chin up so the bodies are barely in her line of sight as she heads for the double doors to the side of the room.
Sighing, she goes to push them open, but—
“Jesus—” Max barely moves out of the way before someone walks right into her, their shoulders brushing instead. Max watches her as she walks past, brows furrowing.
“You’re new,” she murmurs to herself, another new habit from her triage through Henry Creel’s mind. Well, curiosity killed the cat, and as far as she knows, she’s already dead, so what could be the harm in digging a little deeper in here? After all, if she’s gonna be stuck in this guy’s mind, might as well learn as much as she can about him. Maybe she’ll find something useful, that could help the others once she wakes up.
If she wakes up.
“Fuck it,” she says, shutting up that annoying voice in her head, and she goes after the lady, walking through a… doctors office? Where the hell is she—?
Bang.
Holy shit, that was a gunshot. Max, who has apparently lost all sense of danger, runs towards the sound, stopping in her tracks at the sight in front of her.
The lady she’d been following, the blonde one, has a tiny handgun, and is standing over whomever she shot, arms trembling. She kneels down and grabs the lanyard off the person, running off to one of the hallways in front of them. Max goes after her, stepping over the man slowly bleeding out, weaving her way through the panicking crowd.
One hand holding the lanyard, the other white-knuckled on the gun, the lady speed-walks down the hallway, head turning towards every noise, like a rabbit. Then--
“Teresa, what’re you doing?!”
“Holy shit,” Max whispers, instinctively backing away from Henry. He’s younger in this memory, a little more baby-faced. He’s about the same age as the woman, who, with a shaking hand, slowly points the gun at him.
“Peter,” she says, voice warbling, and Max sees a few stray tears fall down her cheeks, “I know she’s here. So either take me to her, or get out of my way, otherwise I’ll shoot.”
Henry holds his hands up, eyes fixed on the gun. Slowly, he looks up at the lady. “Terry, you shouldn’t have come back. What could be worth facing him? He knows, he knows what you did! He’ll—”
“I came to get back my daughter and I am not leaving this fucking lab until I have her!! Now move, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot!”
“Terry, you don’t know what—”
BANG.
Red stains Henry’s white shirt, blood spilling from his shoulder. He grips it, looking back at Terry, expression almost… scared? Max hasn’t seen him look like that before.
“You shot me,” he says dumbly, and Max can’t help but laugh, shocked.
“She told you she would, asshole.”
“I told you I would,” Terry says, and she steps closer to him, and grabs him by the back of his shirt, pulling him in front of her. “Now take me to my daughter.”
Breathe.
Her baby. Jane. Oh, she looks like Andrew. She knew she would, but she didn’t expect the two of them to look so alike. His nose, those dimples. She reaches out to her, and finally, finally, everything will be over, she’ll have her daughter, but—
Sunflower.
Arms, stronger than hers, grab her, pulling her away. She kicks at them, trashes around, even manages to bite one in the hand when he goes to slap her. But it’s no use. They drag her, tie her down, and—
HIM.
Trembling in rage, she shakes the cot, yelling and screaming and cussing that monster out. They haven’t restrained her legs all the way, and she kicks one of the bastards in the face. They fall back, nose bloody and broken, and ha, isn’t that something, it’s not enough and she’s starting to realize that, but goddamn it, she’s not going down without taking a few of them with her—
Rainbow.
They shove something in her mouth, something to stop her from screaming. She bites another one of the orderlies, but it’s not like before. Not an act to help her escape, no, now she’s desperate, starting to cry despite herself. She never cried before. Not when they pumped her and her baby full of drugs, not when they tried to kidnap her friend, not when they made little Kali cry, and oh, God, Kali—
Three to the right.
Pain, white hot and electric, courses through her. When it stops, her head falls limp to the side, making her look at him. When their eyes meet, she screams again, through the thing in her mouth, though she knows at this point it won’t do anything. But this won’t last, at worst it’ll be more electric pain then questions, trying to make her forget what she saw and she’ll just pretend like before. Just a few more times and then she’ll be free, then she can start over, and Gloria and Ken will help. It was a mistake to leave them out of this plan, but next time she’ll tell them, get them to help her find Jane—
Four to the left.
The pain doesn’t stop.
Four-fifty.
It doesn’t stop.
Breathe. Sunflower.
It won’t stop.
Rainbow.
It’ll never stop.
Three to the right.
No matter how hard she tries.
Four to the left.
It will never be enough.
Jane, I’m so sorry. I’m so—
Teresa, wake up.
Terry opens her eyes. The Price Is Right is playing on the tv. Why is she watching this? She’s never like this show. Ugh, she must’ve fallen asleep and Becky turned this crap on. Where the hell is the—
Why are her hands tied to a rocking chair.
“What the…” When did she sit in this rocking chair? No, scratch that, since when do they have a rocking chair? Where the hell is—
“Becky!” she yells, craning her neck to try and see down the hall. “Becky, get your ass in here! What the hell did you do?!”
Upstairs, she hears something crash and break, then thundering footsteps approach. Ugh, did Becky have a guy over? Jesus, next time, just ask her to leave! No need to tie her to a chair!
Becky freezes at the foot of the stairs, jaw dropping. Terry goes to speak, but stops after seeing her sister. When did she cut her hair? Wait, why’s it graying? And what’s with all the wrinkles? It’s like she aged twenty years in a day. Terry’s pretty sure Andrew made her read a book or short story about something like that—
“Oh my God,” Becky whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “Terry… you’re—”
“—tied to a rocking chair?” she finishes for her sister, attempting to lift her arms to illustrate the point.
Becky scrambles to her, apologizing profusely along the way. “Oh, Jesus, Terry, one sec, lemme—” She undoes the buckled restraints, and Terry rubs her arms where they were strapped, noticing a new soreness in her arms that wasn’t there before.
“Becky, what the hell is—” is all she manages to say before her sister gathers her in her arms and gives her the tightest hug she’s ever gotten from her. Slowly, Terry recuperates, instinctively rubbing a hand up and down Becky’s back when she hears her start to cry. “…oh.”
Becky leans back, keeping her hands on Terry’s shoulders, sniffling as big, fat tears run down her face. “Oh, God, Terry…” She lets out another sob, hugging her again.
After a few minutes or so, Terry’s just about ready to burst with questions and demands, but instead settles for a quiet, “Becks, what on earth is going on?”
“You—you’re awake!” Becky laughs wetly, finally releasing Terry from the hug, but she goes back to holding her shoulders when Terry stumbles forward, legs shaking like they do when she’s forgotten to eat. “I… they said you’d-- but you did, and— oh my God, Terry, there’s so much I have to tell you.”
“Jeez, what could I have missed during a nap?” Terry jokes, laughter fading as Becky’s expression sobers, and the hands on her shoulders adjust so Becky can look her straight in the eyes.
“Terry…” she whispers, brows furrowing in pity. “It’s been a long time since you were… awake, to put it simply.”
“… how long?” She’s a little afraid of the answer.
Becky bites her lip, hesitating.
“Becky, how lon—”
“Fifteen years.”
Terry gapes at her, waiting for her to start to laugh and say it’s a joke, one she knows she won’t find funny, but it never comes. Fifteen years? Since when?
Since—
Sunflower. Breathe. Four to the left. Three to the right.
“‘Four-fifty’,” she breathes, blood going cold. She grabs her sister’s arms, breathing quickening. “Becky, I saw her. My Jane. She’s alive—”
“I know.”
She knows? Terry takes a good, long look at her sister, gauging her expression. Is this the same woman who had to hold her down in the hospital, trying to console her over a baby that hadn’t died in the first place? The woman who sighed and kept subtly slipping the card for a shrink in Louisville they could never afford, while she went through newspapers and missing poster after missing poster?
This Becky, this older, starting-to-grey Becky isn’t looking at her like that woman did. Not like she’s crazy, a burden, a widow who never got married looking for a child she didn’t get to hold. No.
She’s looking at her like she finally believes her.
And God, Terry’s wanted that for so fucking long.
Becky holds her face in her hands as she starts to cry, a few stray tears falling down her own cheeks. She laughs, sniffling, rubbing Terry’s tears away like their mom used to do. “I know she is, Terry. I’ve seen her.”
Terry’s heart just about breaks in two. She opens her mouth to speak, but her voice falters. She tries again, voice quiet and shaky.
“… what is she like?”
Becky starts crying again, swiping at her face with her back of her hand. “She unlocked the door after I shut it in her face and stole my wallet. So, just like you.”
Terry snorts at that, nearly choking on a tear. She doesn’t remember much besides the vague haze of pain, but she’s starting to recall fleeting moments of clarity. Of seeing a little girl, with a mop of curly hair like Andrew’s, its color brown like her mother’s. That little girl reaching out, and their eyes meeting for a moment before she was lost to the pain again.
That little girl… Jane.
Terry reaches for Becky’s hands, still holding her tear-stained face, and brings them down, looking her sister square in the eye. Towards the end, things were… strained, between them, to say the least. But now, now, she’s got her ‘partner’, as dad used to call the two of them, back. And she needs her for this.
“Becky, where is Jane?”