Chapter Text
Brenner’s Lab, Indiana — July 19th, 1985.
Billy doesn’t recognise the hospital room, it looks nothing like Hawkins General, doesn’t recognise any of the doctors who come in and out. He drifts in and out of consciousness, hears parts of conversations that he can’t piece together.
“He’s responding well to treatment. We can expect a full recovery over the next two weeks.”
He can’t find the strength to ask whether that means they’ll stop poking and prodding him, stop with the needles anytime soon. Whether that means he’ll be out of here soon, whether he’ll be able to see Max soon. Harrington. Or that girl— El? He’d be overjoyed even to see Susan, just someone familiar.
“Wonderful news. Time to begin stage two.”
He lifts his eyelids just enough to see a man in a white coat with a needle coming towards him. No, not again, he wants to shout. But his mouth is too dry, throat too tight.
It takes effect quickly, and Billy is lulled back into unconsciousness.
Chicago, Illinois — May 28th, 1992
Billy pulls the ever-familiar mask over his face, a black hood with only a few holes for his eyes and mouth. It’s just precautionary, really. If those people were ever to find him again, he’ll get to them first. He’ll be ready.
The shadows of looming buildings keep him hidden out of sight as he follows his usual route, looking out for evil to show its face. He’s better, stronger than he ever was before — practiced in combat. Maybe, just maybe, restoring justice to the streets of Chicago will make up for his past.
The last few nights have been pretty uneventful, which has given Billy time to heal after his recent encounter with a knifed criminal. But there’ll be more crime, he knows. Chicago is just like every other city he’s lived in over the past five years. Detroit, Rockford, St. Louis — he never stays in one place too long. The police don’t take too kindly to people taking justice into their own hands, and he won’t risk anyone finding out how he spends his nights. Not the cops, or worse, the scientists in white coats.
Billy begins to wonder if tonight will be another quiet night, but that thought leaves immediately when a shout resounds from an alleyway up ahead. The rush of adrenaline through his body is welcome, the anticipation of a fight already urging Billy forward. He stays out of sight, assesses the situation from the relative safety of a brick wall.
There’s a group of guys— six, maybe seven of them— focused on whoever they’ve got surrounded in the middle of their circle. Billy can’t see who it is at the centre, fears he might be too late already. He’s ready to step in, reaching for the blade he keeps secured at his hip, until a sight makes him pause. One of the men falls to the ground, and quickly follows one more, creating a gap in the ring of men where Billy now can see the person who took them out. They’re not dressed to fight— bright pink jacket and tight acid washed jeans— whoever it is, they stand out like a sore thumb.
The guy at the centre is quick, light on his feet. Billy watches him in awe as he dodges every fist thrown at him. His technique is good— not as good as Billy, but he’s definitely an experienced fighter. He hasn’t got any weapons, Billy observes, the guy manages to take down two more of his attackers with his bare hands. Only three remaining. He turns to one of them, twists in a lightning-fast manoeuvre to avoid a punch before throwing his own. It’s captivating.
Billy doesn’t notice one of the assailants pull out a gun until it’s too late.
Time seems to slow down as the gunshot resounds. Billy steps out, reaches out, there’s not enough time to warn him—
The ringing in his ears grows louder, a vibration of energy runs through his outstretched arm. The bullet changes its trajectory just a fraction.
Just a fraction, but it might be enough to save a life. Instead of piercing through his abdomen, the bullet skims the side of the man, hopefully it’s a surface wound.
Billy doesn’t have time to dwell on it, not yet, not when there are still three attackers and one is still armed with a gun.
The element of surprise is on his side as he goes for the one with the gun first, grabs him from behind and wrestles it out of a loose grip. With the hold he has around the guy’s upper body, he flips him onto the ground with a thud. He disables the gun as quickly as possible, lets the bullets fall to the concrete and scatter on the ground, then throws the weapon far behind him. The next assailant bolts towards him, but Billy ducks smoothly out of the way before he can get a hold of him. Billy aims a fist towards the second man. It collides with a snap of bone he knows will be a broken nose. One more.
A grin breaks out on his face as he turns to the last man standing. Billy’s always loved a good fight.
Billy knows what he’s capable of, knows his limits, knows how to bring someone to the ground without going too far. He won’t be the cause of any more lives lost. He knows just the points to aim for — and he executes it perfectly with the final attacker.
With impending danger out of the way — for now — he wipes away the blood slowly dripping from his nose and kneels down beside the guy in the pink jacket to find out the extent of his injuries. “Hey, are you alright?” Billy asks, voice rough from lack of use.
He doesn’t respond beyond a soft groan, but at least he’s somewhat conscious. His face is turned away, tucked into the curve of one arm, the other draped over his wounded side. Billy pulls up the bright pink fabric to examine the wound and lets out a sigh of relief at seeing it’s not too serious. Clean it, stop the bleeding, patch it up — he’ll be fine.
He’d be fine, but.
Billy’s first aid kit is back in his apartment two blocks away. He can’t just leave this wounded man here with his attackers, who look like they might be ready for round two any minute now.
“C’mon, let’s get you out here,” Billy grabs hold of the guy’s arms, starts to pull him up. With his arms out of the way, Billy can see his face, and—
“Harrington?”