Chapter 26

GUESS WHO MOFOS!!!! I’m back from the dead due to popular demand!!! I’m gonna try and get some chapters done this weekend but I do have exams for cybersecurity, organic chemistry, and biology on monday so no promises. buuuuuuut here’s a little treat for everyone whos been wanting more content:)))))

Maggie’s dreaming again.

It’s that familiar dark place, the void. Her bare feet make no sound as she walks across nothing, hands stuffed in the pockets of her pajama pants. Somewhere behind her eyelids, in the waking world, she’s curled up under a mountain of mismatched blankets. But here, she’s waiting.

The air folds, and El appears. Her form fades in like breath on glass.

“Hey,” Maggie breathes, her voice soft in the endless hush.

“Hi,” El says.

She’s wearing a flannel shirt, a little too big for her, and old jeans. Her feet are bare, too.

They walk toward each other like they always do, meeting in the middle of the nothing. There’s never really a beginning or end to their conversations.

“I think I did something new,” Maggie says, once they’re close enough to see the flicker in each other’s eyes.

El tilts her head, curious.

“I was with the boys,” Maggie says, “And I stubbed my toe, like, bad. And Dustin was being annoying, so I—” She laughs once, nervously, “—I think I accidentally gave him the pain.”

El furrows her eyebrows, “You gave it to him?”

Maggie nods, “He felt it. Like exactly what I felt. Same toe, same sharp jolt. It freaked all of us out.”

El’s eyes narrow slightly, focused in thought, “Before… you only took pain.”

“Exactly,” Maggie shifts her weight, looking down at the black nothing beneath her feet, “But this… this was different. It felt like it pushed out.”

“Feelings?” El asks softly, “Did you feel angry?”

“Annoyed. But yeah. I mean, Dustin poked me with a pencil. I was already being dramatic.”

El’s voice is lower when she says, “It’s growing.”

Maggie meets her eyes, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Not bad,” El says, taking a step closer, “Just new.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. He was fine. Just surprised. But if I can project pain, what does that mean?” Maggie folds her arms tightly, “What else could I do without realizing?”

El looks at her with understanding, “We learn. We control.”

Maggie gives a soft huff of a laugh, “You sound like Yoda.”

They both smile, just a little.

Then Maggie hesitates. Her fingers twitch inside her sleeves.

“Can I ask you something?”

El nods.

“Where are you staying?”

El doesn’t answer right away. Her shoulders stiffen. Her eyes flick off to the side, then back.

“I can’t tell you,” she says finally, and her voice is small, “Not safe.”

Maggie’s brows furrow, “El…”

“They’re watching. Always. I can’t risk it.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Maggie says quickly, stepping closer, “You know I wouldn’t. No one else even knows I see you like this.”

El’s jaw tightens. Her expression is wary, but there’s loneliness behind it. She wants to trust Maggie. She does trust her. But the habit of hiding is hard to unlearn.

Maggie softens, “I just… I miss you. And I worry about you. You don’t have to give me the address or anything. I just want to know.”

El is still. Then she speaks very slowly.

“Cabin. In the woods.”

Maggie’s heart jumps, “Wait… like, a real cabin?”

El nods.

“With… someone?”

“Hopper.”

Maggie’s eyes widen, “Hopper? Like… Chief Hopper?”

El nods again, “He saved me. He’s keeping me safe.”

Maggie lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, “Okay. That’s… that’s good. That’s really good.”

El gives her a cautious smile, “You can’t tell.”

“I won’t,” Maggie promises, “Not even the boys. Not even Will.”

El’s hand brushes hers, “Thank you.”

They stand there like that, fingers just barely touching, floating together in a space that shouldn’t exist.

Then, El’s form begins to flicker.

“You’re waking up,” she murmurs, “Someone’s burning toast.”

Maggie groans, “Ugh. Jonathan.”

El laughs quietly and then she’s gone. The void fades and morning comes.

Hawkins Police Department isn’t exactly the bustling hub of justice Maggie imagined. It smells like burnt coffee and old paper, and the desk chairs squeak anytime someone breathes too hard. Still, she doesn’t mind it. There’s something comforting about the mundanity of it all.

It’s been a couple months since the start of the job shadow, and Maggie’s still figuring out how much she’s supposed to talk. She had decided to continue the shadow after the school project because if she wanted to help people in life, she figured this is the best way to do it.

Hopper isn’t exactly Mr. Chatty. He says things like “Stay in the car,” or “This paperwork’s a bitch,” or “You want a donut?” But she’s observed a lot. He’s sharper than he lets on. Thoughtful in his silences. Brutally protective. A wall of a man with something soft buried deep beneath.

Today, they’re sitting in his office. Or, rather, Maggie’s sitting while Hopper rifles through a drawer.

“You ever solve a mystery in this place?” Maggie asks, spinning slightly in the rolling chair.

Hopper grunts, “Last big mystery was someone stealing Carol Perkins’ garden gnome. Turned out it was raccoons.”

She laughs, “Thrilling.”

“I’ll let you interrogate the next squirrel we book.”

She leans forward on the desk, tapping her fingers. This is probably the only private moment they’ll get today. The station’s quiet, just the distant clatter of a typewriter and Powell sneezing somewhere in the front. It’s now or never.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

Hopper looks up. Suspicious already.

“Depends.”

“It’s not about a garden gnome.”

“That’s a relief.”

She doesn’t smile this time. She meets his eyes.

“It’s about El.”

The drawer creaks to a halt. For a second, Hopper doesn’t move.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says eventually, carefully.

Maggie shrugs, but it’s deliberate, “I do. She’s staying with you. She told me.”

Now he looks at her, square on, “What the hell are you saying?”

“I see her. In my dreams. It’s not—like—it’s not normal dreaming. She comes to me in the void. She calls it that. The black space. It’s the psychic thing she does. I think I’m part of it now.”

“You think,” Hopper repeats slowly, jaw tight, “You think you’re dreaming about a missing girl, who is very much off the grid, and you just casually know where she’s staying?”

“I didn’t guess,” Maggie says, a little more firmly, “She told me. And I didn’t tell anyone else. I wouldn’t. I’m not trying to get her caught, or in trouble, or—whatever. I just wanted you to know that I know. And that I won’t say a word.”

The office is heavy with silence. Hopper exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

“Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, “You have any idea how dangerous it is—her reaching out like that?”

“I think she knows,” Maggie says, “But I also think she’s really lonely. And I think she trusts me.”

Hopper leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re just a kid,” he says, softer, “You shouldn’t be in the middle of this.”

Maggie lifts her shoulders, “Way too late for that, Hop.”

That gets the ghost of a smile out of him.

“You don’t tell anyone, you hear me? Not the boys, not Nancy, not anyone.”

“I told her I wouldn’t,” Maggie promises, “And I won’t.”

Hopper studies her for a long moment. Like he’s trying to read all the truth buried inside her.

Finally, he nods, “Alright. But if she contacts you again—”

“I’ll let you know,” Maggie says, then adds, “Only you.”

He stands, grabbing his badge off the desk, “Come on. There’s a guy yelling about his haunted toaster again. Might be the raccoons.”

Buckle up we’re fast forwarding to halloweenish time!

October 28, 1984.

The sun hangs low behind the clouds, casting Hawkins in a dull, sleepy gray. Maggie tugs her jacket tighter as she hops out of Hopper’s Blazer, boots scuffing against the gravel of the station’s lot. She barely has time to adjust her bag before a wiry man with unkempt curls and crooked glasses approaches them with a determined gait.

“Good morning, Jim,” he calls, a bit too loudly.

Hopper stops mid-step.

“Jim, hold on a second. We need to talk,” the man insists, puffing out breath into the cold morning air.

“Get away from me,” Hopper grunts without looking at him, already annoyed.

“No, no. I think you really wanna hear this.”

“I said get away from me,” Hopper growls again.

The man tries to step in front of them, blocking Hopper’s path, “Trust me. I only want five minutes.”

“Yeah, and I want a date with Bo Derek,” Hopper shoots back, “We all want things.”

Before the man can reply, Flo marches right up like a freight train and plucks the cigarette from his mouth with all the authority of someone who’s done it a hundred times.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Jim,” the man argues, hands flailing in dramatic emphasis, “This is serious, okay? I really got something here. I’m telling you—”

“Morning, Chief. Maggie,” Powell’s calm voice slides in.

He nods as Maggie and Hopper continue into the station.

“Morning,” Maggie chirps, throwing a casual salute to both Powell and Callahan.

She feels a little too energized for a Monday, but maybe that’s just the second donut talking.

Callahan tips his coffee cup toward the man still trailing behind them, “Got any proof of your butt-probin’ aliens yet, Murray?”

Maggie skids to a halt. Her head swivels, almost cartoonishly.

“Oh, shit! This is batshit Murray y’all have been on about?”

Powell smirks, “Same one.”

“I live for this,” Maggie whispers under her breath, grinning wide as the man puffs his chest.

“I believe,” Murray says, trying to ignore the jabs, “there was, and may still be, a Russian spy presence in Hawkins.”

Hopper’s snort echoes down the hallway, “Russian spies? You serious?”

Callahan leans in mock-conspiratorially, “Are the spies in cahoots with the aliens? Or how do they fit in here? I’m confused.”

“I’m talking multiple reports, okay?” Murray snaps, clearly fed up, “Of a Russian child in Hawkins.”

Hopper’s gait slows. He throws a glance over his shoulder, squinting at Murray, “A child? What are you talking about?”

Murray doesn’t flinch, “A girl. Who may have psionic abilities.”

Maggie stops cold. Her breath catches in her chest. Not a Russian child, her brain screams. But she keeps her face neutral.

“Psionic?” Powell echoes.

“Psychic,” Murray clarifies impatiently.

“What about that girl that made that kid pee himself?” Callahan offers, stifling a chuckle.

Maggie bursts out laughing, “That shit was hilarious. I still have secondhand embarrassment for that guy.”

“You got five minutes,” Hopper mutters, voice tired now, “Not a second more.”

Maggie trails after him and Murray toward his office.

“Nice to meet you, Crazy Pants. I’m Maggie Byers,” she says brightly, sticking out her hand.

Murray eyes it like it’s radioactive. He doesn’t shake.

“Cool, cool,” Maggie says, retracting her hand and miming a checkmark in the air, “Putting that one under ‘does not play well with others.'”

They settle into Hopper’s office. Maggie perches on the edge of a wooden chair while Hopper kicks his boots up onto the desk and takes a bite of his apple, crunch loud in the small space.

Murray doesn’t waste time, “I talked to a Big Guy ex-employee. Said he saw a little girl shatter a door. With her mind.“

Hopper doesn’t even blink, “I’ve heard that story. Did you hear the one about the fat man with a beard who climbs down chimneys?”

Maggie suppresses a laugh, but Murray powers through, undeterred.

“Then last month, a co-worker of Ted Wheeler’s said there was a Russian girl, shaved head, hiding in his basement. Ted denies it now.”

Maggie makes a sound, a surprised little high-pitched hum, clearly fake.

“This girl,” Murray continues, “she’s some kind of Russian weapon, right? Barbara sees her, tries to help. But before she can, the Russians find them. Take them—”

Maggie’s voice snaps like a whip, “Barb wasn’t kidnapped by Russian spies.“

Her tone is sharp, sudden. The air in the office shifts.

Murray blinks. Hopper studies her out of the corner of his eye. But before anything else can be said, the phone rings shrilly, cutting the tension.

Hopper grabs the receiver. Maggie’s foot bounces nervously as he talks. When he hangs up, he rubs a hand down his face and crushes his cigarette in the ashtray.

“I’m sorry. I really hate to do this, but I’ve gotta run. And Maggie’s gotta get to school.”

“Damn right,” she exhales, slinging her bag over her shoulder like a lifeline, “See you later, Hop. Catch you later, screwball.”

Murray lifts a finger like he’s about to say something, but Maggie’s already halfway out the door, grateful for the escape and the distraction, because if Murray gets one step closer to the truth, it won’t just be El’s secret on the line.

The bell hasn’t rung yet, and Hawkins High’s parking lot is already buzzing with the lazy, early-morning chaos of teenagers too tired to care and teachers too annoyed to intervene.

She adjusts her bag over one shoulder and starts toward the front entrance, pausing when she spots a familiar car, Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW parked near the front. He’s leaning back in the driver’s, drumming on the steering wheel to a faint beat. Nancy’s in the passenger seat, flipping through her binder, lips pursed in thought.

Maggie grins.

“Oh, hell yes,” she mutters, veering off course.

She reaches the car and raps twice on the window with her knuckles.

Steve jumps slightly and Nancy turns, face lighting up with a soft smile. Steve rolls the window down.

“Good morning, sweethearts,” Maggie drawls, resting her elbows on the open window frame, “You two look way too put together for 7:50 AM.”

Steve smirks, “And you look like you rolled out of a dumpster behind Melvald’s.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says, blowing a kiss at him before turning to Nancy, “Are you still coming to bio or are you dropping out to pursue a full-time career in judging me?”

Nancy snorts, “I’m still coming. But hey, are you coming with us tonight? To dinner. With Barb’s parents?”

Maggie freezes for a second. Her joking facade flickers, but she catches it and nods.

“Yeah. I told you I would. I can be normal for an evening.”

Nancy gives her a look, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Maggie shifts her weight from foot to foot, “I wanna go. Really.”

Before anything else can be said, the roar of an engine slices through the air. The three of them glance over toward the noise. A Camaro peels into the lot like it’s a racetrack, drawing more than a few annoyed looks. The car slams into a parking space and out steps the driver, a tall guy with a denim vest, wild blond curls, and the kind of cocky energy that makes Maggie immediately roll her eyes.

“Subtle,” she mutters.

And then the passenger side opens. A redheaded girl climbs out, hunched under the weight of a skateboard.

“Huh,” Maggie says, watching the girl scan the crowd before riding towards the middle school, “She’s new.”

“Never seen them before,” Nancy murmurs.

“They’re definitely not from around here,” Steve adds, watching the guy light a cigarette, “That dude’s got transfer student written all over him.”

“Or parolee,” Maggie quips, “Either way, this place just got way more interesting.”

Nancy eyes Maggie, “You’re not gonna adopt them, are you?”

“I’m not a stray collector,” Maggie says, hand on heart.

Steve gives her a look.

“…Not technically.”

They laugh, but there’s a flicker of unease in Nancy’s expression that Maggie doesn’t miss.

She doesn’t push it, though. Because tonight’s going to be hard enough without prying. Dinner with Barb’s parents always is. Pretending they still believe she’s alive. Pretending the guilt hasn’t settled into their bones. Pretending the truth isn’t something that might crack them all in half.