Chapter Nineteen ♰ 
Seventeen, Going Under

  17 was a tumultuous year for Sydney Sommers—it'd leave an everlasting bruise that'll always be sore to touch. It was only fitting that the day she turned seventeen—October 30th, 1983—was also the day that Billy Hargrove (as mercurial as quicksilver, with the violence and hatred of any other father-cut boy) came crashing into Hawkins High like a belligerent fucking hurricane.

  It probably started as the worst year of Sydney's life, thanks to the self-flagellation spiral she was already pillaging through on the edge of seventeen. She was starting to learn just what hunger was—thanks to skipping meals, drinking too much black coffee, depriving herself of good things in her life. Everyone else around her could see it: That Sydney wasn't okay. She was thinner and not quite herself and barely there. All of her friends had their own theories of what was causing it, but it all came back to Chris. Nancy would assure a distressed Steve that it was survivor's guilt, that Sydney was tough. But Steve—and, now, Toby—was the only one who knew that Sydney's adverse penitence wasn't just because of Mother.

  It was more than that. It was like a gradual build of plaque on rotting milk teeth. This was always going to happen. Girls like Sydney don't stay happy for too long. They just don't. They turn out like their mothers, Oscar Wilde said that is their tragedy. They start to think that love's emptiness, because their mother never loved them as much as when they were quiet little dolls in their rooms. Sit still. Don't move. Don't even eat. It's cannibalism but it's love and all Sydney saw in the mirror nowadays was Christine Sommers; ribs and frowns and hate.

  Sydney woke up on her seventeenth birthday to the kitchen smelling like buttercream and red velvet cake. Balloons were scattered about the room—pink ones with happy birthday! in silver writing—and streamers were haphazardly slung about it. She found the cake on top of a gaudy little stand in the middle of the table and there was something so Matt about it. It looked extremely messy—the yellow icing was clumsily made to spell out HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SYDNEY and the novelty hearts surrounding it were arbitrary at best. Vanilla buttercream lathered the rest of the cake, but it was smudged in some place and patchily showed the red velvet filling of the cake, which smelt delicious. It looked like Matt had dropped the cake about three times. It made Sydney's cold heart swell.

  "Dad, this—"

  Matt yelped in surprise. He was swaying to Dancing Queen by ABBA when Sydney came in and flipping a pancake with the frying pan. She startled him so much the pancake flung up to the kitchen ceiling and the sticky batter got it stuck there.

  "Fuck!" Matt glared up at it, fists balled against his hips. "Thanks, Ziggy. Now look what you've—oh, right! Happy birthday, kiddo!"

  As flighty as ever, Matt lunged forward and scooped Sydney up into a bone-crushing hug. She screeched in horror when he gave her a squeeze so tight that she thought she might cough up her spleen or something before hugging him back—Sydney was in a bad way, but she wasn't blind. She knew that it killed Matt to watch her rot away in her room for hours an end. It also made her wonder how her mom would react to all of this—because, sure, Sydney was on her way to loosing an entire stone and her nails were getting as brittle as eggshells, but she had been studying so much recently that she was on Christine's path to Ivy League. Sydney was kind of in this out-of-body experience thing where she couldn't really feel her own hurt anymore, she just kept thinking about scenarios that wouldn't happen. Like her mom being around.

  "Dad, you can, uh—" Sydney winced, muscles aching, toes barely on the linoleum floor, "you can let me down now."

  "Oh, right." He let her down, ruffling her hair. "Hah, sorry, Ziggy."

  He called her Ziggy now. Like Ziggy Stardust. Matt got drunk a few months ago, came stumbling back into the house, slurring so incoherently that he pronounced 'Sydney' as 'Ziggy' and it kind of just stuck since then.

  Sydney gave him a small smile as he returned to the stove to pour more pancake batter into the pan and moved to sit down at the table. Behind the topsy-turvy cake, Sydney hadn't even noticed that he already brewed her a morning coffee—made black and most likely sweetened by her usual two teaspoons of Demerara sugar. She smiled fondly to herself as she sat down in front of the delicate teacup and thoughtful cake, wondering how she could digest it without a single mouthful. Without eating it at all.

  "Where's Bucky?" Sydney mulled.

  "Uhh, should be around here somewhere—Bucky!"

  The sweet tinkering of the bell on his collar came jangling into the kitchen, along with the soft pad of his paws against the tile. Buckingham, or Bucky, was the friendliest dog to ever exist, if you asked Sydney or Matt—he was a loveable creature: noble, diligent, loyal. He had a mane of sable and tawny fur on his underbelly, a pair of astute, mocha eyes which usually got him just about anything he wanted around the house—all thanks to the slight tilt of his head and Matt's weakness when it came to his new best friend.

  It was Matt who first brought Bucky home. Indiana State Police sent over a few of their finest detectives and with them, a German Shepherd, for the investigation into Barb's 'disappearance.' And when Barb was inevitably not found, Matt implored with Hopper that he got to keep the dog —he insisted that it was to cheer Sydney up, which was partly true, but Matt honestly just got too attached. He did let Sydney name him, though—and she went with Buckingham, like Lindsey from Fleetwood Mac. Matt affectionately shortened it to 'Bucky,' after insisting that his government name was a bit of mouthful when he had to scorn the dog for tracking in muddy footprints.

  Bucky came excitedly bounding into the kitchen and nuzzled his snout into Sydney's already held out palm, slobbering all over her. Love cracked open her chest like an oyster being split in half to reveal a precious pearl.

  "Hey, boy," she cooed at him, scratching behind his ear. "Hey, morning, Buck."

  Matt spared a glimpse over his shoulder, cautious about not fucking up the next pancake, but also just wanting to appreciate a little slither of happiness in his daughter. If anybody told him that fatherhood meant being cut up into millions of little pieces every day thanks to being too emotionally inept himself to figure out what was wrong, Matt would've left the county almost two decades ago before he had to go through all this vicarious hurt. It was visceral, most of the time—like her pain was hereditary and his. He felt incredibly useless. He kept telling himself that Chris would know what to do. Chris would know what to say. That Matt should've been the one to wrap himself around a lamppost and, maybe then, their girl wouldn't be suffering so much—drowning in her own ribs and bones and dulling hair.

  She rarely smiled like this anymore—with feeling, and warmth, and all of her teeth. Right now, she had dimples. It was the kind of precious memory he wanted to bottle or keep in a snow-globe—safe, and theirs, and real, and permanent. Everything else seemed so fleeting. Every Saturday, they'd go to Hop's cabin in the woods and she'd seem happy—teaching El to braid hair, introducing her to teen heartthrobs (against Hopper's protests) as well as a whole matrix of new music. Then they'd get home and she'd fade into her room like she was a fly on the wall. Even Toby couldn't do much to cheer up nowadays—life was just him and Matt taking it in turns to distract her. Evanescently, she'd seem alright, like things could get better. Matt would think they had her back—hopeful and foolish every time—but his earlier analogy always came back.

  His daughter was drowning.

  Sydney lost herself within herself.

  She was feeding the splintering parts to Chris—Mother had an appetite even in the grave. It was a shame that Daughter didn't.

  "I hope it's okay..." Matt mumbled a bit cynically, as he placed a fluffy pancake drizzled in syrup and a squeeze of fresh lemons in front of her.

  Sydney would probably use the same metaphor as Matt to describe how she was feeling. It was like, long ago, she went swimming in the ocean and now she looked back, realising she had swam out much further from the shore than she planned. Now she couldn't see where the sky met the sea in an incandescent horizon or even where the land met the water; she was just a lifeless buoy in the middle of nothing. She kept trying to swim back, but she lost all her muscle, all her strength, and she couldn't fight the tidal anymore.

  Just looking at the pancake made her feel like water was seeping through her lungs. It had her by the fucking throat.

  "Thanks, Pops."

  She thought of numbers—they tally up destructively. She heard Chris—a sibilant hiss in her ear, pulsating. She took a bite and it made her dizzy—it's the numbers, and the chewing, and it's like gnawing on styrofoam. In her periphery, Matt watched in anguish, sat next to her now, and the scab on his hand was bleeding from his incessant picking. Sydney mustered a smile around the bile in her mouth and hoped that it looked real to him, but it didn't. Even Bucky sat at her feet and stared up at her dolefully with those hickory eyes of his, his head angled worryingly to the side.

  "Loved it, Dad." She pushed the plate away. There was half of it left. "Gonna save my appetite for later—for the cake. I love it, by the way. You remembered my favourite."

  Matt looked inconsolable. "Of course I did, kid."

  Sydney frowned. "I didn't mean—"

  "No, I know, I know...It's just..."

  God, he looked so fucking sad, Sydney hated herself. Face twisting miserably, he grabbed the nape of her neck and pulled her head into the crook of his, then cradled her so tightly that she was so sure he'd never let her go from this hug. Arms hesitantly raising from her sides to wrap around him, Sydney thought madly to herself that maybe she didn't want him to let go. Maybe she could nestle here forever— in the strong arms of her old man who loved her, who would kill for her and die for her. Who wasn't like Mother at all, because his voice was never in her head—nasally spitting such malicious things. Mother's the ocean; the seaweed roping around her ankles and dragging her down to the ocean floor, where Chris waits for Daughter to return to her. Father's the shore that Sydney can't reach anymore.

  He sobbed into her shoulder and Sydney had to wrench her eyes shut to keep her tears back—because it was a gut-wrenching sound. His fingers curled around her t-shirt and grasped tightly as he tried to muffle sadness that shouldn't be his—it should be hers. Sydney felt truly defeated, murmuring faint comforts into his deaf ears.

  "Dad, what's—c'mon, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing, Sid. Nothing, it's just..." Matt pulled back, his shaky hands coming up to hold her face delicately. He swept loose, frail strands of onyx hair behind her ears, a bit fervently and messily, but he was trying to calm himself down so Sydney didn't mind. She tried to meet his  teary eyes and convince him of her paltry lies. "I just can't believe you're seventeen. I mean, I was a dad at your age."

  Sydney's heart ruptured. "I promise to not make you a grandpa for a long time, yeah?"

  Matt laughed ruefully, tucking another curl away and seeing Chris. "God, you look like your mom."

  Her veins went cold.

  Maybe he felt it, because he dropped his hands to his lap and grazed his knuckles over the crown of Bucky's head. "She'd be so fucking proud of you, kiddo. I know it."

  That's the problem, Sydney wanted to scream.

  "Thanks, Dad."

  "Hey, erm—it's not much, but I wanted to get you something, so..." Matt ducked under the table and retrieved a pathetically wrapped gift—swaddled in torn-up newspaper pages and sellotape. He handed it to her, contrite and abashed, instantly scratching his neck when Sydney took it from him, smiling. "Really, it's just—it's nothing, so don't—"

  The paper fell to her feet (Bucky instantly took it into his canines and started chewing it up), and Sydney was left with a cableknit cardigan in her lap. Heart swelling, she picked it up tentatively and raised it above her, getting a proper look. It was a creamy-white with black matte buttons and a sable trim. What struck her most cruelly was the embroidery along both arms; hand-stitched stars of cadet-grey. Worried that she might start crying now, Sydney fisted the wool in her hands and brought the cardigan to her face—it smelt faintly of cigarettes and the distinct smell of Joyce Byers' house.

  "Joyce, she, uh, she stitched the stars onto it," Matt told her sheepishly. "I'm no seamstress, but she's pretty good. I figured it'd be, like, personal or something. But if you hate it—"

  "I love it," Sydney choked out.

  She tugged her arms into the sleeves, cocooning herself in its warmth.

  Matt grinned blithely. "You do?"

  "It's... I love it," she said again, smiling so much it made her cheeks sore. "Mom, she wouldn't—I just love it."

  Then, the blaring of Toby's car-horn sounded from outside the cabin and the tenderness fell to ash. Sydney stopped hugging herself and let the material of the cardigan practically hang off her willowy body; Matt's smile got fragile again. She stood up from the table, ruffled Bucky's head a bit, and grabbed her bag from where she had slung it on the other chair.

  "Only Fools & Horses later?" she offered, digging a canine into her lip.

  Matt looked optimistic again; it hurt more than the dejection. "Yes. Yes! I'll order pizza in, and you can invite Toby, if you want."

  Her smile was muted. "Yeah. Yeah, sounds good."

  She left Matt after he gave her a brusque kiss to the forehead and braced herself for the day ahead. 

  Birthdays were odd experiences—you're supposedly a year older, but it doesn't really feel like anything's changed. She's still the surly, empty mess of emotions she had been yesterday. She didn't feel more mature or readier for life than she has any other day of her life—but people will shove presents into her hands and their joy down her throat and expect her to be in a good mood, which meant she had to act twice as hard today.

  Toby barely let her fasten her seatbelt before he slammed a brown-paper wrapped box into her unsuspecting lap. Sydney let out an oh! of surprise at the weight of it, eyes widening as she looked up at the splitting grin fracturing his pretty face in half. She loved Toby Stanfield. She loved the way he kind of resembled a Golden Retriever; in the way that he loved so wildly and without inhibitions, and was probably the most loyal person she'd ever met.

  They had done a lot of good for one another over the years. They probably also developed a co-dependent dynamic that bordered on unhealthy, but Sydney wasn't exactly known for pursuing the healthy things in life. He personified a lot of things to her—chamomile, small acts of kindness, the colour red (in every shade), fraying comics, swing-sets at night, grass stains on grazed knees, scuffed sneakers caked in mud, a fascination with bugs, charcoal smudged fingertips from drawing. He was her best friend—they'll always be a soft spot in her heart for him that'll bleed just for Toby. That'll beat just for Toby. There's no love like that on earth.

  "Well?" he coaxed. "Open it!"

  Apprehensive, Sydney did as he said. Eventually, the footwell was strewn with pieces of torn paper and a box-set of three VHS tapes was in her lap—specifically, the entire Star Wars trilogy.

  "You...Tobes, these must've cost—Jesus!" Sydney marvelled, tracing her fingertip along the untouched spine of the VHS sleeves. These were brand new. Which meant there wasn't a scratch or a buffer on them. Which meant they probably cost more than Toby can afford. "Toby, I can't—you must've spent shitloads!"

  Toby pinched his brows together, shaking his head. "Sid, it's your seventeenth. It was just a few extra shifts at the mechanics, s'all—besides, it got me a promotion; and that pretty smile of yours is a bonus, too."

  When Sydney blushed furiously, Toby felt a blade sever him open. He snaked an arm out to the back of her head, bringing her close so she hovered over the console, and let his eyes flutter shut to kiss her cheek sweetly. There was no meanness with Toby, nor betrayal, like there was with Steve. This was all honey and innocence. This was thirteen years in the making. Toby didn't love her belligerently, or illicitly, because he had no barriers. He'd render himself to nothing for Sydney. Leaving Nancy wouldn't have been a question if she asked him.

  "I love you, Toby."

  Toby felt a taunting pulse against his neck and rested their foreheads against each other. Their breaths tangled, his smelt of chamomile, hers sweet from the half-eaten pancakes. He might've kissed her, if he didn't look at her and see the scars of Steve Harrington. If he had thought for a second it would make this better—if he could actually save her—then he wouldn't have hesitated. But, Toby wasn't naive enough to think that any of this could be solved by a kiss and the lovelorn ache of a boy who wanted what he couldn't have. He just brushed his lips against her cheekbone and drew back, trying not to think too much into how she deflated when he let go of her.

  "I love you more, Sid."

  It wasn't true. He just loved her differently.

♰ 

  To Nicks,

    I know you said no letters so I'm writing you a card instead. It's your birthday and I figured you'd make an exception just for today.

     Just wanted you to know that I had meant it that day in August—I would've broken up with Nance if I thought it would've changed anything. You probably see us now and think I was lying when I told you that but the truth is, I knew that it wouldn't have made a difference. I saw it when you looked at me in the car outside your house—you're done with me. And I don't blame you at all. I'd be done with me too if I had to go through the shit I made you go through.

    I really have tried to move on and leave you alone because I thought it'd make you better. You keep saying you're fine but I know you're not and I guess I selfishly thought that it was me who was making you sick—but it's more than me. It's always been more than me. I just want you to be okay. Even if I fucking miss you more than I've ever missed anything. It's kinda like homesickness. I miss you like I miss the lakehouse in the winter. But I don't think I can ever go back there now—not after August. But August is gone now and as I'm writing this I think this is probably the most selfish bullshit I've ever done and I'm so fucking sorry, Nicks.

    You weren't ever really mine, I see that now. You weren't anyone's. Not Toby's, not your dad's, and definitely not your mom's—I know you miss her but you can't let her put your life on hold. Nance says you've got survivor's guilt. She had to explain that to me. It kinda sounded like she was talking about something else too. About Barbara. I don't think I've actually helped either of you—which is the worst part about it. Nancy didn't need me and neither do you. It's shit.

    Anyway. Happy birthday, Nicks. You're everything.

      Yours, Steve.

  "You gotta give it to him," Toby said sardonically, leaning against the locker next to Sydney's, "he's relentless, if nothing else."

  Sydney slammed the card shut, a spiral of glitter falling onto her converse, and shunned it away into her locker. "That's one word for him."

  "Got any others?"

  "Oh, I have many words for Steve Harrington," Sydney muttered scathingly.

  She closed her locker so angrily it nearly cracked off its hinges.

  Toby's brows nearly disappeared into his hair. "Jeez, he did a real number on you, huh?" Under Sydney's waspish glare, he raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm joking, I'm joking."

  Wallowing in surliness, Sydney let her head hit her locker with a sickening thud. Dots clouded her vision, but that honestly might just be the hollow feeling in her stomach. She hadn't spoken to him since the day she ended things—she stuck by her gut by adamantly insisting that it would be the best thing for them. Every few weeks, her feelings for him would wane and she'd feel better for all of it. But then he'd have his arms around Nancy's middle, leaving a trail of kisses up her shoulder, and the waning would become a killing moon.

  She'd try to sew up all these loose ends and cut off the invisible strings, but the searing truth was: Steve would always linger. He was scored on her now. He will always haunt her.

  "Who the fuck is that?"

  Spiritless, Sydney let her head roll lackadaisically to the side. She hadn't cared about who Toby was referring to—not at first. Not until she saw a gaggle of girls practically swooning over someone new, sauntering down the pallid corridors like they belonged to him. Sydney straightened up a little, jaw jutting out in intrigue at the unruly, sandy curls and clash of double denim—the slight tease of a silver chain peeking beneath the askew neckline of a white tee. He looked destructive. He looked lethal. He looked like something Sydney needed right now. 

  (Or, better, didn't).

  "I don't know," she murmured. "But—"

  "No way. Absolutely not. I'm inciting the Nuremberg Code."

  Sydney didn't even glance at Toby, too fixed on the faux charm of the new boy as he asked a pretty girl for directions. "The Nuremberg Code is against human experimenting."

  "You're experimenting right now—with having your heart chewed up and spat back out by some dickhead from—fuck knows! Probably somewhere like California." Toby said it so contemptuously.

  "Doesn't matter anyways," sighed Sydney, watching as Carol Perkins and her friends surrounded the new boy, all with wolfish smiles and batting lashes and perfume more expensive than hers. "Carol's got her claws in him."

  "Good," Toby asserted. "He'd just fuck you over. You deserve better."

  Sydney swallowed thickly. She wasn't so sure about that.

  "Hey, no, you don't want to talk to her..." she caught onto Carol purring at the new boy's ear, both hands latched around his arm. "Yeah, like, she's nice, sure—but she's been a total bummer ever since her mom died. Like, yeah, it's sad but...you want someone more fun, right?"

  Sydney smirked a bit, rolling her eyes as she glanced at Toby, hoping he'd find it funny too. But he just stared murderously at the back of Carol's head. That group were particularly more ravenous since Steve's fall from grace—he was toppled off his throne and left in some kind of purgatory between notoriety and possibly failing senior year. He severed all strings with Carol and Tommy H., the entire lot of them, so there wasn't really anybody to stop them from being mean. Carol Perkins always knew how to go for the jugular. But Sydney couldn't ever find herself getting hurt by any of the shit she spewed. Mainly because Carol said it all so thoughtfully, like it really took her a long time to think up a sentence.

  "What's her name?"

  Californian accent. Toby hit the nail on the head.

  "You can't be serious, she's—"

  "I said." His words were stern, dripping with the fake kind of politeness that would've made Sydney shrink in on herself, "what's her name?"

  "It's Sydney," seethed Carol.

  "Sydney..."

  Seventeen was a tumultuous year for Sydney Sommers—it'd leave an everlasting bruise, that'll always be sore to touch. Billy Hargrove was one of them.

 ♰ 

  Matt stayed outside in the clinically lit corridor with Will after his appointment with Dr. Owens. He wasn't the most intuitive guy in the world but he could tell that this time, Will wasn't coping—his visions were getting worse and he was chiselling off a few pounds with every new visit. He was starting to look like Sydney—too pale and too thin and too haunted. Matt didn't want to lose another kid he cared about to something that he couldn't fix. So, as Joyce and Hop spoke with Owens in his fancy office, Matt sat outside on the uncomfortable chairs, listening to the churning of machines in another room and the ticking of a clock on the wall.

  "Hey, listen, kid—I know I'm not your old man or anything, but—I'm here for you, all right? Just like Hop and your mom." Matt managed a mild smile, so Will did his best to give him one back but it just looked like a pained grimace. Matt emptied his throat awkwardly and looked down at his stained shoes. "You helped when my leg was broke, I'll help you now."

  "Now my mind's broke, you mean?" Will mumbled miserably. "Now I'm a screw up?"

  Matt panicked, eyebrows furrowing in horror. "What? No. You're not...—why would you say that?"

  "Because it's what everyone's thinking," he said bitterly. "Everyone looks at me like I'm a freak. I don't even feel like I belong in my own skin anymore. Cause they're right—I am a freak."

  "Hey," Matt interjected. "Hey, don't say shit like that, okay? You're not. You're not a freak. You're—shit, you're a hero, Will. You survived shit that scientists here didn't. They got mauled to death! I mean, God—I was in that hellhole for, what, thirty minutes? And I got my leg broke, had to have stitches." He swept away the overgrown mop of his hair to reveal the scar on his skull and Will shied away from it, wincing. "You're a survivor, not a freak. We know the truth—we know what you are. Fuck everybody else, yeah?"

  Will stared at Matt munificently, a smile creeping up onto his innocent face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he weakly got up from the chair and craned himself awkwardly so that he was throwing his scrawny arms over Matt's shoulders. Matt guffawed in surprise but patted the kid's back anyways—wondering if his dad ever hugged him like this. If Lonnie ever hugged either of his sons at all.

  "Hey, honey, are you ready?"

  Matt glanced over Will's shoulder to his mom. Joyce smiled at him warmly but he could tell something was itching at her brain. She looked even worse than she usually did during this visits; fidgety, wringing her hands together in that neurotic way Joyce Byers always did when something was parasitic at her nerves.

  He gave Will's back a final pat, before coaxing him out of the hug and standing up from the chair. "Of course he's ready. He's a champ."

  Will beamed up at Matt, then grinned toothily at his mom. "Matt's cool."

  "Is that so, honey?" Joyce said musingly, looking at Matt with a certain fondness only reserved for people who could make her boys smile as much as Will was smiling now.

  "Now, that's one word I've never heard someone use to describe ya, McConnell," Hop drawled cynically.

  Matt rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Erm, hey—you guys go ahead. I've just gotta ..." His hand lingered over the roll of documents shoved into his back pocket. "There's something I want to discuss with the doc."

  Joyce's eyes narrowed. "There is?"

  "Yeah, just—curiosity questions," lamely said Matt. "I'll report back to you anything useful."

  Joyce and Hopper looked apprehensive to say the least. But they complied. A flank of guards followed them out of the corridor and Will gave Matt an ecstatic wave over his shoulder before the three of them were swallowed up by the door at the end of the hall. It left him in the pale glow of the sterile lights. The lab felt sickeningly silent—drained of colour, and sound, and life. Matt thought gruesomely to how El survived for as long as she did within the ashen walls and hollow atmosphere of this prison.

  Bracing himself, Matt raised a balled fist to warp his knuckles against Owen's door, but before he could even graze the oak, a woman's voice—treacly, with a waning Scouse accent—halted him.

  "Can I help you?"

  "No, actually, I was just—fuck."

  Matt turned around to face the kind of woman that could actually make people stop in the street just to look at her. Her head tilted to the side with a sweet, empty smile that all the staff here had—clinical, reserved, and too saccharine to be real. She had blonde hair, twisted up into a chignon and fixed by butterfly-clip, with a pen slotted into the up-do for safekeeping. Her eyes were wide and alert, a bit like a cat's, and a startling blue; like a summer's sky that makes you flinch when you stare at it. Her features were delicate in a cutting kind of way; a long, sinewy neck and high cheekbones. He noticed almost immediately she had a direct and chilling look in her eyes; that she was totally focused, yet almost entirely inaccessible.

  "I, uh—I was just hoping to have an, erm, talk with Dr Owens?" Matt stammered, mentally kicking himself.

  The woman smiled reticently. "I see. Well, Dr Owens' office hours are over. I'd be glad to answer any questions you might have?"

  He felt the documents burning a hole into the denim of his jeans; eviscerating and enough to drive a man mad (which they had been doing ever since Sydney scavenged them out months ago). "Oh, I'm not sure if—"

  "I'm Anya," she interjected smoothly, offering out a hand. Matt moved to shake it instantly, her touch just as detached and apathetic as her stare. Cold, too. "I handle any kind of dispute or complaints about this facility—I'm sure I can handle any questions you might have about those files tucked away into your back pocket?"

  Matt gulped. "Oh, you're good." She smirked, lifting a complacent shoulder. "But, I suppose you'd have to be...You know—corrupt place like this. Missing kids, lab experiments, illegal human experimenting program—i'm sure you have a lot of, what was it you called it, disputes and complaints?"

  If Anya's smirk wavered at all, it was only for a second. She let his words seep in nonchalantly, before taking her a step forward, until there wasn't much space between them at all. She was even prettier up close.

  "How about we arrange a proper meeting, hm?" Anya let her eyes idly sweep over his features, mouth manipulated into a cruel smile. "We can talk all about Christine Sommers."

  "How did you—"

  "I'm good at my job, Matthew," she drawled. "So, how's the day after tomorrow for you, Mr. McConnell? Wouldn't want you to miss Halloween, I'm sure there's a lot of serious police duty for you to be doing."

  Her taunts drilled into his skull like a lobotomy and made him shiver. "Yeah. Okay. Day after tomorrow."

  "Perfect."

  And he watched disappear behind the door behind her, not feeling placated or anaesthetized at all.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

wow, i'm not happy w this chapter AT ALL lmao. but it's set up some core plot-points. aka, sydney & billy's immediate attraction to her (she sees smth which can help her on her self-sabotaging path, he sees someone  to manipulate). however, sydney & billy will NOT have a real relationship. i love billy as an antagonist, sure. as an interesting character. not as a human being, cuz he's a racist, abusive piece of shit.

my writing has went majorly downhill w this, it's just dry, and i'm sorry for that. but that's cuz it's very much a filler chapter. BUTTTTT next one is halloween...... *anakin skywalker voice* this is where the fun begins.