Chapter 43: Eleven's Training
Steve
The woods behind my house smelled like autumn decay. Frost crunched underfoot, morning sun filtering through bare branches. Perfect conditions for what El needed to learn.
She stood in the clearing, small and fierce in the oversized flannel Hopper had given her. Her hair had grown out since last year, no longer buzzed, curling around her ears. Those eyes held determination that made her seem older than twelve.
"Show me what you can do," I said.
El's brow furrowed. A fallen branch lifted from the ground, hovering at chest height. She maintained it there, steady, controlled.
"Good. Now punch it."
Her confusion was immediate. "Punch?"
"Your powers are incredible, but if something gets close before you can react, you need options." I demonstrated—quick jab, cross, uppercut. "Telekinesis and physical combat. Combined."
She mimicked my stance, awkward at first. Fight Master calculated corrections automatically.
"Weight on your front foot. Hands up to protect your face." I adjusted her position gently. "Now hit the branch while holding it with your mind."
El's concentration intensified. The branch trembled in midair. She threw a punch—sloppy form, but the branch flew backward like I'd shot it from a cannon, slamming into a tree trunk with enough force to crack bark.
Her grin was pure sunshine.
"Again."
We drilled for two hours. Fight Master let me teach efficiently, breaking down complex movements into digestible steps. El absorbed everything with frightening speed—lift, strike, throw. Telekinetic grab followed by roundhouse kick. Psychic shield while advancing with combinations.
She was devastating.
A tree branch became her target dummy. She lifted it, spun it horizontally, followed with a kick Steve had taught her, then slammed the whole thing into the ground hard enough to split wood.
"Better," I said. "But you're telegraphing. The mind-lift gives away what you're planning. Mix it up—punch first, then telekinesis. Keep them guessing."
El nodded, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold.
That's when she decided to show off.
Eleven
I wanted Steve proud. He taught me things Hopper couldn't—how to fight without powers, how to be strong even when tired. Made me feel capable instead of protected.
The massive log lay at the clearing's edge. Oak, thick as my torso, heavy enough that it took Hopper and Steve together to move it yesterday.
I could lift it. I knew I could.
My hand extended. Power gathered behind my eyes, pressure building. The log shuddered, bark flaking off as it rolled toward me.
"El, that's too heavy—"
I ignored Steve. Pushed harder.
The log lifted. Six inches. Then a foot. My nose began bleeding, warm trickle I wiped away with my sleeve.
Not enough. I needed more.
I split my concentration—maintaining the psychic shield Steve had taught me while lifting. Two tasks simultaneously. The log rose to chest height, hovering, trembling with the effort.
Pain spiked behind my eyes. Sharp. Growing sharper.
"El, stop!"
But I was committed now. The log was up. I could do this. I could—
My vision tunneled. Red poured from my nose, not trickle but flood. The world tilted sideways.
I felt myself falling before the darkness took me.
Steve
I caught her as she collapsed, twelve-year-old body suddenly boneless in my arms.
Blood everywhere. Her nose, her ears, streaking her pale face like warpaint. The log crashed down ten feet away, shaking the ground.
Pain Heal activated automatically.
The psychic strain hit me like a freight train.
Have you ever had your skull cracked open with an icepick? That's what El's overexertion felt like transferring into me. Not physical pain—psychic agony, dimensional pressure, the sensation of reality itself pressing down on my brain.
I screamed.
Couldn't help it. The corruption in my veins surged, feeding on the psychic energy, black lines spreading down my neck. My eyes went completely dark—not just the irises, the entire eye, socket to socket.
El's pain flooded into me. I took it. Absorbed it. Let her nervous system stabilize while mine burned.
This is going to kill you eventually, the Mind Flayer whispered. Absorbing so much corruption. You're becoming more like me than them.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut UP.
The pain faded to manageable levels. El breathed easier in my arms, hemorrhaging stopped, unconscious but stable.
My hands shook. Corruption throbbed through every vein.
"What the hell did you do?"
Mike's voice. Furious.
Mike
I'd been looking for El all morning. Joyce said she'd gone outside with Steve for "training."
Found them in the woods. El unconscious and covered in blood. Steve holding her, his eyes completely black, veins like dark spider webs across his face.
"What the hell did you do?" I repeated, running toward them.
Steve's eyes cleared slowly, black fading to hazel. But those veins remained, visible proof of something wrong spreading through him.
"She pushed too hard," he said, voice rough. "I'm helping."
"Helping? She's bleeding!"
"She's stabilized." He stood carefully, still cradling El. "Nosebleeds are normal with overexertion. It'll pass."
"Normal? Steve, you're—" I gestured at his corrupted face. "What's happening to you?"
"Nothing that matters right now."
"It matters to me! You're turning El into some kind of weapon. Training her until she collapses. What's next? Are you going to do this to the rest of us?"
Steve's expression went cold. Dangerous. The transformation was instant—goofy big brother Steve vanishing, replaced by something harder.
"She's going to fight whether we like it or not," he said quietly. "The Mind Flayer is coming. Demo-dogs are breeding underground. Will is possessed. This isn't a debate, Mike. This is survival training."
"She's twelve!"
"She's a weapon against monsters." Steve's voice held no apology. "I'm making sure she survives it. Would you rather I let her go into battle untrained? Let her die because we were too squeamish to prepare her?"
"I'd rather you didn't treat her like a soldier!"
"Too late. We're all soldiers now."
Hopper emerged from the trees, drawn by the shouting. He took in the scene—El unconscious, me furious, Steve radiating exhausted determination.
"What happened?"
"Steve pushed her too hard," I said.
"I trained her," Steve corrected. "She pushed herself. There's a difference."
Hopper studied Steve's corrupted face, the black veins spreading. Something passed between them—adult understanding I wasn't part of.
"Kid's right," Hopper said finally. "Better she learns with a safety net than figures it out when something's trying to kill her."
"You're siding with him?"
"I'm siding with keeping her alive." Hopper's voice held the weight of hard experience. "War's not fair, Mike. It doesn't care that she's twelve. Better she's prepared."
I looked between them—two men willing to sacrifice a little girl's childhood for tactical advantage. It made me sick.
"This is wrong."
"Maybe," Steve said. "But it's necessary."
I turned away, unable to look at him. At what he was becoming. At what he was turning El into.
Steve
Mike stormed off, shoulders rigid with anger.
Couldn't blame him. He saw someone he cared about getting hurt. Didn't understand the calculus—El hurt a little now versus El dead later.
But I understood. That's what meta-knowledge bought me. The certainty that unprepared kids died.
Hopper helped me carry El back to the bunker. She woke halfway there, groggy and embarrassed.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
"Don't be. You learned your limits. That's important."
"Mike is angry."
"Mike cares about you. That's why he's angry."
"Are you angry?"
I looked at her—small, powerful, carrying weight no kid should carry. "No. I'm proud. You pushed yourself. That takes courage."
She smiled weakly, then frowned at my face. "You're hurt."
"I'll heal."
"Because of me."
"Because that's what I do." I squeezed her shoulder. "Rest. Tomorrow we'll work on sustainable power usage. No more showing off."
"Okay."
Steve
The bunker's medical bay felt too small. Fluorescent lights made my corruption more visible—black veins spreading like circuit traces across pale skin. I looked half-dead.
Felt half-dead too.
El slept on the cot, breathing steady. Her nosebleed had stopped completely, psychic exhaustion healing faster than it should have. Pain Heal working even unconsciously now.
The Mind Flayer's presence pressed against my thoughts, attracted by my weakened state.
Closer every time, traveler. How many more can you absorb before you become me?
I pushed it away. Harder each time, but still possible.
Chrissy entered with coffee, face tight with worry. She'd been watching the whole training session from the tree line, hadn't intervened, but clearly wanted to.
"You're killing yourself saving everyone."
"Better me than them."
She sat beside me, pressed the mug into my shaking hands. "Who saves you?"
Good question. No answer.
She leaned in, kissed my temple where corruption spread darkest. Her lips against poisoned skin—trust that scared me more than the Mind Flayer.
"I can't watch you disappear," she whispered. "I won't survive it."
"You will. You're stronger than you think."
"Don't make me prove it."
We sat in silence, her hand in mine, watching El sleep. The bunker hummed with activity above—Bob coordinating tunnel data, Dustin building communications networks, Nancy and Jonathan analyzing photos.
Everyone preparing for war.
And me, corrupting myself piece by piece to keep them alive.
The coffee tasted like ash.
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