chapter sixteen:
❛ the consequences ❜

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Across the rink, the scene was chaotic. The paramedics had arrived quickly, their bright, fluorescent vests cutting through the disarray of flashing lights and the murmurs of bystanders. Angela was lying on the ground, her body limp and vulnerable, her face a grotesque mask of swelling, bruises, and blood. The blood was trickling from her broken nose, splattering against her pale skin, some of it already drying in streaks that stained her cheeks. Her eyes were wide but unfocused, glassy from the shock, the kind of look that told anyone watching she had yet to fully comprehend the extent of what had happened.

Stacy was kneeling beside her, doing what she could to help. Her hands were trembling as she pressed a piece of gauze firmly against Angela's nose, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. The gauze was already soaked, and Stacy had to switch it out quickly, her fingers shaking from a mixture of fear and urgency. She leaned in close, speaking to Angela softly, though her words barely seemed to reach her friend.

"Angela, hey... stay with me, okay?" Stacy's voice was strained, her breath shallow. "You're going to be alright. Just breathe, okay?"

Angela's lips parted, but it was unclear if she even heard her. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, her breaths shallow and ragged. It was almost as if her mind couldn't keep up with the overwhelming pain, the dizziness, and the confusion.

The paramedic crouched beside her, his presence calming in contrast to the frantic energy around them. He was tall, his movements steady as he assessed Angela's condition. His hands were professional as they moved over her body, checking her pulse and looking for any signs of a more serious injury. He had seen this kind of thing before-injuries from fights, from accidents-but the sight of Angela's broken body still troubled him. There was blood, and that was never a good sign.

"Can you tell me your name?" the paramedic asked, his voice firm but gentle, trying to pull her focus back. He looked into her eyes, searching for some kind of connection.

Angela blinked slowly, her eyelids dragging as if each movement required an immense amount of effort. Her head was spinning, her thoughts fractured. She could hear the voice of the paramedic, but it was muffled, distant, like she was underwater. She tried to lift her hand to her face, to wipe away the blood, but her arms felt too heavy, like they didn't belong to her.

"Um... Angela," she stammered, her voice thin and shaky. It was a name she almost didn't recognize. Her own voice sounded foreign, weak. But it was hers, and the fact that she could remember it felt like a victory, even if she wasn't sure where she was or what was happening.

The paramedic nodded, his hands continuing their work as he spoke to her, trying to ground her in the moment. "Angela, do you know where you are?" His voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there, an underlying need to make sure she was still with him.

"Rink... Rink-O-Mania, I think," she mumbled, her voice trailing off as if even that simple answer required more effort than she could give. Her words were soft, uncertain, as though she wasn't entirely convinced that what she was saying was true. The rink's name sounded distant in her ears, not quite real.

The paramedic's face softened with relief, though he didn't show it outwardly. "Rink-O-Mania. Very good," he said, his tone reassuring, though the blood on the floor and the flickering lights above them suggested things weren't as good as he would have liked. He continued his assessment, trying to keep Angela calm as he checked her vitals.

But across the rink, the scene wasn't just about Angela anymore. Wren stood on the sidelines, his eyes wide with disbelief. His mind was still reeling from the shock of what had happened, his stomach churning in a mixture of guilt and horror. The anger that had flared moments ago seemed to be fading, replaced by the stark realization of what had just unfolded in front of him. Jane had gone too far. He had watched it happen-watched Angela take the brunt of Jane's fury, and it sickened him.

"This is insane," Wren muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, but it carried an undertone of panic. His gaze darted between Angela's battered form and Will, as if searching for some kind of explanation that made sense. "I can't believe Jane did this. She just... she just snapped." His words faltered at the end, the weight of what had happened making it hard for him to keep his composure. He hadn't known it would escalate like this. He hadn't known it would get this violent.

Will looked at him, the worry clear on his face. He was trying to process it too, but his eyes flickered nervously to the scene with Angela, the paramedics, and the other onlookers. The situation had spiraled too quickly, and Will was struggling to come to terms with the fact that this wasn't just a misunderstanding. This was something worse.

Mike stood close by, his face tight with concern, but there was something else there too-something dark and simmering. His attention was no longer entirely on Angela or the paramedics; instead, it was fixed on Wren, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed.

"This is all your fault," Mike snapped, his voice sharp and accusing. His words felt like daggers, cutting through the tension in the air. He didn't even wait for Wren to respond, his gaze burning with frustration as he glared at him.

Wren's chest tightened in response, a mixture of guilt and anger rising in him. He didn't need to be told. He already knew. "Just shut up, Mike," Wren spat, his voice low but laced with frustration. He didn't have the energy for this, not now. Not when Angela was lying there, barely conscious. Not when he was already drowning in his own guilt.

But Mike wasn't done. "You think this is all just some fucking joke?" he barked, his voice rising as his anger reached a boiling point. But Wren didn't even react. He just looked at Mike with cold eyes, too overwhelmed by what had just happened to argue back.

His gaze shifted to Eleven, sitting on a nearby bench. She was hunched over, her back rounded in on herself, her arms wrapped around her knees in a way that made her look small, fragile. Her face was drawn tight with the kind of sorrow that came from deep, internal pain. But it was more than just sadness-it was rage. A quiet, simmering rage that pulsed beneath the surface, flickering in her eyes as she rocked back and forth, trying to find some kind of solace in the chaos around her.

Wren's heart clenched as he watched her, his stomach sinking. She looked completely shattered, her usual fiery spirit drowned out by the weight of everything. The girl who had always been strong, always been the one to fight for what was right, now seemed utterly defeated.

She was angry, no doubt. But there was a helplessness in her anger, something that made it feel less like a fight and more like an escape. Wren didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to help her.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, but before he could move, Mike spoke again, his voice tight with emotion. "This whole damn thing is falling apart, and it's because of you."

But Wren didn't have time for Mike. His eyes were locked on Eleven, and all he could think was that he needed to get to her. She needed him, even if she didn't know it yet. But as he took a step toward her, the chaos of the rink swallowed him whole, and he was left standing, helpless.

Wren sat in the back of the van, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to create some kind of barrier between himself and the weight of what had just happened. The hum of the tires on the road was the only constant sound, but it did nothing to ground him. The events at Rink-O-Mania felt like they had happened hours ago, though in reality it had been less than an hour. The chaos still clung to him like a second skin, suffocating him with its weight. His mind replayed that moment over and over-the lights flickering overhead, the overwhelming sense of power barely held in check, and then the blood. The blood on Angela's face. The horror in Mike's eyes when he turned to Eleven and asked, "El, what did you do?" His stomach churned every time the words replayed in his mind.

Beside him, Mike sat, his expression distant, his eyes focused on some unseen point far out the window. He was completely lost in his own world, his body present but his mind elsewhere. His silence was deafening, amplifying the isolation Wren felt. It was as though he was in the van alone, with nothing but the weight of his thoughts and the memories of the chaos he had witnessed.

Eleven sat across from him, her arms folded tightly over her chest, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of everything that had unfolded. Wren could see the dried streaks of mascara on her face, the evidence of tears she had tried to wipe away in the aftermath of everything. Her eyes, usually bright with intensity, were dull and exhausted, like she was carrying a burden far too heavy for her shoulders. She wasn't speaking, just staring out the window, lost in her thoughts.

Will sat beside her, his body slouched, staring out the window with a detached expression on his face. His gaze was empty, like he was physically present but mentally miles away, his thoughts trapped in some far-off place Wren couldn't reach.

In the front seats, Jonathan and Argyle were as high as usual, the only two people who seemed unaffected by the tension that weighed down the van. Argyle lazily guided the van down the road, his hands barely gripping the wheel as he drifted in and out of focus. Wren couldn't even be bothered to pay attention to the quiet conversation between them; their words were just background noise to him, a soft hum that barely registered as his mind spiraled.

He tried to ground himself, tried to focus on his breathing, to push the panic down, but every time he closed his eyes, the images flooded back: Angela's crumpled form, the blood pooling on the rink floor, the screams of the crowd as chaos erupted. His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening with guilt and fear. He didn't understand why Jane had done what she did. He kept replaying the words he had said to her in the moments leading up to it. Had something come out wrong? Was it his fault? The question looped endlessly in his mind, each thought more suffocating than the last.

"I know this may be, like, upsetting and shit," Argyle's voice suddenly cut through the thick silence in the van, his tone completely indifferent, as though the gravity of the situation had passed him by. "But that future prom queen is gonna be fine. It's just, like, rubber wheels." He glanced back at the others through the rearview mirror, his eyes half-lidded, his words drawn out as if they were part of a sleepy monologue.

"Plastic," Jonathan corrected, his voice slow and slurred, the words stumbling out of his mouth as though they were a struggle to form. He blinked slowly, trying to keep his eyes open, clearly feeling the effects of whatever he and Argyle had been indulging in.

"Ohhh," Argyle nodded thoughtfully, as if he had just discovered something profound. "Not like, hard plastic, though. Just... you know, the soft kind."

Jonathan nodded lazily in agreement, barely reacting. "Totally."

Wren rolled his eyes, frustration and disbelief bubbling up in his chest. The two of them were completely out of touch with the reality of the situation. But despite how ridiculous their banter was, it had an odd, calming effect on him. It was like white noise, the senseless chatter filling the silence and blocking out the dark thoughts that kept threatening to overtake him. It wasn't much, but it was something. He exhaled deeply, letting his body relax just slightly, before leaning his head against Eleven's shoulder. She didn't react, but Wren found comfort in the solid, steady presence beside him. In that moment, he just needed something-someone-to anchor him, to stop the guilt from drowning him completely.

"So people don't get hurt when they get shmacked," Argyle continued, his voice drifting lazily through the air like smoke, but Wren's mind barely registered it. He stared out the window, the blur of trees and darkening sky a disorienting mix of motion and stillness.

"Oh," Jonathan murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "Yeah... 'cause it happens more than you think, man. Roller skate attacks." His words were slow and deliberate, as if he had just stumbled upon a great truth, and it hung in the air like a revelation.

Argyle nodded sagely, his eyes still half-closed, as though every word he spoke held the weight of the world. "Man. Hey, at least it wasn't an ice skate," he added, his tone lifting slightly, as though trying to lighten the mood. "That nose would've been sliced clean off, man."

Jonathan gasped, his eyes wide in exaggerated horror, and nodded in agreement. "It could've been so much worse."

Wren clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to snap. He could see Eleven's shoulders hunched slightly, her face turned away from the group, trying to hold herself together. The tears that glistened in her eyes were barely visible, but Wren could see the strain, the weight of the guilt pulling at her. Argyle and Jonathan's idiotic rambling wasn't helping. It didn't make her feel better. It wasn't easing the pain she felt. It was just background noise to the storm raging inside of her.

"So much worse," Argyle repeated, as if he were trying to convince himself, his voice trailing off like an echo.

Jonathan, too, chimed in, his voice thick with some kind of half-hearted reassurance. "So much worse." He nodded slowly, his head bobbing in rhythm with the words.

Wren had enough. "You guys aren't helping," he snapped, his voice cutting through the haze of absurdity that had overtaken the van. His tone was sharp, louder than he had intended, but it was a necessary interruption. His anger flared, but it wasn't directed at Argyle and Jonathan-not entirely. He was frustrated with the world, with everything that had just happened, and their mindless chatter was only making it worse.

Argyle and Jonathan fell silent instantly, though neither of them seemed particularly fazed. They were lost in their own little world, oblivious to the turmoil in the back of the van, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone else.

"In the grand scheme of things," Jonathan murmured after a moment, his voice quiet but still slurred, "it's just a little blip."

"Blip," Argyle repeated, his voice rising slightly as if he had discovered the meaning of life. He grinned. "That's a funny word, man."

Jonathan chuckled, and they both exchanged an unspoken, sleep-deprived connection. "Blip."

"Blip," Argyle repeated, giggling softly.

"Blip, blip, blip, blip, blip," they chanted in unison, their voices a surreal soundtrack to the emotional chaos swirling around them.

Wren's patience snapped. "Shut the fuck up! God!" His yell rang out, cutting through the nonsense like a knife.

The van fell silent, the abruptness of his outburst startling everyone into stillness. Jonathan and Argyle, still processing the world in their haze, exchanged a brief glance before quieting down. Eleven didn't react-didn't even look at him-but Wren could see the tension in her posture, the tightness in her shoulders as she tried to hold it all in.

The guilt, the fear, the helplessness-it all welled up inside him again, but now there was something else too. Frustration. Anger. He wanted answers. He wanted something to make sense of all of this. But all he could do was sit there in silence, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him as the van continued down the road.

As Wren, El, Will, Mike, Jonathan, and Argyle trudged through the front door of the Byers' home, they were immediately greeted by the unexpected sound of Russian music blasting through the house. The unfamiliar, yet oddly atmospheric melody swirled through the air, creating an eerie contrast to the exhaustion and chaos that had followed them through the day. Wren's brows furrowed, and he exchanged a questioning glance with Eleven. Will, who had entered first, called out with his usual tone, though it seemed a little quieter, "Mom?"

The faint smell of something cooking began to waft from the kitchen, and despite the bizarre noise and sense of tension still lingering in their minds, the group instinctively made their way toward it. As they rounded the corner, they were met with a sight that was jarring in its absurdity: Murray Bauman, the conspiracy theorist from Hawkins, was standing at the stove in an apron, stirring a large pot of what appeared to be risotto. The sight was nothing short of surreal-Murray, the man who had spent so many hours discussing secret government operations and strange happenings, now standing in a kitchen like some sort of misplaced home cook.

Wren blinked, his mind struggling to process the scene in front of him. His brain couldn't quite mesh the man in the apron with the chaos of their day. He exchanged another confused glance with El, but she only shrugged, equally perplexed by the domestic picture unfolding before them.

Murray, seemingly unbothered by their arrival, wiped his hands on his apron before turning around with a smile that oozed his usual, unshakable sense of confidence. "Well, well! Aren't you lot a sight for sore eyes, huh?" His voice boomed with exaggerated cheer, completely at odds with the somber mood they'd been carrying.

Jonathan was the first to react, swaying slightly as he waved lazily at Murray. His movements were slow, and he looked more than a little disoriented, the remnants of whatever he and Argyle had smoked earlier clouding his judgment. He leaned against the doorframe for support, chuckling to himself in a half-dazed stupor. "Hi, Murray," Jonathan said, the words slurring just a bit.

Murray grinned wider, his eyes twinkling with the same conspiratorial gleam that Wren had come to associate with him. "Well, hello there, Jonathan!" he boomed, giving an exaggerated wave in response. "You kids like risotto?" he asked with a raise of his eyebrow, as if this was some kind of loaded question.

The others stood there, frozen for a beat, caught in the strangeness of it all. Wren and Eleven exchanged another glance, unsure how to respond to the bizarre turn of events. "Uh, yeah," Jonathan answered with a goofy, unfazed laugh, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was clear he was either too high to be phased or simply too accustomed to Murray's antics to find this particularly shocking.

Murray smirked knowingly, and without waiting for a real response, turned back to the stove. "Good, because I've been working on this all day," he said, stirring the pot with a flourish. "It's a recipe I picked up during my... travels." He winked dramatically, as if there was some secret meaning hidden in the sentence. Wren couldn't help but roll his eyes at the implication that Murray's "travels" were as enigmatic as the man himself. A part of him wondered if Murray had ever even traveled anywhere that didn't involve getting involved in a strange investigation or an underground mission.

Wren muttered under his breath, the absurdity of the situation finally getting to him. "Is this really happening?" he asked El, his voice barely audible over the sound of the music. El gave a small, bewildered nod, her lips pressed into a tight line. It was as if they were caught in the middle of a bizarre dream-one that collided with their real life in the strangest way. The surreal nature of it all felt completely out of place, especially after everything that had happened earlier at the rink. It was hard to believe they were now standing in a kitchen, listening to Russian music, with Murray Bauman stirring risotto like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Murray, apparently oblivious to the confusion swirling around them, waved them over to the kitchen counter, his cheerfulness unwavering. "Come try these cookies!" he called out, his tone far too casual. "You'll love them. I added your guys' favorite-white chocolate and macadamia nuts!" His voice was full of a carefree exuberance that seemed wildly out of place after the emotional wreckage they had just left behind.

Wren shook his head in disbelief, the absurdity of it all washing over him. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the casual nature of Murray's antics, the contrast between his bright cheer and the weight of what they had just experienced was jarring. But despite the growing frustration, part of Wren almost wanted to laugh at how utterly strange everything had become. It felt like they had entered a world where nothing made sense-and yet here they were, being offered cookies by a man who had just played a strange role in their lives and was now acting like nothing had happened at all.

At the dinner table, Wren sat in the middle, wedged between Mike and Eleven, his fork aimlessly poking at his food. He wasn't particularly hungry, but the act of picking at his plate kept him distracted from the tension that practically crackled in the air around him. Every now and then, his eyes would flicker to Eleven, whose mood was growing darker by the second. She was quiet, too quiet, and her mood had shifted from curious to downright irritated in a matter of minutes. Mike, who sat next to her, kept his gaze fixed on the far end of the table, refusing to make eye contact with her. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible wall had gone up that neither one was willing to break.

Across from them, Murray was in full storytelling mode, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing between the two teens. With an exaggerated flourish, he leaned in, as if the tale he was about to tell was a matter of great importance. "So there I was," he began, his voice rising with enthusiasm, "headed down the I-5, going to see a client in Ventura. I'm looking for a motel to stay for the night, when all of a sudden-bam!" Murray slammed his hand on the table with a loud thud, causing a few startled glances around the room. "It hits me. Didn't the Byers move here?"

Joyce, sitting across the table, smiled in recognition of the coincidence, though her eyes seemed distracted. She offered a small laugh. "Small world, isn't it? It's a small world," she added, trying to keep things light, though it was clear to Wren that she was growing uncomfortable with the growing awkwardness of the room.

Murray didn't seem to notice Joyce's unease, pushing ahead with his story. He chuckled to himself, his voice thick with excitement. "So I thought, hey, why not drop in and say hello to my old friends? A little surprise visit never hurt anyone, right?"

Joyce nodded politely, though her eyes were darting around, searching for a way out of the tension. "It's so sweet of you," she said, her words perhaps a little too measured, like she was trying to steer the conversation away from the strain that was thick in the air. Wren noticed how her gaze often flitted toward Jonathan, who appeared miles away, clearly more interested in something else, possibly lost in his own world or still coming down from his earlier high.

"Sweeter of you to let me stay," Murray quipped, with a grin that seemed too broad for the moment.

"And he cooks! Why not?" Joyce added, her voice carrying a lighter tone, hoping to inject some humor into the conversation.

Murray, leaning back in his chair, gave a smug smile. "Mm, and cleans. A regular little housewife."

Wren's eyes narrowed at the comment. Something was off. The forced humor, the way the conversation danced around topics like it was all one big game-it felt too practiced. Wren couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on here, that Murray's "surprise visit" wasn't as innocent as he was making it seem. Scarlett had already voiced her suspicions, and now Wren was starting to agree with her. This didn't feel like just a casual drop-in. There was something more to it.

Joyce, picking up on the sudden silence, broke the tension with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You should stay," she suggested, though it sounded like a polite offer more than a genuine invitation.

Murray waved it off with a dismissive gesture, "I'd be tempted, Joyce, but you know, you've got that, uh..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely for Joyce to fill in the blank.

Joyce immediately picked up the cue. "Right! Well," she said quickly, shifting her focus back to the kids, "I'm going on a trip."

Will, who had been eating quietly, suddenly stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What?" he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and confusion. "Where are you going?" he pressed, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected revelation.

Wren, intrigued and slightly suspicious, leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with a hint of concern.

Joyce hesitated for a brief second, glancing nervously at Murray before answering, "Business trip."

Will, frowning, looked at his mother as though waiting for further clarification. "Business trip? What business trip?"

"It's something that came up at work," Joyce stammered, struggling to keep the lie straight, her words faltering. "Turns out Murray and I need to go to a conference tomorrow."

"In Alaska," Joyce added casually, her tone so nonchalant that it almost felt rehearsed, as though she was trying too hard to make it sound like an everyday occurrence.

Wren and Will exchanged a look of surprise, their eyes widening in unison. "Alaska?" they asked, the word hanging in the air as if they couldn't quite believe it.

"Tomorrow?" Mike added at the same time, his voice filled with equal parts confusion and skepticism.

Murray chuckled softly, clearly amused by their reactions. "Crazy, right?" he said, clearly enjoying the disorienting effect his news was having on everyone else.

Joyce, sensing that things were getting out of hand, quickly added, "That's where they're based-the Britannicas. Joan and Brian Britannica!"

Before anyone could question further, Argyle, ever the wildcard, chimed in with an entirely out-of-place question, looking directly at Murray. "So, do Eskimos, like, still live in igloos? Or, uh, are they, like, fully-blown living in the suburbs now?"

Murray blinked at him, clearly baffled by the sudden shift in topic. He turned to Joyce with an incredulous look. "Who is this?" he asked, gesturing toward Argyle, his confusion apparent.

Joyce, not missing a beat, ignored the question entirely. "Jonathan," she said, her voice shifting back to more serious matters, "this means you'll need to, you know, take charge while I'm gone."

Jonathan, still clearly spaced out, blinked a few times as he tried to process her words. "Wait, what? What's going on?" he mumbled, his speech slow and slurred, a sign that he wasn't quite all there. He continued to shovel food into his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the growing tension at the table.

Will, feeling the weight of the situation, groaned in embarrassment, muttering under his breath, "Oh my God..." He couldn't believe how clueless his brother was, and the moment felt like it was spiraling out of control.

Wren couldn't help himself either; he slapped his forehead with a groan of frustration.

Argyle, never one to be deterred by awkwardness, leaned over to Jonathan as if he were imparting some grand, life-altering revelation. "Your mom is going to Alaska," he whispered, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jonathan blinked at him, still confused. "You're going to Alaska?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief as he turned toward his mom. "What's going on in Alaska?" he asked again, still not grasping the full picture.

"The Britannicas are there," Argyle explained in his usual, matter-of-fact tone, as if that somehow solved everything.

Jonathan repeated the name, trying to catch up to the conversation. "The Britannicas?"

Joyce, clearly fed up with Jonathan's lack of comprehension, narrowed her eyes at him. "Jonathan, what is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice edged with frustration.

Murray muttered under his breath, "I think I know what's wrong with him," though his words were drowned out by the rising tension.

Wren, unable to hold back, let out a short laugh, his disbelief over the absurdity of the situation leaking through. The whole dinner felt like a circus, with everyone playing their part to perfection, but Wren could tell something was off. He knew better than to take things at face value, and this was one of those moments.

Jonathan, still trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left, shrugged. "We just had a super stressful day," he said, his words a half-hearted attempt at defending himself.

Argyle, ever the eager source of unsolicited commentary, added, "This girl got shmacked in the head today at the roller rink."

Wren's eyes widened in horror, and he couldn't help but glance toward Eleven, whose face had drained of color as all eyes turned to her. "Shmacked?" Murray and Carrie asked in unison, their voices filled with equal parts confusion and concern.

"Yeah, one of those vicious skate attacks," Argyle continued, nodding sagely as though he had any idea what he was talking about.

Murray raised an eyebrow, clearly baffled. "A skate attack?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't an ice skate. It was... it was a plastic skate," Jonathan explained, his voice slow and sluggish.

"No, it was, like, rubber," Argyle corrected, with a look of finality, as though that was the most important detail.

"Rubber," Jonathan echoed weakly.

"Rubber," Joyce repeated, staring at Jonathan like she was trying to decipher a foreign language.

"Yeah, anyway," Argyle continued, unfazed by the oddness of the conversation, "she looked like she's gonna be fine."

"She's totally fine," Jonathan added dismissively, as though it was no big deal.

Mike, who had been glaring at Eleven the whole time, finally spoke up, his voice sharp and cold. "She didn't look fine," he said, his words slicing through the conversation.

Eleven's face fell, a mixture of anger and hurt bubbling up inside her. Without another word, she stood up, slamming her fork down on the table. She stormed off to her room, the weight of Mike's words settling heavily on her chest.

Wren slapped Mike on the back of the head. "Way to go, idiot," he muttered under his breath, his frustration boiling over.

Joyce turned to Mike, her eyes wide with confusion. "Mike, what happened?" she asked, but Mike remained silent, his jaw clenched, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Wren, along with Will, avoided meeting Joyce's gaze. The entire table felt heavy with unanswered questions, and Joyce's growing unease was palpable. Something was seriously wrong, and the walls of the Byers' home suddenly felt like they were closing in.

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, muted glow over the room. Wren was sprawled out on the bed, his body tangled in the blankets, still lost in the haze of sleep. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the house waking up around him. His dreams were disjointed, a blur of flashing lights and muffled voices, when suddenly, a pillow hit him square in the face.

"Wren!" Will's voice rang out, louder than Wren was prepared for. "Wake up! You need to come downstairs-NOW."

Wren groaned, lifting his head slowly, his eyes barely open as he wiped the sleep away. "What the hell, Will?" he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion. He reached for the pillow that had assaulted him, throwing it aside. "Can't a guy get a few hours of sleep?"

"Forget sleep!" Will's urgency shot through the room, and his tone was frantic. "The cops are here. They're arresting El. They said it's because of what happened at the roller rink!"

Wren's eyes snapped open at that. His heart skipped a beat, the grogginess fading instantly as the weight of the words sank in. "What?" He threw the covers off his legs in one swift motion, stumbling to his feet. The room spun slightly as he made his way to the door. "El's what? Arrested?"

Will nodded, his face pale and wide-eyed. "Come on! You need to talk to them, Wren. You're the only one who can-maybe get them to listen."

Without another word, Wren charged down the stairs, his mind racing. His past with the law flashed in front of his eyes, memories of his time in juvie flooding back. He'd seen enough cops to know how they worked, but this-this wasn't something he was prepared for. El? Arrested? That wasn't supposed to happen.

As soon as he stepped into the living room, his eyes locked onto the scene unfolding in front of him. Two officers stood by the door, their stern faces shadowed with impatience. Eleven was standing there, hands cuffed behind her back, her expression a mixture of shock and defiance. Joyce and Jonathan were standing off to the side, frozen in place, their faces ashen, too overwhelmed to act.

Wren's heart clenched. This wasn't right. He had to do something.

One of the officers glanced up as Wren entered the room, and Wren immediately strode forward, a sudden wave of adrenaline fueling his steps. He raised his hands in a calm gesture, his voice steady but firm. "Excuse me, officers, I need to speak with you."

The taller officer didn't even flinch. "You're the kid's friend, right?" he asked, his voice cold, almost dismissive. "There's nothing to talk about. She's being arrested for the assault that happened at the roller rink last night."

Wren felt a surge of frustration. "You don't understand. She didn't do anything. She's not the one who caused any trouble." His gaze flicked to Eleven, who was staring down at the floor, clearly too shaken to speak for herself.

"She was involved in the incident," the second officer interrupted, his voice stern and unwavering. "We have statements. It's clear she was in the middle of it."

Wren's fists clenched at his sides, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how to convince them. He knew how the system worked all too well. He'd been on the wrong side of it before, but that didn't mean he was going to let El go down for something she didn't do.

"I used to be in juvie, okay?" Wren said, his voice rising slightly. "I've been there. I know how it works. You can't just arrest her based on some statements. You need proof, you need witnesses. You can't just-"

The first officer's face twisted with impatience. "Save your sob story. The kid's already been implicated. If you've got something to say, say it. Otherwise, she's coming with us."

Wren could feel the panic starting to crawl up his spine. His mind was working a mile a minute, but no words seemed to come. They weren't listening. They didn't care. This wasn't going anywhere. He took a step closer to El, his gaze locking with hers.

"El," he said, his voice softer now, more of a plea than an order. "I'm gonna figure this out, okay? You're gonna be fine."

El looked up at him, her eyes full of uncertainty and fear. "Wren, I didn't-I didn't mean to do it." she whispered, her voice barely audible, but he heard it loud and clear.

Wren's gut twisted. He wanted to shout, to argue with the cops, but he knew it was futile. They wouldn't listen, not now. Not when they'd already made up their minds.

He turned back to the officers, a dark realization settling in his chest. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He had no leverage here. No way to change their minds. All he could do now was watch as they led El out the door, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, and Wren stood there for a moment, frozen. It felt like the world had shifted underneath his feet, and for the first time in a long while, he was powerless.

Wren, Mike, Will, and Jonathan stormed into the police station, their footsteps quick and urgent against the tile floor. Their hearts pounded in sync, their collective adrenaline pushing them forward. Wren led the way, practically jogging ahead, his breaths sharp and uneven as he approached the front desk. The boys followed close behind, their eyes darting nervously around the station.

"Jane Hopper! Check the system!" Wren barked, leaning against the counter to catch his breath. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his hands gripped the edge of the desk tightly. His voice was strained with desperation.

The woman sitting at the desk raised an unimpressed eyebrow before typing into her computer, the clack of her nails on the keyboard the only sound breaking the tense silence. "Jane Hopper..." she muttered, her eyes narrowing at the screen. A pause. "Okay, yes, I see her now. It looks like she's still being processed."

Wren ran a hand through his hair in frustration as Jonathan stepped forward. "Okay. So, what does that mean exactly?" Jonathan asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

The woman glanced up, clearly unfazed by their panic. "It means they're putting her in the system. Processing paperwork, fingerprints, mugshots-the usual."

Wren scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. "This takes ages! It's the slowest thing in the world."

"Yep," the woman said dryly, "and once she's processed, she'll be transferred to juvenile hall."

Wren froze, his eyes widening in shock. "What!?" he blurted out, his voice sharp enough to turn heads in the station.

Will mirrored him, his voice cracking. "Jail? You're gonna put her in jail?"

Mike pushed forward, his disbelief turning into anger. "She won't survive in there! You don't understand-she doesn't belong in a place like that!"

"I've been to juvie!" Wren snapped, his voice loud and cutting through the air. He slammed his palm against the desk, causing the woman to flinch slightly. "I know what it's like! They'll eat her alive in there. You think it's just detention? It's not! It's hell!"

"It's a detention hall for juveniles," the woman corrected, her tone clipped and detached.

"That's jail," Wren and Mike said in unison, their voices tight and defiant.

Jonathan stepped up again, trying to reason. "Hey, look, is there any chance we can just see her? Just for a minute-please."

The woman didn't even blink. "Are you a parent or guardian?" she asked pointedly.

Jonathan hesitated, trying to think of what to say. "No, but-"

Wren had heard enough. His patience snapped like a rubber band stretched too far. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the police station, his heavy boots echoing with every step.

"Wren!" Mike called after him, but Wren didn't stop. He shoved the doors open and stepped into the cool air outside, his mind racing with frustration and desperation. He knew they wouldn't get anywhere waiting around. If the cops wanted to play hardball, he'd find his own way to fix this.

His eyes scanned the street until they landed on a small, grungy bar across the road. And there, parked to the side of it, was a motorcycle-beat-up, but functional. Wren's mind clicked into gear. Without hesitating, he jogged toward the bar, his steps quick and deliberate. He barely glanced around as he approached the motorcycle, crouching to fiddle with the ignition wires.

"Sorry, man," Wren muttered under his breath, glancing at the bar window to make sure no one had noticed him. With practiced hands, he sparked the bike to life, the engine sputtering before roaring awake. "I'll bring it back. Probably."

Revving the engine, Wren tore out of the lot and onto the street, his eyes darting for the van he knew would be transferring El. He didn't have to look far-down the road, he spotted a white police transport van pulling away from the station.

"There you are," Wren muttered, leaning forward and gripping the handlebars tightly. The motorcycle roared as he sped up, weaving through traffic to follow the van. The cool wind bit at his face as his heart raced faster than the bike. He couldn't let El go. Not like this.

As he closed the distance, his adrenaline spiked again. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two black sedans speeding behind him, their movements too deliberate to be coincidence. His jaw clenched. "Shit," he hissed.

The cars gained on him, the squeal of their tires echoing through the empty stretch of road. Thinking fast, Wren swerved, cutting across lanes and skidding dangerously close to the van. He yanked the handlebars to the right and kicked off the pavement, sending the motorcycle into a reckless, mid-air flip. The bike landed hard with a screech of rubber against asphalt, but Wren didn't stop. His body ached, but he pushed forward, now riding directly alongside the van.

With one hand gripping the bike, Wren reached for the back doors of the van, yanking at the handle. It was locked. "Come on, come on!" he growled, wrenching at it again. The latch gave way with a sharp clank, and the doors swung open.

Inside, El's wide eyes locked onto him. She was sitting on the bench, handcuffed, her expression one of disbelief. "Wren?!"

"Jump!" Wren shouted over the roar of the engine. "Come on, El!"

"I can't-" she started to say, but Wren reached for her, leaning off the side of the bike to grab her arm. With a sharp pull, El tumbled out of the van, the two of them falling to the pavement. The motorcycle skidded out from under Wren, sparks flying as it crashed to the side.

Wren hit the ground hard, the impact sending shockwaves through his body. He groaned, his vision blurring as his head smacked the pavement. For a moment, everything was dark.

"Wren!" El's voice echoed faintly through the haze.

Wren's eyes fluttered, trying to focus, but all he could see were shadowy figures closing in. Two officers sprinted toward them. Before Wren could move, he felt El being pulled away.

"No-El!" he rasped, struggling to push himself up, but his limbs wouldn't respond. Pain radiated through his body, anchoring him to the cold asphalt.

He watched helplessly as the officers grabbed El, dragging her back toward the van. She twisted in their grip, shouting Wren's name, but he couldn't do anything. His head slumped back to the ground, and the world faded out again.

Wren woke with a jolt, his head pounding as if someone had taken a hammer to his skull. His vision swam, the dim light inside the van blurring shapes together into smudges of gray and black. He blinked rapidly, his breathing quick and shallow as the room-no, not a room-a vehicle, started to come into focus. He was lying against cold, hard metal, his wrists pulled uncomfortably behind his back, the plastic zip ties digging into his skin like teeth.

His first instinct was panic. His body tensed, and he yanked his arms, only to hiss through clenched teeth as the zip ties burned against his skin. The tightness of the bonds made him feel claustrophobic, and his pulse spiked, drumming in his ears. He scanned the van desperately, squinting against the faint light filtering in through the windshield. Up front, a figure sat in the driver's seat-broad-shouldered, silent, with only the faint silhouette of his face visible in the rearview mirror.

Wren's eyes darted around the van. Metal walls. No windows. Just the back doors, bolted shut.

"What the hell?" Wren rasped, his voice hoarse as if he'd been yelling before he blacked out. He yanked at his bindings again, harder this time, feeling the plastic dig deeper. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice ringing through the van, bouncing off the metal walls. He kicked his boot against the floor-bang, bang, bang-the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Hey! Let me out of here! You can't do this! Let me out!"

The figure up front didn't even flinch. He just kept driving, his hands steady on the wheel.

"I said, LET ME OUT!" Wren screamed, twisting and thrashing against his restraints. The panic surged in him like fire, and he kicked violently at the back doors, over and over. The van shook under his force. "I swear to God, I'll tear this thing apart!"

Nothing.

Finally, the man spoke, his voice gravelly and low, like someone who'd smoked a pack a day for years. "You done yet?"

Wren froze, panting as sweat dampened the back of his neck. "No, I'm not done," he snapped. "You better tell me what the hell's going on, or I swear I'll-"

"You'll what?" The man's voice cut him off, cool and condescending. He didn't even turn to look at Wren. "You'll keep screaming? Kicking? Go ahead. Won't do you any good."

Wren ground his teeth, his chest heaving with each breath. "You don't get to-"

"Listen."

The man's voice turned sharper, leaving no room for argument. He reached forward, and Wren heard the loud click of a button being pressed. The sound of crackling static filled the small space, bouncing off the walls.

"What is that?" Wren demanded, twisting his body to get a better look at the dash.

"It's for you," the man said simply. "Shut up and listen."

Wren clenched his fists behind his back. "I'm not listening to anything, you freak-"

The man slammed his hand against the dashboard with a sharp bang, making Wren flinch involuntarily. "I said shut up. Don't make me make you listen."

Wren swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line. The man didn't speak again. Instead, the static crackled louder through the speakers... and then a soft voice broke through.

"Wren?"

Wren froze. His entire body stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice.

"It's me. It's El."

Wren's chest tightened. His head snapped up, staring at the speaker mounted near the front of the van as if El might somehow be there. "El...?" he whispered under his breath.

"I'm okay," her voice continued, trembling but steady. "Owens saved me, and... and he's gonna help me get my powers back." She paused, like she was gathering her thoughts. "I'm gonna become a superhero again."

Wren stared at the speaker, wide-eyed, his throat dry. She sounded alive. Safe. But there was something in her voice-something small and broken-that made his heart clench.

"But I need you to go back to Hawkins," El said, her tone urgent now. "Hawkins is in danger. Max, Lucas, Dustin-everyone is in danger. They need you. You have your teleportation and shadow ability. Help them save Hawkins."

Wren sat back slightly, his mind spinning. "Hawkins... in danger?" he muttered, the words barely leaving his lips.

"I'm off to get my powers back," El continued softly. "Also, please don't cause any trouble... please."

The recording ended with a faint click, and then the van fell silent.

Wren sat there frozen for a long moment, staring blankly ahead as El's words echoed in his mind. Hawkins is in danger. Max. Lucas. Dustin. The others. They need you.

The man's gravelly voice finally broke through Wren's haze. "Now you know."

Wren lifted his head slowly, locking eyes with the man's reflection in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable, his posture relaxed but focused.

"You're taking me back home?" Wren asked, his voice rough, but steady now.

The man nodded once. "That's the deal, kid. Back to Hawkins."

Wren leaned his head back against the cold metal wall, letting his eyes close for a brief moment. His mind was racing, his chest tight with a mix of emotions-relief that El was alive, panic for what was happening in Hawkins, and anger that he'd been taken like this.

Hawkins is in danger.

He opened his eyes again and fixed the man with a hard glare. "Fine," he said quietly. "Take me back."

The hum of the van continued as it sped down the road, but Wren's thoughts were far from calm. Whatever was waiting for him back in Hawkins, he knew one thing for certain.

He wasn't ready. But he was going anyway.

ASH SPEAKS!!!

wren is off to try and save max!
max and wren DUO IS BACK!

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