Chapter Text
Steve didn't know how he managed to always get himself mixed up in these situations. Ever since he started dating Nancy, his life has been nothing but monsters, supernatural gates, and... bullshit.
He didn't know why he thought this summer would be any different--didn't know why he thought he'd somehow be safe, just because he was stuck inside a mall slinging ice cream for three dollars an hour all summer long. Maybe it was the normalcy of it. Maybe it was the fact that he felt safe for once; safely tucked away into a small store, always partnered up with a girl that for sure hated him but at least didn't hate him enough to make him too miserable.
The summer had been different. For a while. Different than anything he had ever experienced. Somewhere along the way, he got lost in the routine of ice creams and sarcasm and "you suck". Got lost in those blue eyes...
But, suddenly, he was sucked back into the normal routine of danger, babysitting, and bullshit. Russian secret code, upside-down bullshit, to be exact. Because of course, the Russian code mystery wasn't a simple Red Dawn situation--it was a full-on supernatural disaster.
He didn't have much time to process all of that, though. Not when they were currently running for their lives.
He could hear the dozens of footsteps of Russian soldiers rushing after them, their boots banging on the floor.
Steve pressed his side up against the door, holding it shut with all his strength. It jostled, bodies slamming against it from the other side, but he held strong. As he held it, Dustin and Erica ran up the stairs to a vent in the floor. A perfect place to hide.
"Robin!" He turned his head to the girl in the scoop troop uniform, whose eyes were wide. "Help!"
She looked at him, at the door, and then down at the air duct opening less than a foot away from her.
"I'm... I'm sorry," she breathed, looking back up at Steve. Tears filled her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I can't... I... We'll get help, okay? I'll get them out."
With that, Robin descended into the air duct and shut it just before something rammed into the door.
He barely had time to register her words before she was gone—barely had time to realize that he was all alone, left bracing a door by himself against a literal army of Russians with guns. Russians that definitely had a reason to be angry and on guard, because he had already jumped one of them—already proven that he was cagey and violent.
Still, even all alone, he felt light—like pressure had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how much it weighed on him, that twisting of his gut that screamed that any moment one of the kids could seriously get hurt and it would be his fault—especially Erica Sinclair, who he stupidly bribed to come and climb through a vent even when he knew the risks. Sure, he didn’t know that they would get stuck in an elevator, or a secret Russian base, but he knew about the guards and the security clearance and the seriousness that came with a whole secret Russian code.
Now, the kids were gone—hidden away while the Russians had their attention locked on him. And now they had Robin, too. Robin, who was smart enough to solve top Russian codes. Robin, who was smarter than Steve—smart enough to know to fucking run. Robin, who he trusted with Dustin’s secret Russian plans despite barely knowing her at all. Robin, who he trusted enough with his rugrats to let his fear for them ease because he knew she’d get them out.
They were gone. They were safe... he fucking hoped they were safe.
Another crash knocked him off his feet. The door banged open, and suddenly there were dozens of Russian soldiers--each and every one with a gun pointed at his head.
He did the only thing he could think to do--raise his arms above his head in surrender, keeping his eyes to the floor.
There were angry shouts. He didn't speak Russian and based on their anger, he was almost grateful for the fact. It was easier to tune out--easier to pretend it wasn't happening.
Once they knew he wasn't a danger and wasn't responding, men grabbed at him. Two men for each arm. They pulled him off the ground and forced him forward through the door, the others following behind with their guns trained. He was dragged through the maze of doors and long hallways, until finally he was brought into a small room-barely the size of a walk-in closet-with nothing but a bench at the other side of the room. Once inside, the men threw him against the ground and began inspecting him. They patted down his pockets, and anywhere he could have hidden weapons. From his pockets, they removed his keys and wallet.
His wallet, filled with his personal information. Oh, fuck.
His heart sank as one of the guards searched his wallet, pulling out his license with a sinister grin.
"Steven Harrington." The man read aloud, his Russian accent thick. Venomous.
The guards laughed.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...
Steve's chest constricted, and he gasped for breath. The air was stale, and thin. He couldn't seem to get enough. He could barely get any at all.
The guards laughed at his growing panic, enjoying his fear.
A man walked in, someone in a different uniform--possibly one of the scientists--holding black material in his hands. The guards wasted no time forcing Steve to the ground, moving his hands behind his back so they could tie them up with the material. They moved to his legs, binding his ankles together.
Steve resisted the urge to fight back, knowing it would just get him hurt--possibly shot--in the process. Instead, he stayed perfectly still and squeezed his eyes closed. He tried to picture himself anywhere else. Because, fuck, he couldn't begin to process this. He couldn't. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. There was no way this was real. He was dreaming. He was fucking dreaming!
But he wasn't. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that. It wasn't a dream; It was a fucking nightmare. His life was one big living nightmare, one tragedy after another. The universe kept throwing things at him: demagorgons, demodogs, Billy Hargrove, Russians...
He could only think of one rational reason all of this was happening to him--always to him: the universe wanted him dead. Dead and buried.
Suddenly, he was lifted from the ground and thrown against the bench. Footsteps faded, and Steve could hear the door shut and lock.
Good. He was alone... for now.
He finally allowed himself to open his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Air finally rushed into his lungs for the first time since his capture.
"What the hell have I got myself into?" Steve breathed, leaning his head back against the cement wall.
Steve wasn't sure how long he was left alone. A minute. Ten... Hell, maybe even thirty. He felt no concept of time anymore--not after having been trapped there for over a day.
But after some time, the door opened and in walked a man. He was wearing a Russian military uniform, but different from the guards. It looked more official--more like a Sargent. Someone who was in charge.
The man walk in, followed by a soldier, and locked the door behind him.
Steve sat up straighter, keeping his eyes on the man—watching his every move. There was something about the man that made Steve’s stomach tighten. Maybe it was the air of importance. Maybe it was the way he walked into the room like he owned the place—the whole damn base, even. Whatever it was, it made Steve suddenly aware that he hadn’t thought this whole solo hero thing through—because of course there was more to this whole situation than just Russian guards who didn’t like kids being in an area they didn’t belong. This wasn’t just a restricted area—this was supposed to be non-existent. It wasn’t meant to be real—not to him. Not to someone not in the know. This whole base… it was illegal. Treasonous. Universe shattering.
Worth killing over. Or worse.
It was the or worse part that got stuck in Steve’s head, playing over in his head on loop like a broken record as his stomach tightened and his whole body tensed.
Or worse. Or worse. Or worse. Or worse—
The man turned towards Steve, a smile on his face. "Hello, Mr. Steve Harrington."
".. Hi."
"I heard you were the one to beat up my radio engineer. You must think yourself very brave, coming here and attacking my men."
"No," Steve shook his head. "No, I really don't. This whole thing is a huge misunderstanding-"
The man laughed. "Please, Mr. Harrington. Let us not lie to each other, shall we? It will make your time here much more pleasant. Yes? Now, I know that you must have been sent down here--you and your little friends. Who do you work for?"
"Me? I don't... I don't work for anyone. No one sent me here. I'm not, like, a spy or something. I mean, look at me. Do I really look like a spy? I.. I'm just an employee from Scoops Ahoy!, the ice cream store. My friends and I, we missed a whole delivery, so we came looking for it, but when we entered the room... it... it turned into an elevator! And then we were falling, and falling, and then the next thing I know, I opened my eyes and we were just... we were here! Please, you have to understand, we were just looking for a way out! We couldn't get back out."
The man chuckled. "Oh. That's a funny story. Truly. I can almost believe it." He shook his head, then turned to the guard. He muttered something in Russian to the guard.
The guard stepped forward, a smile spreading across his lips.
"No... no... wait, hang on.” He pressed his back against the cement wall—his attempt to gather as much space between him and the guard as realization gripped his whole being. “Wait, please. Please-!"
Steve was silenced by a blow to the gut.
The wind rushed out of his lungs, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.
"Let's try this again, shall we?"
Steve gasped, struggling for air. "Sure. Yeah. Okay."
"Who do you work for?"
"Scoops Ahoy."
The words barely escaped his lips before another hit connected with his ribs, causing a gasped whimper to spill out.
"How did you get here?"
"The elevator."
Bam! A direct hit to the eye. There was an audible pop, and his vision blurred. Black spots danced across his eyes sight, threatening to take hold.
"Who knows you are here?"
"... No one."
Not a technical lie, Steve realized. No one knew. He could die down there, and unless Dustin made it back to the surface, no one would ever know how to find him.
Still, despite the technical truth of the statement, Steve was met with the guard's hands grabbing his hair and slamming his head back against the cement wall behind him.
Blackness filled his vision, and for a moment the world fell away--a slip of delicious unconsciousness, fleeting away seconds later to bring him back to the cold reality of the Russian torture room he found himself in.
It went around and around like that, Steve caught in a vicious cycle of the same three questions and pain--so much fucking pain.
He had no concept of time--no idea how long this cycle went on. Seconds, minutes, hours... all he knew was that he felt stuck in time, trapped in a time loop until the end of everything. Because, truly, he couldn't see this ever ending. This was continuing. Continuing on throughout time and space, damming him to a painful purgatory.
If he had even a moment to think, he supposed he would've been existential. Is this what I deserve for all those years of being such an asshole? After being bullshit?
But he didn't have time to think. He barely had time to breathe between words and punishments and screams. It was all happening, all at once, and the one true thought that his mind even allowed to penetrate through the pain was, does all this mean they haven't found them yet?
The thought filled him with dreadful uncertainty, but also an odd warmness in the pit of his stomach, because even if it was unclear what their fates were, there was a chance. And a chance was all Steve needed to cling to in order to keep some semblance of sanity.