[COMPLETED UNTIL SEASON 5]
Ana Thompson always seems to wind up in the strangest predicaments...
A perpetual victim of Murphy's Law, Ana finds herself arriving in Hawkins, Indiana just prior to the events of November 6th, 1983.
And, just prior to f...
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"WOW," Chris exclaimed, elongating the vowels unnecessarily, theatrically, and that's when Ana knew she'd lost him. However, she allowed him his rant of disbelief without interruption, even though her eyes rolled at his antics without her brain's express permission.
"You expect me to believe that shit?" He asked with a chuckle, though there was no real humor behind it. "What, my boring ass sister just happened to get herself wrapped up in some government conspiracy? Oh, oh! And let's not forget the faceless flesh-eating monsters or whatever dumbass, sci-fi level crap you're trying to sell me on." He was pacing in front of her, arms flailing wildly about with every word, and if he kept at it, the already worn carpet would likely have an indent remaining from his incessant tread. "No. No way!" He continued to shout, voice rising an octave with every cynical sentence that simmered forth from his lips. "Fat chance! I'm calling supreme bullshit." At the completion of his little tirade, the look he leveled her with was a mixture of perturbed, bemused, and affronted.
What she had assumed would be the worst, the least desirable scenario, had suddenly manifested itself into reality. He didn't believe her, but, really, why would he? The whole story sounded absurdly fantastical, even to her own ears, and Ana had actually lived through it. "Why don't you watch the language? We have kids in the house," she chose to admonish instead of addressing his more significant, more reasonable concerns.
"Oh, fuck off," he snapped instantly, finally halting his endless back and forth across the floor. "You have more of a pirate hooker mouth than anyone."
True, undeniably true, even Ana had to admit it, but the intention still remained. "Whatever," she scoffed, relaxing further into the tattered yellow couch cushions, her composed demeanor the utter contrast to his fuming and flabbergasted posture. "Look, I can't prove it to you, so if my word isn't enough," she stopped with a sigh, one that was accepting but exhausted. "Then—then I really don't have anything else for you, Chris. I know how it sounds. Honestly, I do, but it's the truth whether you accept it or not."
Maybe she'd been relying too heavily on sibling solidarity to win him over, but perhaps she'd expended most of that teasing him mercilessly during their youth. The time she'd locked him in a chest at the foot of her bed for nearly an hour probably didn't spur any goodwill or blind faith in her direction, just based on the memory alone. Yet, if Eleven still had her powers, then he might've been convinced—but she didn't, so he wasn't. Either way, Ana didn't look up from her lap when he slowly made his way over to the sofa, settling beside her with what was surely meant to be a comforting hand atop her knee.
"Is this why you asked me to come stay with you? Because you're..." His speech petered off, and her eyebrows rose in question over how that particular sentiment was planning to end. "Because you're not well," he finished, making her lips purse in agitation. Great, he thought she was absolutely off her rocker, gone demented, or experiencing schizophrenic tendencies way too late into life.
