Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Sixty-Five. The Battle of Starcourt

SIXTY-FIVE
— the battle of starcourt

      HER FIRST MEMORY IS OF HER BROTHER.

      She's three-years-old, and she lost her grip on the monkey-bars. Diane is too pregnant to notice her wailing toddler, Jim is working, and the only other person in the scenario is, well, her brother — who also happens to be a three-year-old. Now, first memories are obviously splotchy. She can recollect the moment he grabs her hand, and walks her over to their mother. He says in some toddler gibberish that she fell, and he's accused of pushing her (he didn't), and the dirty-blonde boy's bottom-lip quivers when his Mom scolds him. She calls him mean, a bad brother. Don't cry, Danny, you pushed her. Little boys don't cry, especially when they do bad things. Lucy is standing there with a bleeding knee. They're still hand-in-hand.

      He was never a bad brother. She hopes he doesn't think that of himself.

Lucas had acquired fireworks, somehow. "With what ID?" she asked. With that money? — oh, wait, they're stolen. They just steal everything, apparently. The Todd-Father, a Coca Cola from Nathaniel's Hotdogs, fireworks, now. They're criminals, and they're going to fight the Mind Flayer with stolen fireworks. She considers paying the corner-store back when this is all over.

      There are six crates in total, each with God knows how much TNT. She's lugging in the last of it —  the smooth and sensitive palms of her hands burn and ache beneath the wooden-crate. Steve just completed his walk up the broken escalator, the most fireworks they had propped on his right-knee. Huffing and puffing, he sets them down, and looks to the first floor, "you alright, Hop?" he calls. "Sure you got it?"

      He's seconds away from hurrying down that escalator to help. He'd take the crate from her hands, or hold it with her at the very least, and rush the remaining fireworks to the second-level of the mall with enough time to plan their attack. But, he can hear her response from a mile away. I got it, Steve! All good, Harrington! Worry about yourself! Something along those lines. He waits with a hand on his hip to see what stubborn response will leave her mouth.

      "Positive! I got it, Steve," her voice echoes through the empty mall. Glass crunches beneath her feet, and she almost drops the crate to wipe a bead of sweat running down the side of her head. When did it get so humid? She can't really breathe. These fireworks are heavy. Five-feet until the escalator, and then, twenty-seven steps up. Easy!

      It happens, then. He hits her with enough force to send her directly into his arms. The wooden-crate hits the marble-floor and the fireworks fall out, rolling across the center of the foodcourt. Her neck whips back, and her temple throbs, and the world suddenly becomes a lot darker. It's easier to breathe. She feels light, now, for just a second. Someone is speaking against her ear — their lips caress her skin, and their breath is hot against her jaw.

      "He . . ."

      Inhale.

      ". . . needs . . ."

      Exhale.

      ". . . you."

      A firework explodes above-head. Happy fucking Forth of July.