Shadows of the Night •a Stranger Things story•

Robin, Please

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Now this, Steve can positively say without a doubt is the worst beating he's ever taken in his life. His body is strapped to a chair, hands pinned painfully behind his back, each leg tied to a parallel leg of the chair. His face is bloody and bruised, varying shades of angry red. Sweat has soaked through his Scoops Ahoy uniform and his brown, normally clean, soft, well-maintained head of hair. He's lost track of how long it's been since Dustin and Erica escaped through the air ducts, and how long it's been since they've separated Steve, Robin, and Ronda.

Fear snakes around his stomach, coiled tight, but also bitter annoyance, causing his tongue to work faster than his brain. Arguably making things worse for him when he snaps back at the Russian guard that's been relentlessly beating on him.

Another heavy fist connects with the side of Steve's face, right by his jaw. He groans painfully, his voice groggy as he says, "That one stung."

"Who do you work for?" the older guard asks. He has yet to lay a hand on Steve.

Spit and blood pool behind Steve's teeth. He gathers it up, spitting it out half-heartedly. He glares up at his aggressor. "For the millionth time, I work at Scoops Ahoy! Scoops Ahoy," he pants.

The older guard glances pointedly at the other, who sends another blow right into Steve's stomach. Steve buckles, the air leaving his lungs. He wheezes, "What the hell?!" He stares at them through blood and sweat soaked hair. "Look at my outfit! Look at my outfit! You think I just wear this?! Think I'm a spy in a sailor's uniform?"

Another blow, this one a little higher up, lands on Steve's stomach. He coughs.

"How did you get in?" the soldier continues.

"I already told you..." he mutters, blinking tiredly. "I told you before. My delivery didn't come, and my friends and I, we thought that it was left at the loading dock, so we went in the room, and then it turned into an elevator, and then...and then we dropped and then, next thing we know, I open my eyes, and we're in this..." he pauses, using his next words carefully. "Wonderful facility. But I swear to God," his voice picking up fervently, "nobody knows about us, nobody saw us. You could just let us go, all right? And I'm not gonna tell anybody about this, okay? Shit happens, life goes on."

He locks eyes with his uniform, then looks up at the two Russians expectantly. He starts to ramble, becoming more delirious and calamitous as more words spill out of his mouth. "And, uh...ice...ice cream. Ice cream, okay? You guys know what ice cream is. Everybody loves ice cream. I don't know if you have Russian ice cream or if that's considered gelato. I don't know what's what, but whatever you guys want, seriously. USS Butterscotch, I mean, you gotta try it. It is out of this world, I'm telling ya!"

After a beat, the two Russians break into smiles, laughing in hearty, creepy laughs. Steve stares between them, panicked. He tries to laugh along with them, nervously, hoping they'll see he's not a threat.

"I like this guy!" the soldier says, gesturing to Steve. He sighs happily, collecting himself. He mumbles "USS...Butterscotch" mockingly. The room goes quiet again as the soldier leans forward, hands on his knees, staring at Steve head on. "Who do you work for?" he enunciates.

Disbelief clouds Steve's face. "Oh, come on," he begins, watching the guard step forward again. He twists away helplessly. "No, no! No, seriously..."

The guard snaps a serious punch across Steve's face, causing him to fall unconscious; he drops.

Ronda, handcuffed, is dragged violently into a new room after being held alone in a room for a good hour. Once she was dumped inside, she received no visitors, until now. She's thrown onto the ground by the two guards that transported her into this new room, where a black dentist-like chair is in one corner. A tray full of pointy tools is beside it. The room has harsh fluorescent lighting and several guards surround the two doors. The second door slams open and Ronda hears Robin's angry voice as she struggles in her own captors' grips.