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Jim Hopper had reached a point of precarious, hard-won Zen.
It had taken three years, several interdimensional incursions, a brief stint in a Russian gulag, and approximately four thousand cigarettes, but he was finally—finally—getting used to Mike Wheeler. He no longer felt the instinctive urge to physically throw the boy out of the cabin windows whenever he saw him staring at Will with those giant, wet puppy-dog eyes. He had even, in a moment of extreme weakness that he would never admit to Joyce, bought an additional bottle of maple syrup for Mike's disgusting preference for breakfast combination.
He was a changed man. He was soft. He was practically a saint.
So, when Hopper rolled out of bed at 7:00 AM, his joints popping like bubble wrap and his brain screaming for caffeine, he was prepared for the usual: Mike Wheeler sitting on the sofa looking like a Victorian orphan, Will Byers sketching something while looking at Mike like he hung the moon, and perhaps Eleven hovering a TV remote just to prove she could.
He was not prepared for the kitchen.
Hopper stopped dead in the doorway. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes, hard enough to see static, and then opened them again.
There were two of them.
At the small wooden table, bathed in the soft morning light of the woods, sat two identical sets of dark, curly hair. Two identical sets of sharp, pale cheekbones. Two identical lanky frames.
The one on the left was the "Standard Model" Wheeler. Mike was hunched over a plate of waffles, meticulously cutting them into perfect squares with overflowing syrup, his expression one of focused, brooding intensity. He was wearing a sensible, striped rugby shirt that Joyce had probably mended for him.
The one on the right... was something else entirely.
The "Backup Wheeler" was currently leaning back so far in his chair that it was a miracle of physics he hadn't cracked his skull open. He was wearing a neon-green trucker hat backwards, thick-rimmed glasses that looked like they belonged to a serial killer from the seventies, and a t-shirt that was—Hopper squinted—bright yellow with bold, black block lettering that read: I LOVE MILFs.
At that exact moment, the Backup Wheeler was holding a bowl of purple grapes. He wasn't eating them. He was seeing how many he could wedge into his mouth at once.
One... two... three...
"Byers," Hopper said, his voice coming out as a low, dangerous rumble that usually preceded a police interrogation.
Will, who was standing by the stove flipping a pancake with an air of terrifying nonchalance, looked up and smiled. "Morning, Hop! Sleep okay?"
Hopper didn't move. He didn't breathe. He just pointed a thick, trembling finger at the table. "Byers... why is there a backup Wheeler in my kitchen?"
The Backup Wheeler—didn't even flinch. He just shoved a fourth grape into his cheek, making him look like a very caffeinated chipmunk, and gave Hopper a thumbs-up.
"That’s Richie, Hop," Will said, sliding a pancake onto a plate. "I met him in Lenora when you’re— you know."
”Dead,” backup wheeler, Richie, said while adding a fifth grape on his mouth.
” He’s from Maine. Derry, actually. He’s... also my boyfriend."
Mike Wheeler chose that exact moment to look up from his waffle squares. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who had been arguing with a mirror for six hours and was losing. "He’s a nightmare, is what he is."
Richie spit two grapes back into the bowl with a wet plink. "Hey! Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, Wheeler! Or in your case, a pale-skinned, lanky-assed monster. God, Will, you weren't kidding. The Big Chief really does look like he wants to eat me. Is he always this hairy? Does he shed?"
Hopper felt a vein in his temple begin to throb in time with the ticking of the kitchen clock. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. His brain was busy trying to calculate if this was a side effect of the Upside Down, a hallucination brought on by cheap coffee, or if the universe had finally decided to personally spite him.
"I'm getting my gun," Hopper said into the silence.
"Whoa, Big Jim! Easy on the hardware!" Richie scrambled to sit upright, his chair legs slamming into the floor with a deafening crack. He adjusted his glasses, which were sliding down a nose that was—infuriatingly—identical to Mike’s. "I’m the 'fun' one, promise! The upgrade! Think of me as Mike 2.0: Now with 50% more personality and 100% more sexual prowess!"
Mike choked. A piece of waffle went down the wrong way, and he began a series of violent, hacking coughs that turned his face a spectacular shade of purple.
"Richie," Will sighed, though there was a treacherous, fond little curve to his lips. "Maybe don't talk about sexual prowess in front of the Chief of Police while he's looking for his service weapon."
"What? It’s the truth!" Richie turned back to Hopper, ignoring Mike’s near-death experience. "Look, I get it. You’re protective. You see the face, you think 'Oh no, not another mopey teenager who spends all day writing bad poetry about Dungeons and Dragons.' But I’m different! I didn’t even date your step son and your adopted daughter. Mike’s the one who stares at you like you’re a holy relic or a particularly interesting piece of moss; I’m the one who actually knows how to use a condom!"
"RICHIE, SHUT UP!" Mike screamed, finally finding his breath. He slammed his fork down. "I told you! I told you not to say that!"
"What? Safety first, Wheeler! You’re so repressed you probably think a condom is a type of European hat!"
Hopper had stopped listening somewhere around 'sexual prowess.' He walked past the table, his movements stiff and robotic, and headed straight for the cabinet. He didn't grab the coffee. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon he kept behind the flour.
"It's seven in the morning, Jim," Joyce's voice drifted in as she walked into the kitchen, still in her robe. She stopped, looked at the table, looked at Richie’s shirt, and then looked at the two identical faces.
She didn't scream. She didn't faint. She just sighed, walked over to the stove, and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Oh. So Richie made it after all. Will, did you give him the extra blankets?"
"Yeah, Mom," Will said.
Hopper looked at Joyce. "You knew about this?"
"Will brought him home a few times when we’re in Lenora," Joyce said simply. "I forgot they looked quite so... similar."
"Similar?" Hopper echoed, his voice rising an octave. "Joyce, they are clones. They are the same person. One is just... louder. And more... neon."
"Better, you mean!" Richie chirped, leaning over to try and steal a piece of Mike’s waffle. Mike stabbed at his hand with a fork. "Ow! See? Violence! He’s a violent one, Will. You should dump him and stick with the professional. I’ve got a career in comedy, you know. I’m going to be the next Robin Williams, but with more dick jokes."
Mike turned to Will, his eyes wide and pleading. "Will. Please. Tell him he has to leave. Tell him he has to go back to Maine. I can't do this. I can't look at him anymore. It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror that’s been cursed by a demon."
Will walked over to the table and, with the practiced ease of a lion tamer, placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder and a hand on Richie’s head. "He's staying for the week, Mike. Be nice. You guys have a lot in common."
"We have nothing in common!" they both shouted at the same time, in the exact same pitch.
Richie immediately pointed at Mike. "Stop that! Jinx! You owe me a Coke! And a day alone with Will while we make up for our lost lost time!"
Hopper took a long, mournful pull of bourbon straight from the bottle. He looked at the "I LOVE MILFs" shirt. He looked at Mike’s horrified expression. He looked at Will, who looked happier than Hopper had seen him in months.
"The lab," Hopper muttered to himself. "It has to be the lab. They’re breeding them. They found a DNA sequence for 'Annoying Lanky Teenager' and they just started hitting 'print'."
"Hey, Pops," Richie said, noticing Hopper’s staring. "Don't be shy. I know the shirt is a lot. It’s a statement piece. It says 'I appreciate the finer things in life.' Like your lady friend here. Looking good, Mrs. B! That robe really brings out the 'I’ve-raised-two-sons-and-one-of-them-is-a-wizard' glow."
Joyce actually chuckled. She chuckled. "Thank you, Richie. Eat your breakfast."
Hopper felt like the floor was tilting. He retreated to the porch, bottle in hand, and sat on the swing. Five minutes later, the door creaked open. It was Mike. He looked like he was vibrating with pure, unadulterated stress.
"He's been here for two hours," Mike whispered, leaning against the railing. "Two hours, Hopper. He told El that his glasses were 'X-ray spec technology' and tried to convince her that Steve Harrington was his long-lost older brother because they both have 'impeccable hair genetics'."
Hopper looked at Mike. For the first time in his life, he felt a genuine, deep sense of camaraderie with the boy. "He’s a lot, kid."
"He’s everything," Mike groaned, burying his face in his hands. "He’s every annoying thing I’ve ever thought but was too smart to say out loud. And the worst part is... Will likes him. Will actually likes him."
"Will has always been a bit... empathetic," Hopper offered.
"It's not empathy! It's a preference!" Mike looked up, his eyes wild. "He has a type! And the type is me, but... worse! How am I supposed to compete with a version of myself that isn't afraid to tell your dad he wants to buy a condom?"
Hopper winced. "Don't use that word out here. The trees have ears."
From inside the cabin, a loud, obnoxious honking sound erupted—Richie had apparently found the bike horn Will kept in his room.
"HEY MIKE!" Richie’s voice yelled through the screen door. "I FOUND YOUR DIARY! WHO’S 'M' AND WHY DO YOU WANT TO HOLD HIS HAND IN A CINNAMON ROLL WAY? THAT’S PATHETIC! I WANT TO HOLD HIS HAND IN A 'BEHIND THE GYM' WAY!"
Mike let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, and charged back inside.
Hopper sighed, took another drink, and leaned his head back against the wood. He could hear the screaming, the laughter, and the sound of Richie Tozier explaining the plot of an adult film to a very confused Eleven.
"Well," Hopper whispered to the empty woods. "At least it's not a Demogorgon."
He paused.
"Actually, I think I'd prefer the Demogorgon. At least it doesn't wear neon."
By 6:00 PM, Will had somehow managed to convince both Mike and Richie to participate in a "civilized outing" to the local cinema. He had spent the afternoon acting as a human barrier between the two, mostly because Mike looked like he was one "Your Mom" joke away from committing a felony, and Richie was currently on a mission to see how many of Will's childhood toys he could use for "suggestive puppetry."
"Okay," Will said, standing between them on the sidewalk in front of the Hawk Theater. He looked remarkably calm for a boy dating two versions of the same neurotic teenager. "Rules. One: No fighting. Two: No shouting. Three: Richie, you are not allowed to do 'voices' during the trailers."
"But my Kermit the Frog is a masterpiece, Will! It’s art!" Richie adjusted his glasses, which were now paired with a Hawaiian shirt so loud it was practically screaming. "And besides, this stick-in-the-mud wants to watch Ordinary People. Ordinary People, Will! I’m from Derry! I’ve seen enough ordinary people get eaten by clowns to last a lifetime. I want blood! I want gore! I want A Nightmare on Elm Street 2!"
Mike crossed his arms, looking physically pained by Richie's mere existence. "It's a foundational piece of modern drama, Richie. It’s about feelings. Something you clearly lack because your brain has been replaced by a collection of dirty limericks."
"Oh, I have feelings, Wheeler! I have a very strong feeling that if I have to sit through two hours of people crying in sweaters, I’m going to start throwing popcorn at the back of your head until you cry in a sweater too!" Richie turned to Will, pouting. "Will, baby, tell him. Tell him slashers are romantic. Nothing brings a couple closer together than the shared fear of a burnt guy with finger-knives."
Will sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We're seeing the slasher. Mike, I'll buy you the large Reese’s Pieces."
Mike looked betrayed. "Will, you’re enabling him."
"He’s a guest, Mike. And I want to see the burnt guy too."
Mike’s jaw dropped. "Et tu, Byers?"
"He likes the carnage, Wheeler! Accept it!" Richie crowed, grabbing Will’s arm and practically dragging him toward the ticket booth. "Now let's go! I want to get the seats in the back so I can properly explain the mechanics of a 'slasher-flick make-out session' to you both."
The next ninety minutes were the longest of Mike Wheeler’s life.
Richie didn't just watch the movie. Richie participated in it. Every time a character made a questionable decision, Richie was there to provide a play-by-play.
"Don't go in the basement, you absolute moron!" Richie shouted, loud enough that a woman three rows down turned around to hiss at them. "She’s going in the basement. Look at her. She’s got the survival instincts of a ham sandwich. Oh! There it is! Stabby-stabby time! See that, Wheeler? That’s what happens when you don't use your head!"
"Richie, please," Will whispered, though he was shaking with suppressed laughter.
"I’m leaving," Mike hissed, slumping so low in his seat he was practically under it. "I am leaving this theater, I am walking into the woods, and I am letting a Demodog take me. It would be more dignified than this."
"Aw, don't be like that, Mikey! Look, the guy’s shirt is coming off! Will, look! He’s got the same ribs as us! It’s a lanky-boy revolution!"
By the time the credits rolled, Mike was a shell of a human being. Richie was vibrating with energy, having finished his popcorn, Will’s popcorn, and most of Mike’s candy.
"That was educational," Richie announced as they pushed through the double doors and back out onto the street. "I think I learned several new ways to hide a body, which will come in handy when I finally decide to replace you, Wheeler. I’ll just dump you in a well and tell everyone you finally ascended to a higher plane of pretentiousness."
"You are a menace to society," Mike muttered, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I don't know how Will stands you."
"He stands me because I'm charming, I'm hilarious, and I don't look like I'm constantly mourning a dead hamster," Richie retorted. He swung an arm around Will's neck. "Right, Byers? Tell him I'm the favorite. Tell him I'm the 'fun' one."
Will opened his mouth to give a diplomatic answer—likely something about how he loved them both for different, equally exhausting reasons—but he froze.
Coming down the sidewalk, bathed in the glow of the theater's neon sign, were four very familiar figures.
Lucas Sinclair was in the lead, mid-sentence about a D&D campaign, followed by Max Mayfield, who was expertly navigating her skateboard over the cracks in the pavement. Dustin Henderson was trailing behind, adjusting his hat, while Eleven walked beside him, looking curiously at a poster for a different movie.
They stopped.
As one, the Party’s collective gaze moved from Will, to Mike... and then to the person standing next to Will.
The silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a monster jumping through a wall.
Max was the first to react. She stopped her board with a sharp clack, her eyes widening behind her glasses. She looked at Mike. She looked at Richie. She looked back at Mike.
"Holy shit," Max breathed, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. "There’s two of them."
"Mike?" Dustin squeaked, his voice cracking. "Did... did you go through the dryer on high heat? Why is there... why are you... why is he wearing a Hawaiian shirt?"
Lucas just stood there, his mouth hanging open. "Will... what is happening? Is this a Vecna thing? Are we in a trance? Do I need to start singing?"
Eleven stepped forward, her head tilted to the side in that way that usually meant she was trying to read a mind or determine if something was edible. She stared at Richie. Richie stared back, then slowly raised a hand and did a little wave.
"Hiya, Sis!" Richie chirped, already giving El a brief hug. "You lost the bangs! Good for you. I love Joyce but the haircut she gives are terrible. Also, your brother’s boyfriend is a total nerd, but don't worry—I'm here to class up the joint."
Mike looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "It's not what it looks like," he managed to choke out.
"It looks like you found a way to clone yourself so you could finally have someone as annoying as you to talk to," Max said, stepping closer to Richie and circling him like a predator. "Except this one looks like he actually knows what a joke is. I like him already."
"I'm Richie!" Richie beamed, ignoring Mike's look of pure agony. "I'm the Maine-based model. Limited edition. High performance. And before you ask, yes—the hair is natural, and no—I don't know who this loser is." He pointed at Mike.
"He's... Richie," Will said weakly, looking at his friends. "He's from Lenora. Well, Derry. He's... a friend."
"A friend?" Richie gasped, clutching his chest. "Will! After all we've shared? After the amount of saliva we exchanged? I'm offended! I'm wounded! I'm—"
"Richie, shut up!" Mike and Will shouted in unison.
The Party just stared.
"We are so dead," Mike whispered to nobody in particular.
"Dead?" Richie laughed, throwing an arm around a stunned Lucas's shoulders. "Stick with me, kid! We're just getting started! Now, which one of you is the one with the no-collarbone situation? I heard you’re basically a biological miracle! Show me, show me!"
Dustin blinked, his confusion momentarily overridden by scientific curiosity. He stepped forward, squinting through his own glasses as he examined Richie's face. "Holy shit. You know about my cleidocranial dysplasia? How? And more importantly... how is your phenotype so strikingly similar to Mike’s?"
Dustin reached out, looking like he was about to poke Richie’s cheek to see if it was made of real skin or some kind of Upside Down mimicry material. "Will, did you find him in a lab? Is he a variant? Why is he vibrating at a frequency that suggests a high intake of Red Bull and repressed trauma? It’s fascinating! It’s like looking at a version of Mike that didn't stop growing emotionally at age twelve, but instead took a hard left into a circus."
"Hey! I am a very stable individual!" Richie protested, "And I don't vibrate. I pulsate with raw, unbridled charisma."
Lucas, meanwhile, looked like he was suffering from a mounting migraine. He looked at Mike, who was hunched over and radiating misery, and then at Richie, who was currently trying to manually fold Dustin’s shoulders.
"Will," Lucas said, his voice flat and weary. "Why? Why would you do this to us? One Mike was already a full-time job. One Mike was already enough 'Wheeler-energy' to power a small city. Why did you bring a second one? And why is he so damn loud?"
"He's not a Wheeler, Lucas," Will tried to explain, though he was starting to feel the exhaustion of the day catching up to him. "He's a Tozier."
"He has the same forehead, Will!" Lucas gestured wildly at Richie's face. "The same pointy bits! The same... everything! It’s like you decided that Mike wasn't exhausting enough, so you went out and found a version of him that has a built-in megaphone and no sense of shame."
"I have a sense of shame!" Richie shouted. "I just chose to leave it in Derry! It was weighing me down! Like Mike’s personality!"
Eleven, who had been watching the exchange with a serene sort of amusement, finally spoke up. "Richie is... loud," she said simply. "But he is nice. He made Will really happy when we were in Lenora. They make a lot of weird noises when they're locked in Will's room."
"Never took you for a voyeur, Janey!" Richie crowed, finally releasing Dustin. "Now, enough about the 'Why' and more about the 'Where'! Where is this Steve? I need to verify if his hair is truly as structural as the rumors suggest. I’m thinking about a career change and I need a mentor in the 'Big Hair' department."
"Steve is at work," Max said, her grin widening. She looked at Mike, then at Richie, her eyes dancing with mischief. "And oh man... I cannot wait for him to see you. Mike, you realize this is the end, right? You’re the 'Before' picture now. Richie is the 'After' picture that everyone actually wants to hang on their wall."
"I am going to kill myself," Mike stated, looking directly at the theater's brick wall.
"Don't do that, Wheeler! Who would I have to make fun of?" Richie patted Mike’s cheek condescendingly. "Now, lead the way, Hat-Boy! Take me to the hair-king! Will, you coming? I promise I won't hit on him too hard in front of you. Unless he asks. I’m a gentleman like that."
Dustin, still frantically scribbling mental notes about Richie’s "anomalous energy," hopped onto his bike. "I have so many questions. Do you have a pulse? Is your blood also made of sarcasm? Does the Hawkins Lab know you're out?"
As the group began to move down the street—a chaotic parade of bicycles, skateboards, and two identical lanky boys bickering at the top of their lungs—Will fell back a few paces.
He looked at Mike, who was walking like he was going to his own execution, and Richie, who was currently trying to convince Lucas that he was actually a secret agent from the future.
Will smiled. It was going to be a very, very long week. But for the first time in a long time, the air in Hawkins felt a little less heavy.
Even if it was twice as loud.
The destination was Family Video, the sacred temple of VHS tapes and Steve Harrington's dwindling patience.
Steve was currently behind the counter, leaning on his elbows and staring blankly at a copy of The Breakfast Club while Robin Buckley aggressively reorganized the 'Drama' section based on how likely the protagonist was to need a therapist.
"I’m telling you, Steve, if we categorize them by 'Daddy Issues,' we’d be done in ten minutes," Robin said, not looking back.
"Robin, please. I just want to get through this shift without another eleven-year-old asking me if we have Fast Times behind the counter," Steve sighed.
The bell above the door didn't just jingle; it practically screamed as the entire Party, plus the Wheeler-Tozier contingent, burst into the store.
Steve looked up, prepared to tell Dustin to get his feet off the carpet, when he stopped. His brain, which had survived being beaten by interdimensional creatures, simply stalled.
"Steve," Dustin said, sounding breathless. "Steve, you need to look. Use your eyes, Steve. Evolution is happening in real-time."
Steve looked. He saw Will. He saw Lucas and Max. He saw Mike. And then, he saw the person standing next to Mike.
"Oh... oh no," Steve whispered. He blinked. "I’m having a stroke. Robin? Am I having a stroke? I’m seeing double. There’s two of them. Why are there two of the most annoying kid in the world?"
Robin popped her head over a shelf, her eyes widening. "Holy mother of god. They’re like an amoeba. Mike just... divided. One stayed miserable, and the other one... is wearing neon?"
Richie Tozier didn't wait for an invitation. He vaulted over the counter with the grace of a caffeinated lemur, landing inches away from Steve’s face. He didn't say hello. He didn't introduce himself. He simply reached out and gripped Steve’s hair with both hands, tugging slightly.
"It’s real," Richie whispered, his voice full of reverent awe. "It’s not a wig. It’s not a structural illusion. It’s a goddamn ecosystem."
"Hey! Hands off the merchandise!" Steve yelped, trying to swat him away. "Who are you? Why do you have Wheeler’s face? Why are you touching me?"
"I'm Richie, you beautiful, beautiful man," Richie said, finally letting go but staying firmly in Steve’s personal space. "And I have so many questions. One: How do you sleep without crushing the volume? Two: Can I have your number? And three: Are you sure we aren't related? Because I’ve been told I have 'Main Character Energy,' and you look like the guy who dies in the first act to give everyone motivation, but you’re way too pretty for that."
Steve stared at Richie. Then he looked at Mike, who was currently trying to hide behind a cardboard cutout of E.T. "Mike? Is this... is this your cousin? Is this a prank?"
"It's not a prank, Steve," Mike groaned from behind the alien. "It's my life. It's a nightmare. He’s from Maine. He’s Will’s... other boyfriend."
Steve’s eyes went even wider. He looked at Will, who was standing by the door with Nancy and Jonathan, who had just arrived to pick up the group.
Nancy Wheeler stopped dead. She looked at her brother. She looked at Richie. She looked at Mike again.
"Mike?" Nancy said, her voice trembling. "Why... what? And why is he hitting on Steve?"
"Because Steve is a snack, Nance! Can I call you Nance? You look like the kind of girl who owns a gun and has excellent aim," Richie chirped, leaning over the counter to give Nancy a wink. "I’m Richie. I’m the Wheeler you actually want to talk to at Thanksgiving. I promise I won't spend the whole dinner complaining about my 'paladin' being underpowered."
Jonathan Byers just stood there, his camera hanging forgotten around his neck. He didn't look bewildered; he looked like a man who had just seen a recurring nightmare walk back into his life. He adjusted his grip on his camera bag and looked at Will with a mixture of sympathy and a silent 'Why did you let him come here?'
"Will," Jonathan said, his voice flat and weary. "I thought you said he was grounded for the month."
"Grounding can't hold me, Jonathan! I'm like a weed! A very handsome, very loud weed!" Richie chirped, letting go of Steve's hair to point at Jonathan. "Besides, I missed your depressing face. Have you developed any new hobbies, or are you still just staring at things through a lens because eye contact is too scary?"
"I forgot how much I didn't miss his voice," Jonathan noted to Nancy, who was still staring at her brother's neon-clad twin.
"A masterpiece, you mean," Richie corrected him, turning back to Steve, who was still looking at Richie like he was a ticking time bomb. "So, Steve. Can I call you 'Dad'? Or 'Step-Bro'? Or 'The Man of My Dreams'?"
Steve let out a long, shaky breath. He sat down on a rolling stool, his head in his hands. "I’m twenty," Steve whispered to the floor. "I’m twenty years old. I have a job at a video store. I’ve fought monsters from another dimension. And now... now there’s a Wheeler variant hitting on me while wearing a shirt that says 'I LOVE MILFs'."
"It's a mid-life crisis, Steve," Robin said, patting his shoulder with mock sympathy while trying to hide her hysterical laughter. "You’ve peaked. This is the end of the road. It’s all downhill from the 'I Love MILFs' kid."
"I'm not a kid! I'm a sexual pioneer!" Richie protested.
Nancy stepped forward, her protective 'Big Sister' instincts finally overriding her shock. She grabbed Richie by the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled him away from the counter. "Okay, Richie. That’s enough. You are... interesting. But you are also currently giving my brother a nervous breakdown and Steve a migraine."
"I like her!" Richie told the room at large. "She’s feisty! Will, why didn't you tell me the Wheeler genes actually produced something functional in the females?"
"RICHIE!" Will, Mike, and Nancy all yelled at once.
"What? It’s a compliment!" Richie threw his hands up. "God, you people are so tense. Is it the Upside Down? Is it the lack of good pizza? We need to get some drinks in this place. Steve! Do you have any beer? Or some of that stuff you used to fight the bats? I bet it tastes like lightning!"
Steve didn't look up. "Robin. Tell them to leave. Tell them all to leave before I start eating the tapes."
"You heard the man!" Robin grinned, ushering the chaotic swarm toward the door. "Show's over! Come back when you've figured out which one of you is the original and which one is the evil twin. My money is on the one in the stripes being the evil one. He’s too quiet. It’s suspicious."
"I’m right here!" Mike shouted as he was pushed out the door.
The three piled into Jonathan’s car while the rest of the party went to their bikes, Richie hung out the window, waving frantically at the window of Family Video.
"CALL ME, STEVE! I HAVE IDEAS FOR YOUR HIGHLIGHTS!"
Inside the store, Steve Harrington slowly leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the display case.
"Robin?"
"Yeah, Steve?"
"Is it too late to go back to being a 'King' in high school? Because I think the universe is mocking me."
"Oh, it definitely is, Steve," Robin laughed, going back to her alphabetizing. "It definitely is."
By the time the entire circus made it back to the cabin, Hopper was already on his third beer and a fourth cigarette, sitting on the porch like a man awaiting an inevitable tidal wave. He watched as the car and bikes pulled up and a swarm of teenagers spilled out, including the two identical silhouettes that were now haunting his dreams.
They all gathered in the living room, a space that was definitely not designed for eight teenagers, a stressed-out Jonathan, and a Nancy who looked like she was conducting a crime scene investigation.
"Okay," Max said, hopping onto the arm of the sofa. She looked from Mike to Richie and back again. "I’ve had enough. I can't live like this. My brain is leaking out of my ears trying to process that there are two of you. El."
Eleven looked up from her spot on the floor, where she was meticulously arranging a bowl of Eggo scraps. "Yes, Max?"
"You have the powers. You have the access." Max pointed a finger at the two dark-haired boys. "Check the hardware. Are they the same person? Do they share a brain? Is Mike actually thinking the things that Richie is saying? Because if he is, we need to stage an intervention or possibly an exorcism."
Mike went stiff. "Max, that is a gross invasion of privacy."
"Ooh, a brain scan!" Richie chirped, bouncing on his heels. He leaned toward Eleven, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Do I get a sticker after? I want a gold star that says 'I'm a big boy'! Or maybe one that says 'I didn't wet the bed today'! Though that would be a lie."
"Richie, shut up," Will sighed, though he looked curiously at Eleven. "Can you actually tell?"
Eleven looked at Mike, who gave a defeated nod, and then at Richie. She stood up, wiped her hands on her jeans, and placed one hand on Mike’s forehead and the other on Richie’s. Her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
The room went silent. Even Dustin stopped whispering about biological anomalies.
For a long minute, Eleven stood there, her eyes flickering. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. It went from focus to confusion, then to a flicker of genuine concern, and finally to a look of profound, soul-deep bewilderment.
She pulled her hands back as if she’d touched a hot stove.
"Well?" Max leaned in. "Is it a hive mind? Are they the same guy?"
"No," Eleven whispered, shaking her head. She looked at Mike with sympathy. "Mike’s mind is... loud. But organized. He thinks about Will. And D&D. And how to be... a better boyfriend. It is very... intense."
"I told you!" Mike said, looking relieved.
"But Richie..." Eleven turned to look at the boy in the Hawaiian shirt. Her eyes were wide. "Richie’s mind is... different."
"Different how?" Dustin asked, leaning in with his notebook. "Is it a fragmented personality? A cosmic echo?"
"It’s a loop," Eleven said, looking genuinely disturbed. "A constant loop. One song. Over and over. And... jokes. Bad jokes. Very bad jokes about... mothers."
"Double your pleasure! Double your fun!" Richie sang out, winking at Eleven. "With Doublemint, Doublemint, Doublemint Gum!"
"That’s it," Eleven whispered. "That song. And then a joke about a priest and a horse. And then the song again. It never stops. It’s just... jingles and filth."
"I knew it!" Mike shouted, throwing his hands up. "He’s not a person! He’s a radio that fell into a sewer!"
"Hey! It’s a very high-quality sewer!" Richie protested. "And it’s a catchy tune, Sis! Admit it! You were tapping your toes inside your head!"
"I was not," Eleven said firmly, though she looked like she might need to wash her hands.
"I think I’ve seen enough," Hopper’s voice rumbled from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, staring at Richie like he was a particularly difficult puzzle. "Byers, your boyfriend is a biological weapon. I want him out of this cabin by Monday."
"But Big Jim! We were just getting to the part where I teach you how to properly spice up your love life!" Richie crowed.
Hopper didn't even blink. He just turned around and walked back to the porch. "Monday, Will. Or I’m calling the lab and telling them I found a loose experiment."
"He loves me," Richie whispered to the group. "I can feel the sexual tension. It’s palpable."
Will just buried his face in his hands. It was going to be a very, very long week.