Wading in Deeper

[savingthrows]

characters: Eleven and You (ota)
location: Miner's Castle #2, Edge of Forest, Bonfire
date/time: January 4
content: Eleven is struggling to cope with her power loss, until she stops coping altogether
warnings: panic attack, volatile emotions of a teenager who was taught only bad coping mechanisms, blood, references to past trauma/abuse

➣ Closed to Cast Mates
Two hands that are white, can't put up the fight
Bereft of all strength and the flames in her eyes

[ Not so long ago, Eleven made strange, seemingly disconnected requests, and has been a rare sight around Beacon outside of her Santa's Secret Game mission. Those requests were walkie talkies from Rastus, and help in building a blanket fort that's been occupying her corner of her shared room with Nancy ever since.

It's in there that she sits now, cross legged, and to Nancy especially it would paint a familiar picture of Mike Wheeler. Eleven takes a breath. She has better ways to try and reach out, across vast distances, across dimensions, but those have been taken from her.

( She remembers falling and falling and falling into an endless void, near consumed, head bursting and a sense of amusement, a morself to be played with. )

So she has this. A walkie talkie set to the frequency her and Mike used.

Others understand but they don't know, not like Mike does, or even Dustin or Luke. Nancy and Steve know, but they don't know the way the boys do from that brief period of their young lives, when lives collided like a slow, beautiful catastrophe.

Eleven talks to him, when she thinks herself alone. Most often in the blanket fort. but sometimes she finds a quiet spot around Beacon. It helps. It's just pretend, and she knows that. But it helps. She listens to the crackle of static for a moment. ]

Mike. It's day Nine...ty-six. Ninety-six. [ Her voice catches. ] I played the... Santa Game. It didn't.. help. Nothing helps...



➣ Open
The infant, the damage, the plunder, the pillage
Her ruins of smoke, this river can't choke

[ Eleven has set up near the edge of the forest for the day, and she spends a good long time there. She's dizzy, she's light headed, and yet the malnourished space of her mind remains empty, and nothing moves. Nothing happens, nothing ever happens.

Just recharging batteries. Just... just recharging.

She doesn't have much to practice with. On a log sits the christmas ornament, some sticks and rocks, her lantern. She takes a slow deep breath. She's... been at this for a while. Even in the chill of the air, her face is red with effort.

Eleven stands there, still, one hand outstretched with her palm facing outwards towards the objects on the log. She thinks of crushing soda cans, she thinks of liquifying brains, she thinks of flipping cars and pushing trains and rending flesh asunder, she thinks of big things and little things, and she focuses, she focuses so hard, body shaking with the effort to channel what little energy it has. And it refuses, just stubbornly refuses to be more than the body of a normal 14 year old girl, helpless and hapless and utterly, infuriatingly powerless.

When something snaps, it's not the empty space where power should sit, easily tapped into. It's herself, her progress and her being. It's dark and it's cold and she's trapped, and no words conquered and friends met will ever change the fact that she's right back where she started, trapped in the dark, and before long she's breathing hard, near hyperventilation, bile sitting at the back of her throat. The edge of the forest might well be a wall closing in on her, and the light of her lantern seems to wobble away from her, and she thinks, for a dizzying moment, that she pushed it instead of pulling... only to realize it's not moving, it's her mind spinning out of control in the dark, and she yells 'I hate you' at the forest, picks twigs and pebbles and clumps of earth up and hurls them, weakly and impotently at the looming wall of trees until she's red in the face and out of breath, and unsteady on her feet.

It's not enough. It's never enough, and nothing helps, and it's dark, it's always so dark, and her powers are gone, and so is she. Trapped like this, she might as well be 011 and not Jane Hopper, not El.

She grabs the things on the log eventually, and she stalks towards Beacon, towards the treacherous lie of the fire, promising comfort like Papa, and like Papa, it never comes, not really, not truly, not ever, not for her. Nothing good happens, things just get worse and hurt worse. She's close enough to be in the light by the time she trips, unsteady on her feet, and the christmas ornament the Baubledook left her with drops. Eleven sucks a painful breath in between clenched teeth.

It doesn't break, and she just stands there for a moment, hand outstretched, but it doesn't return to her. It doesn't break, it doesn't move, it doesn't change, nothing is going to change here, and she snarls, she bends down and picks the ornament up, and with a loud scream of anger and frustration and pain and contempt she smashes it down, breaks the pretty bauble into shards, and bends down without thinking, grabs with her bare hands and doesn't mind that she cuts herself, just hurls the shards into the fire with an angry yell. Next is a random, hapless twig, and she revels in it, in the pain and the sting and what little acts of destruction she can still inflict in this state. The spirits are burning things in the bonfire, and she wants to burn all of Beacon in it, and have it burn out that dark patch in her heart that try as she might she can never, ever scrub clean.

And she reaches for it, yanks the lantern off the clip on her belt - a gift, something nice, and she feels worse because it's not helping; nothing is, and she's halfway through a throw when she thinks better of it. Let's the lantern drop - short distance, it lands heavy but with no more damage than a dent, but Eleven pulls her hair, kicks a bench and whirls, intending to stalk into the darkness without the lie of the lantern, and collides with a body, and she doesn't hold her furious temper back, just immediately yells:]

Go AWAY.

Comments

[worthallthis]

[The Soldier makes patrols that include Eleven's little workspace. They note her there, and so they loop around an additional time to keep an eye on her, not sure what exactly she's doing, but vaguely concerned at the effort she appears to be putting into just standing there staring at things. They've passed her up for the second time when she starts screaming at the forest.

That has them stopping in their tracks, startled, worried, and (because why not) afraid. They're not great with angry people unless they're supposed to be killing them or hauling them back from danger, but it's Eleven. El. Who is braver than they'll ever be. Who already has a name and personhood even if it's hard. They can't just ignore her throwing what's basically a temper tantrum. She hates something? She hates what? Is she in danger? (Is it like punching trees after the town hall?)

The Soldier finally turns and heads back towards her workspace, just to check on her, make sure she's okay. By the time they get there, she's storming towards the bonfire, and they drift after her with concern. The plan is to keep their distance, gather intel, let her rage herself out, maybe offer support once she's done being angry-- until she grabs the lantern and makes to throw it. That's a Bad Idea, Eleven, and even if she's angry, the Soldier isn't going to let her kill herself, so they dart over, just in time for her to spin around and smack into them. And shout at them.

Oh.

The Soldier steps back immediately, ducking their head, hands at their sides, looking at the ground-- utterly nonthreatening for an objectively large, metal-armed man. What do you say to that. What is the correct response. Is there a correct response?]

[savingthrows]

[ It takes a moment to register details beyond 'adult; threat', and the volatility almost fades, the rage almost loses its white hot edge.

But the simple truth is that Eleven doesn't want to not be angry right now, because she knows what emotions will roll over her after the anger, and more than anything else, she wants to keep those away from her as long as possible.

So the Soldier's defensive posture makes the part of her that is Jane and El recoil from her own behaviour, want to feel guilt and shame and pity, and it just makes 011 double down harder, reach into that mess of emotion that feels like shards of glass, bury her hands in there and squeeze, let the jagged edges rip and rend, and snap with monster teeth and shrivelled, ill-protected heart.

Her voice is sharp, too loud, cracking on itself and everything in its vicinity, and there's a snarl to her lips that's atypical of when she's sweet and calm. ]

What.

[worthallthis]

[Even the kindest of handlers or technicians can turn in a moment. It's why the shut-down, diffusing response is so deeply ingrained. There isn't enough trust built up with anyone in town except maybe, possibly, Crowley and Misty to keep that response at bay. Maybe not even them, though at least with them, they feel guilty about it. With Eleven, right now, it's nothing but the instinct to smooth out an outburst.

The demand is a question which requires an answer, or else more shouting and punishment might be deemed necessary. They keep their voice even, calm, and nearly monotone.]

Intent to save the lantern if it was thrown. Lanterns moving too far from their person results in death.

[And apparently programming has loosened enough that they can add an explanation that includes a personal want:]

Did not desire to see you die.

[savingthrows]

[ She doesn't know of his abuse, of his handlers. She herself is just an angry, hurting child, and bares her teeth at the guilt his demeanor appears to attempt to instill. ]

It doesn't MATTER. We're dead. We come back. NOTHING matters. NOTHING happens, and NOTHING matters.

[ And as if to prove just that she walks over to the lantern, and kicks at it. At the metal, not the glass. It clatters onto its side, but remains intact, and she yankes it up into her grasp resentfully. ]

Don't want to see? Then look AWAY.

[trashmouthed]

[Ever since seeing Eddie at the night market Richie has been half-sure that whatever force that brought him here, whatever this botched afterlife was it came with the price of losing his sanity. Yes, he missed Eddie. Probably more than the other losers, but he missed them all. For the first time in his life, the seven of them, they felt like home in the worst possible place. They kept each other safe, alive, they stood up for one another and it was the only time he'd ever felt like more than a laughing stock or a spectacle.

None of them were here though, and he should be grateful for that but instead, he was just lonely. He was isolated and angry, and the darkness seemed to pull out his own turmoil like it was nothing and it left him feeling more useless than he ever had. Now that he was dead, he didn't even have a purpose to work toward and those nagging thoughts of inferiority at the back of his mind threatened to totally consume him on the regular.

Times like that are when he went for walks, to clear his conscious, to work it all out and it never did much but the endorphins at least settled him enough that he could sleep. A good night's sleep was a lot better than staring into the darkness for nine hours and he accepted it for what it was. That was the best he could do given all of what he was dealing with.

What he's definitely not expecting is to be screamed at, especially while in the process of picking up his own lantern that had gone flying when he and whoever this girl was smacked into each other.]

What the fuck?! You ran into me.

[savingthrows]

[ The barbs sit at the tip of her tongue, words like prizes, her own. So hard won, it's her prerogative to twist them into something vicious, into shots fired when she is otherwise defenseless, and bemoan how she'd hollowed out her own victories later.

Everything gets violently lodged in her throat when he straightens up and she looks at him, though.

There are differences of course; glasses she has never seen on him, the hair is different, the posture, but she's a ship adrift a stormy sea, and the details don't quite register. Instead, painfully, she uses the protective cover of anger and is left at the mercy of something much more dangerous: hope. ]

... Mike...?

[ A pale hand comes up, reaches out but stops. She remembers, vividly, the hallucinations that lured her into the forest with Mike's voice. When did he... She hasn't been paying attention. She's been hiding herself away in an even darker corner of the dark, with a walkie talkie that she knows will never reach Mike, but what does she have left in this place other than desperate attempts to try. She's not been to the ferry, too many people would take note of her inability to help unload the supplies as she usually does.

She... didn't know.

And part of her knows better, with this place being what it is, and part of her should look for ways to disprove that it's really him, because this is the last place he should be, but most of her floods with relief, because other people know but they don't understand, and he does, and so the name sits between her and the boy, and her eyes are full of fragile hope.

It's his to crush. ]

[trashmouthed]

[There's something in the way that she looks at him that stops him dead in his tracks. An underlying hurt, some kind of weight that she's carrying and doesn't want anyone else to see- it's a look he knows well, a cross he bears too so when his eyes lock with hers for a few ticking seconds he doesn't say anything.

Oh, he's got a full repertoire of shit that he could say - the kind of tactless vocabulary that he's famous for but he knows that it won't do much. He already got hugged by another girl, apparently, this Mike was quite the ladies man.]

Yeah, that's not me. Sorry. I guess I look like him...

And then I got busy and failed to tag back here - I'm so sorry

[savingthrows]

[ He confirms what truthfully, she knew and merely didn't want to be true. The face is the same, but everything else is... not. Off, except not of course. Off for Mike, just not for this boy, who has the same face, but is not the same otherwise.

Oh, it hurts, and it's almost too much for her mind to process, still sometimes showing signs of how malnourished and malformed it's been for long years in the lab.

Eleven opens her mouth, then closes it, lips pressing together, and eyes blinking rapidly. ]

That... sucks.

[ It's quiet, and Eleven almost immediately winces, looking apologetic if conflicted. ]

Sorry, not. You.

[ Except it does suck, it's just not his fault. She wants to be angry, because being angry is easier than being sad, but sad is all that comes to her. Like her powers, it appears that for the moment, rage has abandoned her, left her reeling. ]

2

[lunchbreaks]

[ Aziraphale is just out for a walk as he normally is, when he sees Eleven and makes his way over to her, concern clear over his face. He has no idea what's got her in such a mood, and generally if she were to yell at him, he would just leave, but he takes a look and sees that her hands are bleeding. Or, at least, there is blood on her hands; he shouldn't jump to conclusions and assume that it's hers.

But then, why's her lantern all the way over there? ]

Eleven! I'm afraid I won't be doing that, at least not until I've determined if you're wounded.

[ Which, that might be why it's hard for her to hold onto her lantern. But even then, that shouldn't cause such a reaction. ]

Will you let me heal your hands and retrieve your lantern, dear? I'm afraid you'll need them.

[savingthrows]

NO.

[ His concern hurts, because he treats her like a friend, like a person, when right now she wants to be neither. She hurts in ways she doesn't quite grasp, emotion too large for her narrow ribcage, and she's choking on it. She only understands one thing: She's hurting and she doesn't want someone to just take that away from her, too, when right now her pain feels like the only thing she has left.

So she repeats, louder, yelling with a snarl to her voice, like a rabid dog's teeth snapping at the offered hand: ]

NO! I don't WANT it!

[lunchbreaks]

[ He doesn't move his hand, nor does he look terribly frightened by this outburst. He treats her like a friend and like a person because she is one. She has more claim to the role than he does, and she would possibly never accuse him of anything but. ]

My dear Eleven, would you tell me what is wrong?

Or -- or could you do me a favor?

Could you breathe deeply with me?

[ If nothing else, it might distract whatever it is that has her so angry. ]

[savingthrows]

[ The frown only deepens. She leans into the anger, into the pain and hurt and anguish, because feeling that means feeling little of everything else. She never did learn healthy coping mechanisms. ]

That's stupid.

[ Voice dripping venom, still too loud and harsh. ]

Everything is stupid here, THAT'S wrong! Did you try? You said you'r try, for home, but NOTHING ever happens!

[mewtiny]

[Standing ten feet from the edge of the bonfire is a creature blending into the shadows. It observes her meltdown and as she stalks away, runs into someone, orders them away, and begins to stomp off further, it speaks into her mind.

Why it does this relates to some fickle nature of cat-like Pokemon. It does it because it can and because maybe it's curious.]

You're making a scene.

[It somehow manages to not be chastising, rather observational, like it's just commenting on the weather.]

[savingthrows]

[ She freezes at once, tension locking up her muscles. Even without her powers, she embraces her rage as something unstoppable, and yet she goes still, wide eyes darting around, but she doesn't spot the source of the voice in the dark. ]

Get OUT of my head!

[ Loud, angry, but her voice breaks on the demand. It angers her to be invaded so easily like this, reminds her of times she'd rather forget, and it makes her sound much more frightened than angry.

She's had her mind invaded before, and her first instinct is not to take it as a means of communication, but as a threat to all her wounds and secrets. ]

[mewtiny]

[There is no oppressive presence, and yet there's still a feeling of something pulling back. After a moment, Mewtwo takes its leave of its position and comes to float down in front of her- six-foot-seven worth of pale gray catlike being.

Perhaps it would be easier if she could see it.] This is the only way I can communicate with you.

[savingthrows]

[ She takes a half-step back, thoughts firing warnings of the Upside Down at her, but she swallows, clutches at the flight or fight response and chooses fight.

She doesn't know what it is - spirit, monster, person, the lines blur, she's not even sure where she'd place herself on that.

There's something defiant in her gaze, something stubbornly refusing to be intimidating by its looks. She doesn't know that wasn't the intent of it showing itself, just raises her chin, draws herself up to full height, like that would ever give anyone pause.

She feels defenseless, and that just makes her angry again. ]

Why do you care about a scene?

[ Still dripping with anger, white hot rage not something she's willing to let go of quite yet. ]

back at home.

[fawcetted]

[ Most of the time, Steve's one of those cool bigger bros who lets the kid just have her space. You know, be there but not be there. He's never had siblings of his own but he'd always appreciated having his own space; and while seeking a support system in his family was never an option, he has an idea of what it's like now. He can thank Henderson and his goofy friends for that. Robin, too.

Yeah. Steve Harrington, barely graduated from high school, considers a bunch of 12 year olds his closest friends. Oof. Now, there's the real kick in the pants.

It doesn't matter now, of course. Maybe it never mattered. Being cool had once been the epitome of Steve's very essence of being; it defined him. And now? He's here in this purgatory, likely indefinitely, and it sure makes being stuck in a Russian elevator seem like a blissful little adventure. Being cool is the last thing on his mind.

(Well, one of the last.)

Anyway, it doesn't take a genius to catch onto the fact that he isn't the only one feeling a little ... homesick. (Life-sick.) He can hear the crackle of radio-static, pausing and then going silent, and the soft murmur from El's voice from behind a wall made from bedsheets.

Steve crouches down, peers into the fort that he helped to build some time ago (it almost feels like a lifetime ago). ]

Hey, kid. [ His voice is soft too. ] You okay?

[savingthrows]

[ There's no response from the walkie talkie. Just a crackle of static whenever she doesn't push the button.

It's okay. It's pretend, and that has to be enough. It's okay.

She looks up when Steve approaches, crouches down by the fort. Eleven had liked building it with him - she knows and trusts Steve, of course, but back home he'd felt more like something from Mike's and Dustin's and Luke's and Will's and Max' world. She hadn't been allowed to go to the mall with them. It was nice that one time with Max, though, and Eleven had appreciated the ice cream.

Now she looks back at him, almost sheepish. She puts the walkie talkie down - tucked behind twoo stuffed animals; an alpaca and a lion. Presents. She likes presents. ]

Hi, Steve. I'm... okay. Are you?

[ The least convincing 'okay'. She drops her eyes when she says it, too. ]

[fawcetted]

Yeah, sure, sure. [ He goes for reassuring, but this isn't like talking to Dustin. There's no teasing remarks or sharp-tongued ribbing, it's just Steve trying to figure out how to cheer up a teenage girl who could be his kid sister. Nancy would probably be way better at this stuff than he is, and he gets that, but it's just the two of them here right now, so — sorry, El. You're stuck with him. ]

Never better.

[ Listen. Steve's from the deep 80s, where being ultra macho was seen as 'cool'; it gave you some kind of street cred, or something. Talking about feelings? You got punched in the nuts for that. Hell, when Steve was still king of Hawkins High, he might have taken part in some of said punching.

It was not one of his finest moments now that he's seen the real world; met some real people.

So, okay. He might sound a little awkward, like maybe talking about anything outside of baseball and hot girls could trip him up, but this past summer he's been getting a lot of practice. Dating Nancy Wheeler had been eye-opening, too.

And after all that, the bottom line is: Steve really genuinely cares about Eleven.

He gestures to the walkie talkie, hidden in the plush toys. ]

You tryna get to someone on that thing?

the latest response ever, I'm so sorry

[savingthrows]

[ Her face flushes even as her eyes harden - that expression isn't difficult to read at all. Embarrassed, but also defensive. Not quite angry. Eleven bites her lip, eyes flicking to the walkie talkie for a moment, then back to Steve. ]

Yes.

[ The confirmation hangs there for a moment, and Eleven's eyes are searching, critical. More skeptical than normal girls her age would have any right to be, but she's not just any girls. Steve, however, is also not just any almost-adult. He knows, and that makes him feel safe. In the corner, as Max says. She's not sure why corners relate to whether people stand behind you or not, but who is she to question other people's use of words.

The defensiveness cracks a little, and she pulls her lips into a small grimace, looking down.

He's gonna think she's stupid.]

... Mike.

Closed to Bruce, Post-Blizzard

[savingthrows]

[ The rage fades, eventually - at least somewhat. It leaves behind a dull, bitter hurt, a hot rush of shame. Neither of them are things Eleven wanted to handle. Her emotions still feel like waves crashing on a shore. She still feels light drowning, and like she's starting to give in rather than fight back.

Of course, she feels bad for snapping at friends, for letting the anger get the best of her. And yet more than that, she still feels the roll of despair and misery every day she ventures out to a fallen log near the edge of the forest, away from buildings, to try and force her powers into cooperating.

The anger and frustration still flare up when she tries, struggles, strains herself to no avail. It's just mildly less explosive and volatile than it was before. Eleven is emotionally and physically exhausting herself.

On most days after the blizzard, she marches out to that fallen log, bundled in a coat Eliot made for her. But Eliot's gone. So are Nyx and Jim and Kettara, and it hurts. She doesn't understand grief, and if it were only that, perhaps she's seek out others more to help her process. But she feels the losses physically like she does the loss of her powers, and she still tries to keep that close to her chest.

She may not be able to carry everything on her own, but what happens when people realize she can carry nothing, nothing at all?

So she's out there, in the snow, for hours on end just holding up her arms, focusing, trying, pushing until she's red in the face and dizzy, trying to will her mind into hardening into her weapon, her power, hers again. And so pre-occupied, she'd utterly fail to notice something or someone approaching her. ]

[pearlstrings]

[He's heading out on an expedition of sorts very soon. It's been a log time coming and Bruce dislikes how much of it feels like blindly searching through the dark. He's used to formulating a plan- to gathering facts and details and piecing together a much larger map to work with. This feels like flimsy conjecture. He's disappointed before they've even started.

But there's no time to dwell on it once the blizzard had started, when he'd had to prioritize Riku and Vanitas and Castiel. The museum is more full than it's ever been and while Bruce tells himself that this isn't a bad thing, there are times that he's acutely aware of it. Like the sleeves of a jacket he has yet to grow into. Perhaps that he's grown out of. They're making hot chocolate inside, each of them preoccupied with wandering the museum or looking out over the lake- bent over some new, self-appointed task. And Bruce, who habitually vanishes without a word, heads out into the snowy wood just for the sake of walking. He has never been very good at stillness, metaphorical and otherwise. This helps.

He listens to the sound of his own breathing and the quiet crunch of snow underfoot. He feels the cold air on his face and the stillness with which fresh flakes land on his hair like a crown, that they settle over his shoulders. He is not looking for Eleven. But he finds her. There's no attempt made on his part to interrupt- he doesn't say her name or move to reach for her, nor does he try to hide his presence.

Bruce stops a short distance away and watches. A quiet guardian among the trees.]

[savingthrows]

[ Eleven doesn't notice him, not at first. For a while, she remains where she is, standing still with a hand outstretches, palm out, fingers splayed. There's something claw-like in how she holds it. She takes off the glove, eventually, to see if it will make a difference. It does not. She stands there until her arm trembles, and then her entire body, and eventually gives a small, impotent yell of frustration.

Motions hasty, she stuffs her hand back into the glove. Stares at the log with the bottles on it that have utterly failed to move, then stalks over there.

There rage has worn down - but it's easy to keel back into it, at least a little. And she sobs as she pushes the bottles off the log, upset and exhausted and burdened with what she's lost.

It's then that the turns around and just sits on the log for a moment, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling with sobs she's trying to stifle. Eleven doesn't know anymore if she's crying out of anger or sadness, or because it's the only thing she can still do.

Her mind starts going to sad places - she has an idea, at least, of what Hawkings Lab did with Experiments who failed to perform. So she pushes her fingers into her hair, grips and pulls, hard enough that it must hurt (and does, judging by the sound she makes), but not hard enough to tear anything out.

It centers her, and she pushes, swaying, to her feet. Wipes at her reddened eyes and cheeks, prickly numb from crying.

And then she spots the figure, startles, throws out her hand on pure, defensive instict, because she doesn't register 'person' at first, just 'threat', and has only one way to defend herself... except then she stands there, nothing happening, a deer in headlights. Shocked and surprised, then embarrassed at having been caught, then ashamed for her weakness now being out for someone else to see, an ugly truth right there. Nothing moves at her will. It's gone, all gone. ]

1/20 - event plans

[keenely]

[ honestly, when nancy notices her lantern's flame change color, she's actually quite amused by it. enamored, even, moving up off the couch to get a closer look at it, like maybe she needs to make sure she's really seeing what she's seeing. it's nothing wild, just a pretty pale blue color, but it definitely beats the dull grey that it normally is. it's enough to make her huff a quiet laugh, like maybe she's made some kind of discovery that's meant for her, and only her.

which means she needs to find eleven and share the exciting ( is it actually all that exciting, though? ) news.

she's quick to grab her lantern and bring it with her when she knocks on their shared bedroom door, which was up until now shut just so eleven could have some privacy. it's fun rooming together, she actually loves living in the same cabin as both steve and eleven, but sometimes it's nice to have their own time in their bedroom. but anyway, she's knocking. enthusiastically! ]

Hey, El? Eleven! [ she laughs ] Can I come in? I have something cool to show you.

btw my timeline on El's stuff mildly changed - she's sitting on tall blue, too, at the beginning

[savingthrows]

[ Eleven's face hurts, and it's the funniest thing. Her mouth is stretched into a wide, happy smile when she opens the door for Nancy - by hand, not with her mind. She's only opened it with her hands for weeks, actually. ]

Nancy!

[ And Eleven, driven by a rush of happiness, just hugs her. ]

Happy to... see you!

[ Shaping the words around the broad smile is a little difficult, admittedly, but who cares. Nancy is here! ]