The basketball hit the court with a sharp crack that echoed through the empty gym.
January practice, first day back from winter break. The team was sluggish, out of rhythm after two weeks of holiday excess. Coach ran us through drills with increasing frustration, yelling about discipline and focus until even the seniors looked exhausted.
"Harrington, Patrick, Henderson—line drill. Now."
We ford up for the layup sequence. Simple exercise: sprint down court, receive pass, layup, repeat. I'd done it a thousand tis.
Patrick went first. He accelerated hard, caught the pass perfectly, elevated for the shot—
His foot landed wrong. I heard the ankle snap from fifteen feet away, a sound like dry wood breaking. Patrick scread and collapsed, clutching his leg, face going white with shock.
Everyone froze.
"Move!" Coach shoved past , dropping beside Patrick. "Soone call—"
I was already moving. Instinct drove forward—the sa protective instinct that made defend kids from bullies, that made prepare for monsters I hadn't fought yet. I grabbed Patrick's arm, trying to help him sit up, trying to offer any comfort—
Pain exploded through my nervous system.
White-hot agony lanced up from my ankle like soone had driven a spike through the bone. I gasped, nearly collapsed, felt my own leg buckle as phantom injury manifested. The break wasn't in my body but I felt it—sharp edges grinding, swelling tissue, damaged nerves screaming.
"Steve?" Coach's voice sounded distant. "You okay?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe through the pain. My hand was still on Patrick's arm and I couldn't let go—so part of knew releasing contact would be worse, would waste whatever was happening.
What the hell is this?
Patrick's screaming subsided to gasps. His grip on my arm tightened, and I felt sothing flowing between us. Not physical. Sothing deeper. The pain in my phantom ankle intensified, but Patrick's face slowly shifted from agony to manageable suffering.
Three minutes felt like three hours.
When I finally let go, my legs gave out. I slumped against the gym floor, every nerve ending burning, while Patrick stared at his ankle with confusion.
"It... doesn't hurt as much," he mumbled. "It was worse. I felt the bones, but now..."
The paradics arrived. They examined Patrick carefully, frowning at findings that didn't match the injury they'd expected.
"Definitely broken," the lead paradic said. "But the alignnt's better than it should be. And the swelling is minimal for this kind of break. You must have incredible pain tolerance, kid."
Patrick looked at . I looked away.
They loaded him onto a stretcher. Coach sent everyone to the locker room. I stumbled there on legs that worked despite feeling broken, and collapsed onto a bench while phantom pain slowly, gradually, faded.
An hour later, I could walk normally again. No injury. No evidence anything had happened to .
Just the mory of Patrick's broken ankle burning through my nerves.
The library beca my research sanctuary that evening.
dical texts. Psychology journals. Anything that might explain what had happened. I worked through dinner ti, ignoring the hunger gnawing at my stomach, piecing together fragnts of understanding.
I'd touched Patrick and felt his pain. Really felt it—not empathy, but actual physical sensation. The break had manifested in my nervous system as if the injury were my own.
And Patrick had improved. The paradics said so. The break was less severe than the initial snap suggested, the swelling minimal, his pain manageable instead of overwhelming.
I absorbed his pain, I thought, staring at a physiology diagram. Took it into myself. And sohow that accelerated his healing.
But I couldn't heal myself. When I'd deliberately given myself a papercut in the bathroom, trying to test the ability, nothing happened. The cut bled normally, hurt normally, would heal at normal speed.
The power only worked on others.
I pulled out my coded journal, added a new section:
Power Two: Pain Transfer/Healing
chanism: Physical contact allows absorption of another person's pain. Pain manifests in my nervous system as phantom sensation. Duration of contact correlates with healing acceleration. Estimated 30% of their pain absorbed, 2x healing speed during contact. Five-minute practical limit before overwhelming pain forces disconnection.
Limitations: Cannot heal self. Requires direct contact (skin to skin?). Lingering phantom pain persists after disconnection (~1 hour). Power activated unconsciously during Patrick incident—need to test conscious control.
Questions: Can I control activation? Is there a maximum pain threshold I can absorb? What happens if I exceed my limits? Does this work on diseases/poison or only physical trauma?
Too many unknowns. But the basic function was clear: I could heal others by suffering in their place.
The implications made my chest tight.
Robin found still in the library at closing ti.
"You look like death," she said, dropping into the chair across from . "What's wrong?"
"Patrick broke his ankle at practice."
"I heard. Is he okay?"
"Yeah. Surprisingly okay, considering." I closed the dical text. "It was bad, Robin. Really bad. But by the ti the paradics arrived, it was less bad. Like sothing changed between the injury and treatnt."
Robin's eyes narrowed. "Sothing. Or soone?"
I t her gaze. She knew too well—two years of friendship had taught her to read my tells.
"Can't explain yet," I said quietly. "But I'm figuring it out."
"Another power." Not a question. "Like the backpack, but different."
"Maybe."
"Steve." She leaned forward. "Whatever you're discovering about yourself—you don't have to do it alone. I'm here. Eddie's here. We're not going anywhere."
My throat tightened. "I know."
"Good." She stood, grabbed her bag. "Co on. You're buying dinner, and you're going to eat sothing before you collapse from that concerning martyrdom complex you're developing."
"I don't have a martyrdom complex."
"You have sothing. And it's not healthy." She pulled up from the chair. "Food. Now. We can discuss your weird hero issues over burgers."
Robin
Steve was changing in ways that scared Robin.
Not bad ways—he was still kind, still protective, still her best friend. But there was a weight to him now. A sense of soone carrying burdens he wouldn't share.
The training. The preparation. The cryptic warnings about "sothing coming." And now, apparently, new abilities manifesting in the middle of basketball practice.
"You're building an army," she said over burgers at the diner. "The Party, Eddie, , Chrissy. You're recruiting people and teaching them skills and positioning everyone for sothing. What is it?"
Steve picked at his fries. "I told you. Sothing bad is coming to Hawkins."
"When?"
"Ten months. Approximately."
"What kind of bad?"
"The kind that requires prepared people in strategic positions."
Robin wanted to shake him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give right now." Steve t her eyes, and the exhaustion there was profound. "When it starts—when the bad thing actually happens—I'll explain everything. I promise. But until then, I need you to trust that I'm not crazy, I'm not lying, and every weird thing I'm doing has a purpose."
"I trust you," Robin said imdiately. "That's not the issue. The issue is you're trying to save everyone while refusing to let anyone save you."
"I don't need saving."
"Everyone needs saving, Steve. That's what friends are for." She grabbed a fry from his plate. "Whatever power you discovered today—it hurt you, didn't it? I can see it in the way you're moving. Carefully. Like you're still in pain."
Steve's jaw tightened. "It's fading."
"But it was there. You took Patrick's pain sohow, didn't you? Absorbed it to heal him faster."
The confirmation in his eyes told her everything.
"Jesus," Robin breathed. "That's... that's incredible and horrifying. You can heal people by suffering for them?"
"Apparently."
"And you're already thinking about how to use it. How to weaponize your own suffering for the greater good."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you're doing." Robin leaned back, studying him. "You're building yourself into a weapon, Steve. Training your body, developing powers, recruiting allies. But weapons break. And when you break, who's going to put you back together?"
Steve didn't answer.
"Promise sothing," Robin said. "When whatever's coming finally arrives, when you're in the thick of it fighting whatever horrible thing you've been preparing for—promise you'll let us help. Let us carry so of the weight. Don't try to be the hero who saves everyone while destroying himself."
"I promise," Steve said quietly.
Robin didn't believe him. But she let it go because pushing now would only make him shut down further.
They finished their burgers in silence, and Robin filed away another piece of the puzzle that was Steve Harrington. The boy who'd died and beco sothing else. The protector who couldn't stop preparing for an apocalypse only he could see coming.
Ten months, she thought. Whatever happens in ten months better be worth all this suffering.
Steve
The backpack remained at 100% for another week while I tested my new ability carefully.
Small experints. I "accidentally" brushed against people with minor injuries—scraped knees, bruised elbows, twisted wrists. Each ti, I felt the phantom pain bloom and consciously pulled it in, absorbing their suffering while accelerating their healing.
The power worked. Consistently. I could control activation now, choosing when to connect and when to release.
The cost was the pain itself. Real, visceral, overwhelming when the injury was severe. But manageable if I prepared ntally, if I reminded myself it was temporary.
I can save people, I thought, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. But I have to hurt to do it.
Patrick recovered from his ankle break faster than expected. The doctors called it a "lucky break"—minimal complications, excellent alignnt, surprisingly quick bone healing. They credited his youth and fitness.
I knew better.
And sowhere in the back of my mind, a countdown continued: 305 days until Will Byers vanished. 305 days until I'd need every advantage, every power, every ally I'd carefully assembled.
The Pain Heal ability would save lives. I just had to survive long enough to use it when it mattered most.
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