PRETTY SICK!
— shot on the sunday ☆
tw: depersonalization, mention of suicide

Peace and Angelica Bell were never meant to exist on the same plain, it was something that she worked towards — something that was meant to be attainable as she clawed her way up from the depths of hell and out of her mother's womb; she was born screaming.

Born wailing about the horrors she would endure before she'd even lived long enough to comprehend the very idea of them. She would peel back her skin at some point in her treacherous nearly-18 years of existence and finally, finally, fucking finally transcend past the very thought of peace. Because at that point, there would be nothing left for her to do besides return to her rawest form, naked and covered in blood and amniotic fluid, this time, with the knowledge of anything and everything.

There was no peace to be attained the minute Raymond Murdoch barged into her house on the fateful Friday night. There was no peace in the universe without Peter Bell. There was no Angelica Bell if he didn't exist on the same plain as her.

They were an extension of each other, yin and yang, two magnets, the tide and sand, the sun and moon — forever connected in a bond that would never be broken, one could not exist without the other. They were created in the big bang together as a pair, they were never supposed to be so forcefully ripped away from each other. Pete couldn't be dead. He couldn't. He was dead. He wasn't dead. He was dead. He wasn't dead. She played "he loves me, he loves me not" in the confines of her skull, instead using the prospect of her brother's remains rotting in some halfhearted grave as the decision petal. He wasn't dead.

But... the connection had been severed, she felt it, and Angie felt her very own being get taken with it, stolen from her by those fucking government cunts.

When she heard it, the words leave Raymond's lips, a bomb went off inside of her. It started in slow motion, a climax that she never wanted to end, because once it did — the heat melted her organs and the shrapnel started to tear away at her flesh, it lodged in her bones and the pain was unbearable. She wanted to die.

She wanted the bomb to manifest itself into reality and finally rip itself from her core. Then... silence. Nothing. The noise dissipated in her head, and finally, finally she got her thoughts to stop moving at a million miles per hour. She had a job to do, she would get it done. She would play the part of dewy-eyed Angie Bell while feeling nothing in the slightest as she shopped in the Sears business section.

There was nothing left of her. To whom would she dedicate her entire existence to now that Pete was gone?

She would still dedicate it to him, dedicate it to taking down the people who hurt him. The ones who wanted to see him die.

"Ma'am?" the cashier snapped her fingers in front of her face, her bangles jangled with life, with personality. Something that Angie had been void of since the sun rose over the trees. "Are you okay? Your change." She motioned to her outstretched hand, wrinkled and full of coins and bills.

"I'm fine," the blonde smiled and grabbed the change and the handles of her paper bag, full of clothes that she would have never imagined herself shopping for in a million years. Vengeance made people do funny things. "Thank you."

Saturdays were for shopping, Sundays were for church, which is why Angie decided to enact her plan to sneak into the lab immediately — on Sunday she could pray to whatever sick God watched over her that everything went smoothly. To beg for forgiveness, mercy and anything in between for what she was about to do. And with a confident stride, she began to walk down the street of bustling Hawkins, which was lively, considering that it was an average day for everyone else. She repeated the outline of the plan in her head as she walked on the sidewalk, her steps silent against the concrete as she tried to be as swift as possible.

1. Take the plates off of your Pinto.

2. Dress nicely, professionally, and wear your sweetest smile. They won't suspect a thing.

3. Let Raymond do the talking at the gate, he'll say you're there for a job interview.

4. Head in during the after-lunch rush, Raymond will distract the guard who checks badges by being associated with Hawkins PD.

5. Go in with a crowd.

6. Make your way towards the file room and look like you know what you're doing. There should be signs hung up for direction.

7. Find a file on Pete, Barbara, or Will and leave as soon as possible.

8. Don't get caught.

Eight simple steps. Eight simple steps. Raymond called it shoddy at best, but Angie begged to differ — a part of the plan was the charm. If they wanted other people to believe the part, then they had to play the part as if it were the truth, they had to become the innocent nobodies who just wanted a job.

She repeated the steps under her breath while her body went into auto-pilot towards downtown, where the shops were more homely, and the people became sparser. Not that Angie noticed, too fixated on the steps of the plan to notice the figure hurtling towards her at a similar speed to her.

"Oh, shit!"

The teen didn't realize she had fallen until her butt hit the ground and she got hydraulic pressed by her perpetrator and a bouquet of red roses, Angelica groaned from the weight and tried (meekly) to get him off of her. A whiff of Farah Fawcett spray made her stop and look down at the man who landed on her, "Steve?"

"Angie. Hey," Steve Harrington greeted her, well, half-greeted her as he moved the flowers out of her face, "Surprise running into you here," he joked with a boyish grin, and Angie grunted.

"I'd laugh, but I can't breathe," she gasped and tapped his shoulders a few times to try and ease the weight from her lungs.

"Oh, right," he pushed himself up and off of her, then grabbed her arms and pulled her up into a standing position. Angie brushed and blew the hair out of her face and mouth as she watched Steve pick up the clothes from the blue Sears bag, which had fallen onto the sidewalk and placed them back in. "New wardrobe?" he questioned jokingly, holding out the bag for her.

She took it and chuckled nervously. He knew. He had to know what she was planning. Angie could see it on his face and in the creases of his eyebrows, how his lips ghosted a frown — Steve Harrington was the judgement, the reckoning, the beacon in the sky that separated good from evil. There was a sudden fork in the road, and the lines blurred between which side she should take. None of this was of course, literal, Angie merely started to face a dilemma where she was reminded of how she could simply choose a path of normalcy rather than vengeance.

And how, if she took the path of reprisal, anyone who dug slightly under the surface would find out what she had done. Surely they'd hate her.

"Uh, Ange? You don't look too good," Steve said and placed a hand on her shoulder to be able to stop her swaying and look her in the eye. "Did something happen?"

Brows knitted deeply in concern, his brown, doe eyes attempted to lock with the blue ones that stared back at him, but she wasn't there. Steve's hand tensed over the fabric of her shirt when he realized Angie stood in front of him, but she wasn't there. Her mind floated elsewhere.

"Sorry, no," she shook her head and blinked herself out of the daze. "Yeah, um, new attire — my, uh, taking down the government outfit." Angie laughed, loudly, unnaturally, like a doll wired to do what was socially acceptable... but still not quite right. The issue was that she wasn't joking, but trying to make it appear like it was one proved to be a difficult feat. "My mom... um, she's the one who needed it, actually."

The brunette chuckled a little, just as stiff and unnatural, but instead of being forced it was laced with discomfort. She could hear it line his throat and creep up into his slightly widened eyes. "Nice..." Steve trailed off and sucked in a breath, "You know you can tell me anything, right? No — no walls, no bullshit, just anything. I won't judge."

Her head jerked into a shake and she swallowed the thousands of razor blades that cut at her throat and threatened to break their way through her flesh. She wished they would just snap her vocal chords instead of making it harder to keep the truth at bay. "I know," Angie replied mournfully, her voice thick with guilt for lying. "I think, um — I think... I need to get back home."

Maybe if Angie had some kind of clairvoyant vision into the future, she would have taken a different path of fate; one less grizzly, and one of less pain. Maybe she'd have spilled her guts to Steve on the sidewalk, and he'd have brought her with him to visit Nancy, where they'd meet Dustin and she'd have gotten sucked into the mysteries and secrets of Hawkins by accidental association instead of by her own hands.

But fate was not kind. Fate wanted her to be reborn, and to be reborn, the shell of what was left of Angelica Bell had to be killed. Be replaced by herself — her whole self which existed without Pete. She needed the path of most pain to be able to coexist with peace.

On Saturday, November 4th, 1984, she made the choice to walk away from Steve Harrington before he could get another word out of his mouth.

𓆩♡𓆪

"So, what's up?" Nancy's voice knocked Gen out of her concentrated stare at the pile of orange packages on the floor. Each had a letter and a cassette tape of Doctor Sam Owens' confession to the lab having a hand in the deaths of Barbara Holland and Peter Bell — all of the teens who helped package it had cramps in their hands from the pure amount of them they'd made to send out to news outlets across the country.

"Just... thinking," she replied and averted her gaze from them and towards Nancy, whose brows furrowed in a way that told her to continue. "I'm wondering if we're doing the right thing." They weren't, Gen figured immediately, it wasn't something to ponder over for hours. Some things were better kept swept under the rug.

"Barbara's parents... Angie... they deserve to know." The curly haired girl frowned, her lips turned down slightly as she glanced at the pile. Conflict danced behind her bright blue irises, and Gen sighed a bit, tousling her hair around as she kept herself calm.

"They do," she assured, "But, what if one of them wanted to look for revenge or something? And they find stuff that might get them pulled into... other... stuff." Gen trailed off, glancing over towards the watchful eyes of Boris, who pretended he wasn't eavesdropping on the girls, despite her being able to tell that he was.

See, Gen said she went to the Upside Down and could confirm that Pete had died — but she said nothing more, and nothing less. None of it mattered for the effort to expose the lab, so she refused to speak on it more, much to Boris' dismay.

Nancy's own eyes followed her gaze, and she shook her head in response and placed her hand over Gen's, which started to spin the thick rings that lined her fingers when she spoke. "Hey, don't worry, that... stuff's all over — if they did; which they won't, but if they did, then I doubt they'll believe any of it. It's not watered down," she joked lamely, and Gen couldn't help but chuckle despite the rocks that dropped in her stomach the moment she touched her.

Things like that made her mind wander; she wondered if Nancy felt the same, if she wanted a connection like she did but couldn't express it in fear of becoming a laughing stock for the town. Did friends do this with other friends? But it didn't matter, if they kept it behind closed doors — no one had to see them when they felt one's lips on another.

The thought made her wince, she didn't like Nancy like that, they were friends — Gen tried to kid herself — she couldn't let her stupid feelings get in the way of their friendship. Especially when they were so wrong. No girl liked other girls, it just wasn't a thing, so she sucked it up instead of pandering to her own stupid fantasies.

She ignored the butterflies that flew freely in her stomach and stopped her fidgeting fingers, so Nancy would let go and free her from the mind-hell she put her in when her hands caressed her so tenderly. Instead, Nancy squeezed her hand in response and cracked her a lopsided smile, "We're doing something good, Gen. Loosen up a bit — I think Murray is getting more drinks out," she said as the balding man put on another one of his vinyls.

Boris had a slight point in Gen getting along with Murray, they both enjoyed loudly making fun of people in Russian; making it obvious by staring directly at them with outstretched fingers and a derogatory tone, but never explaining what they said in English. (It was all directed at Jonathan.).

The ravenette bit her tongue and nodded, following Nancy when she started to pull her towards the "living room" or what remained of one. Gen took a spot on the sofa furthest from Jonathan and next to Nancy, while Murray and Boris had their own recliners. "To taking down the man," Murray toasted once he handed out the cups full of a vodka soda mix.

"To taking down the man," the others toasted in unison, though Boris spent most of the day not offering help in taking down the man, and instead performing several renditions of Madonna songs.

"Commie bastards sure know how to make a spirit, am I right?" Murray joked as he knocked down one of his several drinks that evening.

Gen couldn't help but roll her eyes at the language and Boris chortled. "The commie soldiers don't know shit about drinks, it's the villagers who know how to party!" he exclaimed, and the teens exchanged an apprehensive look once Murray began to cackle alongside him. "Oh, you all, don't be shy. We're friends now!"

"You're shitfaced," Gen chuckled.

"I haven't had a lick of alcohol," Boris waved his hand dismissively as he spoke, "I drink to celebrate, there's been nothing for me to celebrate yet. Once that comically evil lab is taken down, then we may share a real drink, how about it?"

Nancy smiled and drank her vodka soda much slower than Murray, "We have school."

"Oh, what will they do? Crucify you for missing a day?" he replied and pushed his sunglasses onto his head, his rings reflected off of the dim lamplight that filled the room. "I promise your grades will not suffer after one celebration."

"My mom might."

"Right, I forgot you were children." Realization dawned onto Boris' face and he nodded slowly, "Very well, we must celebrate in secret — surely your mother won't find out if you're able to come here without her knowing now."

Murray reached for the alcohol to make another drink, and Nancy shook her head. "Oh, no, no, no, we... we can't."

"Yeah, no. No. I've got to drive," Jonathan persisted, despite the fact he was already slurring his words slightly. Gen scoffed at his irresponsibility.

"Drive? What, tonight?" Murray questioned, and Boris curled a brow alongside him.

"Our parents..."

"Would be proud if they knew what you were up to. Just tell them you're at Tammy's, or Dawn's, or whoever's and take my guest room," he informed them with a minor shrug, and Gen must have made an unpleasant face because Murray glanced at her. "There's a pull-out in my study, too."

She shrugged and Jonathan looked at Nancy, then Gen and nodded. "Can I take the sofa?"

Murray stared at them, alongside Boris. "Okay, I'm confused. What's going on here? A lover's quarrel?"

Gen's brows knitted together deeply, and she hid her frown with a long swig of her drink as Nancy and Jonathan tried, and failed, to convince Murray that they were just friends. Boris cackled at them, and she only managed to feel worse by the second once Murray mocked them. How it'd been so obvious that they were into each other while Gen had to sit and listen like she didn't care when he listed off things that she shared with them too. Chemistry. History. Shared trauma.

What made her so different from them?

He spoke of Jonathan's father and Nancy's lack of love for her supposed "boyfriend", who Gen thought she'd broken up with at the party. She watched her stammer in response to being accused of not loving Steve, which was an obvious tell that Murray was in fact, right. The ravenette barely paid attention once he turned to her and raved about some bullshit; how she would always be the third wheel, and never the one Nancy chose. Platonically, of course, it never crossed their minds that she may have wanted something more than that.

Gen refused to give him the reaction he wanted, instead she barely gave him a shrug and reached to fill her cup with more alcohol. She needed it to handle the increasing headache that crept up her neck, but it seemed to have the exact opposite effect.

"Listen, there's a pull-out and the sofa out here — but if I were you, I would just share the damn bed," Murray headed upstairs and left the four in silence.

Boris stood up as well, clasping his hands together for a moment while he watched them in each of their deeply-thinking states. "Ah, in that case, I must head out for a smoke. Try not to kill each other for the beds, yes?"

"Just take the pull-out, unless you're planning on sharing," Gen told them and stood up as she gathered pillows and blankets to put on the sofa she planned to try and sleep on. It was a miracle if she ended up with more than three hours of sleep, most nights.

Jonathan stuttered out a short proclamation of gratitude as he practically ran away from the girls, and Nancy was left standing there with her mouth slightly agape. "Do you — do you think I retreat?" she asked, appearing touched by Murray's words.

The taller girl furrowed her brows and shook her head, which made Nancy frown at her sudden change in demeanor. "Hey," she started and made her way towards Gen, "Don't take what he said to heart, okay? I'd choose you over Jonathan or-or Steve any day, you're my best friend."

"Thanks." And again, Gen must've made a face, one that resembled a cringe, because Nancy's brows furrowed together even deeper as she looked up at the girl. "I've just had too much to drink — so," she explained, her lips curling into themselves when she looked away.

"Oh, yeah," she chuckled half-heartedly, "Me too, I should... I should go to bed. Goodnight, Gen."

"Yeah, night."

Gen laid down and squeezed her eyes shut, she wanted so badly to beat something senseless in a blind rage — but how could it be a blind rage if she saw everything so clearly? Jonathan liked Nancy. Nancy liked Jonathan, even though the ravenette thought she at least liked Steve a few days prior. And it wasn't like there was a valid reason for Gen to be angry, her feelings were just unrequited, Nancy couldn't be forced to like her back.

Still, it didn't exactly feel amazing when Nancy confirmed that Gen hadn't even been a fleeting contender in the run for her next partner, the third wheel forced to sit and watch as the men ran laps around her. Why couldn't she just be normal? If she were a man, like Jonathan and Steve, would she have a chance? She didn't want to think about it. Nancy surely never thought about things like that, either.

Her ears picked up on the soft tones of Nancy and Jonathan's voices as they spoke quietly, careful not to wake the "sleeping" girl a few feet away from them. If they knew any better, they'd know that Gen rarely got to sleep until the wee hours of the morning, much later than the time it was then.

She listened as they fled back to their rooms, at least Nancy did, because she then heard Jonathan speed towards her door and then mild rustling as it opened and shut again. Gen opened her eyes and peered over the sofa, not only annoyed because they forced her to lay on the springiest piece of furniture in the house for no reason — but because it was so easy for Jonathan to win her over. All it took was a couple days alone.

At first she thought they went to bed, but then she heard faint rhythmic tapping from the bed frame hitting the wall and low noises of —

Gen didn't want to think about it. She needed a breather. No — she needed to leave immediately, instead of being forced to sit through their awkward-new-coupley shit for the entire day once they drove home. She shot up from her lying position and rubbed her face, blocking out the sounds that came from the guest room. Her sneakers went on as quickly as she could tie them, and she scooped up her bag and went outside.

"Boris?" she hissed into the cool night air, her eyes searched the darkness for the man in question. Crickets chirped in response, and Gen sighed when she had to walk through brush that caught on her clothing to find him. "Papalosky, where the hell are you?"

"Shenyechka!" he came from her left, where he sat underneath a garage type building — there were posters of women in swimsuits hung up, and Christmas lights strung up as decorations on the inside. His cigarette hung loosely from his lips and he clapped her on the shoulder roughly, "Come for a smoke?"

She shrugged his hand off of her and shook her head. "Take me home. Now," Gen demanded, her hands gripping the straps of her backpack like it would be the last thing she'd ever touch.

Boris scratched his head, "But it's so lat—"

"Now. You said you would take me home when we finished — it's done, isn't it?" she replied, her face contorting into a scowl. The thought of telling the truth never crossed her mind.

The man sighed and rolled his eyes at her, but his lips found themselves pressing into a frown as he spun his van keys around his finger. "So pushy. Are you upset about something? You look... well, angry — more angry than usual."

"I just want to go home," Gen insisted and started to make her way towards his van, getting into the passenger's seat without another word. Boris caught up with her and sighed.

"You would think after a year and a half of traveling together, you would know when I know you're upset," he said as he ducked into the vehicle's driver's seat and started it. It roared to life with a shudder, one that made Gen (who generally didn't get antsy) grab the chicken-hook above her. "Was it what Murray said? He is only joking around, mostly."

"No."

"Did your friends say something to you?"

"No," she sighed and kept her body turned towards the window to her right, Gen watched the trees buzz past them and blend in with the rest of the landscape — a part of her wished that she could run away, run into some random field and never come back. But that was a bit dramatic considering it was over a girl who never liked her back. "I'm not angry."

Boris clicked his tongue unsurely and turned down the radio, Kino, a Russian band, played faintly over the sound of the speeding van. "You are tricky, Shenyechka, I cannot read you like a book anymore," he chuckled and quieted down after a lack of reaction, "I know you say you are not angry... but is that the truth? Because it seems like you are always angry now."

Gen refused to respond, tucking her arms around herself as she kept her gaze on the window.

"I do not know what happened in that Upside Down land, but I do want you to know that you should not blame yourself for it," he continued, despite the lack of acknowledgement. "You cannot save everyone."

"I can damn well try," she grumbled. That was the last sentence she shared the entire car ride.

—————
——— AUTHOR'S NOTE
this chapter is so insanely long
💀😭 i didn't mean for it to be
it just kind of happened. this is
the only super duper long chapter
for the rest of the act. sorry for the
rushed ending though

angie be like 🤪🤪... yeah...
go to therapy girl...

this is the only season where gen
really takes a forefront, so a lot
of the next chapters will be from
her pov — it'll make sense, but
just be warned beforehand

i'll be honest, i've been feeling
very unmotivated to write and
stuff. it's primarily because of
stress (i think) from school starting
in a few weeks for me 😞 i nearly
have the entirety of act 1 prewritten
but ive been stuck for awhile. so
just a bit of a sorry if i seem
inactive besides updates, or just
generally sad, but it'll pass eventually

i hope you enjoyed the chapter,
i love seeing votes and comments
and stuff

PRETTY SICK!
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