Chapter 35: Winter Training
January cold bit through my jacket as I stood in the basement watching El attempt a roundhouse kick.
She fell.
"Again," I said.
She stood, expression determined. Tried again. Better form this time, but still off-balance.
"You're thinking like someone with powers. Stop that. Right now you're just a ninety-pound kid learning to kick."
"But I have powers."
"Which exhaust you. Which drain you until you pass out. Physical combat doesn't require psychic energy—just technique and practice." I demonstrated the kick in slow motion. "Hip rotation drives the power. Not leg strength. Try it."
She mimicked my movement. Nearly perfect.
Fight Master calculated her learning rate: Exceptional. Muscle memory forming three times faster than normal students. Natural athleticism hidden under years of lab confinement.
"Good. Now add powers."
El executed the kick again—this time lifting herself six inches off ground mid-strike with telekinesis. The added momentum made the impact devastating against the heavy bag.
She landed grinning. "Better?"
"Terrifying. If you ever kick someone like that, they're not getting back up."
We drilled for another hour. Combining her natural abilities with learned technique created something unique—a fighting style that shouldn't exist.
Hopper arrived for pickup at six, watched the last fifteen minutes from the stairs.
"She's getting scary," he observed.
"She's getting capable. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because I'm watching a twelve-year-old girl punch holes in training equipment."
"Would you rather she was helpless when threats come?"
Hopper had no answer for that.
El jogged over, barely winded despite the intense training. "Can I come back Wednesday?"
"Yeah. Bring Mike if he wants. The Party's starting boot camp."
"Boot camp?"
"Survival training. Weapons. First aid. Everything they need to not die when things go bad."
"Things will go bad again?"
Halloween. 268 days. The tunnels. The possession. All of it.
"Eventually. But we'll be ready."
Weekend boot camp started Saturday at eight AM.
The Party arrived complaining—Dustin half-asleep, Mike grumpy, Lucas ready, Will quiet but determined.
Max showed up uninvited, skateboard under arm. "Heard you're teaching survival stuff."
"Who told you?"
"Lucas. I invited myself. Problem?"
"Can you follow orders?"
"Depends on the orders."
"Then you're in. Drop the skateboard."
I'd set up obstacle course in the woods behind my house—rope climbs, balance beams, crawling sections, sprint segments. Nothing impossible but enough to push them.
"First lesson: endurance. You can't fight if you can't move. You can't survive if you collapse after five minutes. We're building stamina."
"This is torture," Dustin wheezed after the first lap.
"This is preparation. Again."
They ran. Complained. Ran more.
By noon they'd completed five laps, learned basic first aid (pressure on wounds, CPR basics, recognizing shock), and started weapons training.
"Baseball bats are simple. Hold here, swing here, aim for knees or head." I demonstrated on training dummy. "You're not trying to be elegant. You're trying to disable threats."
Lucas took to it naturally—athletic, coordinated. Mike struggled with timing. Dustin treated it like science experiment, analyzing angles. Will watched everything intensely, absorbing technique.
Max grabbed a bat without permission, executed perfect swing. "Like this?"
"Where'd you learn that?"
"California. Had to defend myself sometimes."
"Against what?"
"Assholes. They're everywhere."
I liked her more each interaction.
El arrived with Robin and Eddie—extra supervision for larger group.
"You're running a child soldier program," Robin observed.
"I'm teaching survival skills to kids who've already seen monsters."
"That's a rationalization."
"That's reality. Would you rather they were unprepared when the Mind Flayer returns?"
She went quiet. "No. I wouldn't."
Eddie handled weapons instruction while I ran drills. He treated it like performance art—demonstrating bat techniques with theatrical flair that somehow worked.
"You gotta commit!" he told Dustin. "Swing like you mean it! Channel your inner barbarian!"
Dustin's next swing was significantly better.
By end of day, The Party was exhausted but competent. Not soldiers. Not heroes. But survivors.
"Same time next week," I said. "Bring water bottles. And tougher attitudes."
"Can't get tougher than this," Mike groaned.
"Watch me make you."
They left complaining but proud. I'd seen the shift—from kids playing at adventure to kids preparing for war.
Robin lingered after. "You're changing them."
"Into what?"
"I don't know yet. But something harder than twelve-year-olds should be."
"They've already been through harder things than kids should experience. I'm just giving them tools to survive next time."
"And if there is no next time?"
There will be. Halloween 1984. The Mind Flayer's return. All of it.
"Then they've learned self-defense and survival skills. Worst case scenario: they're over-prepared."
"Best case?"
"They live."
Steve - Late January, Basement
The Dimensional Backpack hit 100% charge on January 28th at approximately 3 PM.
I felt it—subtle pressure releasing, like battery reaching full capacity. The pocket dimension resonating with stored energy.
The Party gathered that evening for weekly session. Dustin noticed immediately.
"It's ready. The backpack's charged. You can extract something."
"I know."
"So extract!"
"No."
Everyone stared.
"What do you mean no?" Mike demanded. "We've been waiting three months for this."
"And we're waiting three more months."
"Why?"
I pulled out my calculations—notebooks filled with battery mechanics, charging rates, patterns observed over three years.
"At one hundred percent, I get random item. At two hundred percent, I can request specific item. Two words maximum, but I choose what appears."
Dustin's eyes lit up. "Request function. Of course. Higher energy threshold unlocks advanced capabilities."
"Exactly. And I need something specific more than I need random luck."
"What do you need?" Lucas asked.
Map That Updates was first request. Showed real-time Hawkins changes. Critical for tracking dimensional spread. Next request needs to be equally strategic.
"Haven't decided yet. But I'll know it when the time comes."
"When's two hundred percent?" Will asked quietly.
"One hundred more days. April 30th."
"That's almost Season Two," Dustin muttered, then caught himself. "I mean—that's almost next fall."
He knows. Not the transmigration, but he knows I'm working from some kind of foreknowledge. Too smart for his own good.
"Yeah. Almost time for next phase. Which is why I need the request saved for something critical."
They accepted it reluctantly. El looked disappointed—she'd wanted to see another extraction.
"Sorry, kid. Strategic patience beats immediate gratification."
"I know. Hopper says that about dessert."
"Smart man."
After they left, I sat in the basement holding the backpack's presence in my mind. 100% charge thrumming with potential.
200 days total charging time. 100 more to go. Need to decide what to request. What single item could change outcomes most?
No answer yet. But I had time.
Winter continued. Training intensified. The Mind Flayer whispered constantly now—corruption deepening, but manageable.
268 days until Halloween.
I'd be ready.
Steve - February 12, 1984
My eighteenth birthday passed quietly.
Parents called from London—moved from Tokyo to England for "new opportunities." They'd be home "eventually." Sent money instead of presence.
The Party threw surprise party in my basement. Cake from the grocery store, presents wrapped in newspaper comics, D&D manual signed by everyone.
"You're officially an adult," Robin said, handing me beer she'd stolen from her dad's fridge.
"Technically been adult since I fought interdimensional monster."
"That was combat maturity. This is legal maturity. Different things."
We drank cheap beer and played terrible music and pretended everything was normal.
Chrissy found me later, alone in the kitchen.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Being eighteen. Legally adult. Still in high school. Preparing kids for war. Training twelve-year-olds to fight monsters." I laughed without humor. "This is insane."
"But necessary."
"Is it? Or am I traumatizing children because I'm paranoid?"
She grabbed my face, forced eye contact. "You saved Will Byers. You saved Barb Holland. You killed a monster and closed a dimensional gate. You're not paranoid—you're prepared. And those kids trust you because you've proven yourself."
"What if I'm wrong about what's coming?"
"Then they've learned self-defense and survival skills and you've given them confidence. Worst case scenario: you over-prepared. Best case: you save their lives again."
Same logic Robin used. Same answer.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not thinking I'm crazy."
"Oh, you're definitely crazy. But in a good way."
We rejoined the party. Eddie challenged me to arm wrestling (I won easily—Fight Master advantage). Dustin demonstrated "scientific cake cutting" that resulted in chaos. El practiced saying "happy birthday" until she got the inflection right.
Normal moments. Precious moments.
My parents called again at midnight, asked if I'd had "a nice day." I lied, said yes, didn't mention the party or the friends or any of it.
They wouldn't understand.
After everyone left, I stood in the basement surveying my preparations. Three years of work. Weapons on racks. Training equipment. Supply manifests. Coded journals.
Fight Master at 85% of Phase 2. Pain Heal contaminated but functional. Dimensional Backpack charged and ready.
I was eighteen. Legally adult. Practically a commander preparing soldiers for war.
This is my life now. This is who I am.
The Mind Flayer whispered: Happy birthday, little traveler. One year closer to our reunion. One year closer to inevitability.
I ignored it, went to bed, dreamed of tunnels and shadows and Bob Newby dying while I watched helpless.
238 days until Halloween.
The countdown continued.
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