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By the time the sun had come up and over the dreary old buildings of Hawkins, Boris kicked Gen to the curb and dropped her off the moment they saw signs of living, breathing people. He claimed it was to "conserve gas", but she knew he probably wanted to get back home sooner than later, which she didn't blame him for. She'd run out of Hawkins the moment she stepped into it, if she had the willpower, of course. But, alas, something brewed in the Upside Down.
She felt it in the back of her head — and heard the obnoxious beeping that came from her backpack once she made it to the center of town.
Two pagers sat in the front pocket of her backpack, next to a few empty peppermint wrappers and several crushed cigarette boxes. She kept them for emergencies only because she didn't have a telephone, and gave one to Will, and the other to Steve Harrington (a mistake in itself) — Gen was sure Will had lost his, forgetful as ever, so she groaned as she reached for the small black box and looked at the message. Or rather, 26 messages that had been sent since she left Hawkins. "CODE RED." Each of them read.
"LIVES ARE AT STAKE OR IM NOT COMING." She typed out slowly, her eyes struggled against the glare from the morning sun. Gen regretted giving Steve the pager, but Nancy would be able to tell her in person if something was wrong, and Will already had his in case Jonathan needed it. Steve motherfucking Harrington was, sadly, her next best choice, because she would rather not have a bunch of kids paging her over little things.
"LIVES ARE AT STAKE."
"DUSTIN'S HOUSE."
"BRING MEAT."
Gen blinked and scratched her head, then started to type again despite being entirely confused. "MEAT."
"LOTS OF MEAT."
"BRINGIT."
Meat? Where the hell was she going to find a bunch of meat? She had about twenty dollars lying around in her backpack, maybe a bit more counting loose change — Gen didn't even know why they needed so much in the first place, considering it was a code red. To walk all the way home and back would take too much time, so she made her way to the butcher to practically grovel for whatever amount of meat she could find. Even scraps.
