Ṡṁëḷḷṡ Ḷïḳë Ṫëëṅ Äṅġṡẗ (M. Wheeler)

Ch. 8 | The Mind Flayer

Heyo! Skipping episode 7 because that one is just all Eleven; and while I guess I could've written her reaction to seeing Dylan in the void, I felt like that'd be just too short, drawn out, or redundant. So yeah.

Okay, two warnings: one, this chapter is HORRIFYINGLY LONG BRUH. LIKE WTF KIND OF LONG.

So uh, sorry about that.

Oh, and two; y'all are gonna wanna kill me after this shit. Just so ya know.

Anyways, chapter 7 (technically)! Hope you enjoy!

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"What the hell is that?"

The alarm started to blare all around the hospital, making Dylan cringe in horrified trepidation.

He could sense them approaching.

He could sense the trap beginning to snare.

"We're too late," he muttered, sharing a distressed look with Mike.

Bob glanced at them weirdly. "What?"

The two boys looked at him. "WE'RE TOO LATE!!!" They shouted in unison, hurrying back to Will's room where Joyce awaited them in concern.

"What's going on?" She asked, panic infused within her. Dylan hated to say this, hut it was more than appropriate.

"We're under attack," Mike informed her breathily, body completely on edge. Dylan wished to comfort him but right now he was frantically looking for his backpack. He needed what was inside it more than ever right now.

"C'mon, c'mon...." he muttered hurriedly, scouring the floor. "Where is it?!"

Bob inclined his head. "Where's what? Your backpack?" He questioned, rattled at the way Dylan's head shot up, cyan eyes pinning him with an intense stare. Gulping lightly, he pointed over to the opposite corner. "It's o—"

His mouth dropped open when Dylan was beside his backpack within a second.

Gazing between the two corners, Bob gaped wider if possible. "How on earth—?"

Dylan ignored him, manically searching through the contents of his bag. Various different school books and notes were crumpled and tossed aside until he finally found the hidden zipper; the one that held a secret compartment pocket at the bottom of his bag.

Opening the pocket, he took out a lengthy, black leather belt, cradling the thing carefully and cautiously. He needed to be alert because the sides of the belt were adorned with multiple, razor sharp throwing knives, all of varying calibre and sizes.

Quickly, he put the belt on, making sure it clicked in place. It was only then when he gauged the shocked reactions of everyone in the room; heck even Mike looked shocked, despite already knowing, but he also seemed—impressed? Dylan rose his eyebrows—deeply impressed actually....

Huh. Maybe he should wear this thing more often.

"What??" He asked when the stares from Bob and Joyce wouldn't let up, "we're under attack, are we not?" Lifting his long sweater (another reason to love them—they concealed the knives well), he counted each one of them; the standard fourteen, seven on each side—none of them were missing.

Dylan huffed in relief. Good, he thought, taking out the two largest ones and getting into a defensive position. Now was not the time to be down on any of them, because he was gonna need to reuse a lot of knives on these things.

While Joyce finally seemed to accept the fact, Bob did not. Being the goody-two-shoes he was, he was near mortified at the idea of a child being in possession of so many knives. "Dylan, I really do not think this is safe," he said in his authority tone hat most adults more or less possessed.