Chapter Text
"I didn't run this time, right?"
He doesn't need Dustin's tears to tell him what he already knows. There's too much blood sinking into the cracks in the concrete. They're too far from any proper help.
He had no idea death would be so tiring, but it is. He's exhausted. Barely has the strength to speak, but he does. This is goodbye, to everything. Selfishly, he's glad he has someone he cares about to say it to.
"I love you, man."
Suddenly the cold inside explodes into warmth. Brighten white light overtakes his vision.
"Eddie?!"
The last thing he hears is Dustin screaming his name.
Awareness that he's asleep comes first. A comforting warmth which eases the gut-wrenching terror from his dream. The details of it slip away, water through his fingers, until all he can recall is a terrible weight on his chest. Crushing hopelessness. Pain. Cold.
What a dream. His imagination has a lot to answer for.
He rolls onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling. Wood paneled, dark in the dim light. Unfamiliar. Turning his head to one side he squints at the faint outline of a blind. It's also unfamiliar. His stomach lurches. He shouldn't feel this unsteady when he's lying down in bed, but it's all wrong. All of it. Slowly, he sits up. The sheet covering him slips down to his waist and even that's wrong. As is the patterned bedspread pooled around his feet. His eyes dart around the dark room, searching for something, anything, to remind him of where on earth he is.
There's nothing. Not one thing which feels familiar. Even worse, for some reason he can't bring to mind an image of what he's expecting to see around him. All he knows is it's not what's there.
Then another, more worrying, blank presents itself. He doesn't remember his name.
Panic pounds through his veins. His name. What the hell is his name?
He scrambles out of bed and fumbles the blind open, only to find himself staring at dark water, tiny little waves, and the shadowy outlines of boats. Suddenly his unsteadiness makes a queasy sense. He cracks the window and the scent of old diesel and salt confirms his suspicions. He's on a boat. How did he end up on a boat?
There's a low growl behind him. He whirls to face it. A little short-haired dog growls up at him. Probably brown, although it's hard to tell in the dark, and only just as tall as his knee. Eyes lit by the fires of Hades. With a sharp snarling bark which sounds suspiciously like the word 'gollum' the dog darts forward. Small white teeth sink into the ankle of his pajama pants and the dog tugs hard.
"Hey!" he yelps, flapping at the dog, trying to prevent those teeth sinking into his flesh. "Knock it off you stupid little rat!"
He shakes his leg, and somehow dislodges the dog, which gollums at him again then scampers off under the bed. A nose appears from the darkness, then two wary eyes, fixed on him. He takes a step forward, towards a mirror hanging on the wall, but it takes him too close to the dog and vicious growls echo from under the bed. Another step, and they're interspersed with more 'gollum' barks too.
"Jesus Christ," he sighs, "give me a break. I didn't even steal your ring." He pauses. That was something. Something right. Gollum. He remembers that. But when he tries to grasp it, to unravel everything else it's connected too, the memory retreats, leaving him clutching at air. Fucking Gollum. He tries to chase it, but just as a shadowy approximation of something he knows for sure begins to coalesce in his mind, he looks up and all his attention is stolen by the image in the mirror next to him.
It's nothing out of the ordinary. A face, a set of bare shoulders, the very top of a man's chest. But none of them are his.
A phantom image of his own face rises up alongside the stranger in the mirrow. Long wild hair, dark brown. Pale. Jaw more pointed than square. Brown eyes. Tattoos by his collarbone, the harpy and the spider. He remembers the pain of the needle scratching his skin, the excitement that numbed it. A rush of exhilaration almost overwhelms his otherwise crushing confusion. He remembers. He can remember.
The exhilaration drains away as quickly as it arrived. Remembering is all well and good, but what he remembers is not what he sees in the mirror. It's a little crazy, but he actually turns around and checks over his shoulder, because somehow the idea that maybe he's invisible and there's someone else standing behind him makes more sense for a moment than the idea that the mirror is somehow reflecting the wrong image. Of course there's no one there.
He moves closer to the mirror, which at least makes the dog stop growling at him. Cautiously, he lifts a finger. The reflection does the same. He pokes himself in the cheek and watches the movements of the man in the mirror. It's an exact match.
But it's not him.
The man staring back at him from the mirror is older, he's got that generic 'adult' look which makes it hard to tell his age exactly but he could easily be in his thirties or even his forties. Light brown hair styled into the most sensible crew cut he's ever seen. Even the sleep-mussed strands attempting to break out of the strict order haven't dared to go far. He could sweep them back into place easily with his fingers. And this dudes jaw is square. Some kind of movie-star square. The stubble on his cheeks the exact same shade of pale brown as his hair. He's got zero tattoos, not a mark on him. And he's tan. More tan than he's ever seen on anyone. His skin has that weathered, sun-beaten look, like he spends half his life out of doors. Chest and shoulders lightly muscled in a way which suggests it comes from use rather than training.
"Who the hell are you?" he whispers to the reflection, running his hands over his face, trying desperately to find something familiar there and coming up with absolutely nothing. He looks around the strange bedroom once again. "Where the hell am I?"
He ventures out of the bedroom slowly. The boat doesn't have much space to explore. One door leads into a tiny bathroom which only just fits a toilet, sink and shower. The other leads directly into another room, which, when he finally finds the switch for the light, is revealed to take up the full width available, and seems to serve as both living room and kitchen all in one. To one side there's stairs leading up into what he thinks at first is the ceiling, but on closer inspection he finds a small hatch. He pops his head through to find a large wheel and console decorated with switches and levers. It must be like the drivers seat or something. He really has no clue what you call it on a boat.
Pressing his face up against the glass doors on the opposite side of the main room reveals the dark dock and a cramped outside sitting area with a single chair and small wooden table. Like a porch. Again, he's not sure what it's called on a boat.
It takes a moment to realize that the fact the space is cramped and untidy doesn't bother him. Actually, it feels almost home-like, if it weren't rocking from side to side. The movement keeps him constantly on the edge of queasiness, as well as feeling like he's about to fall over all the time.
A wave of relief washes over him when his gaze sweeps over the chaotically full kitchen surfaces for the fourth or fifth time and catches on a familiar white and red box. Lucky Strikes. Thank God. A smoke is exactly what he needs right now. He grabs the box and makes a little fist of triumph when he finds a slim metal lighter beneath it. It's heavier in his hand than he expects, but he doesn't stop to worry about it. The first inhale is like heaven. He can't normally afford these, it's like a little luxury.
Wait. That's something else. Another memory. He can't normally afford these cigarettes, but he smokes. This has to be a good sign. Maybe, if he concentrates, he'll remember something else. Maybe his name.
He takes a closer look at the mess, hoping something will spark more memories. It's an odd assortment. A couple days worth of newspapers, the sleeve to a Bee Gees record which makes him shudder when he picks it up. He can't remember what it sounds like, only a visceral sense of disdain. Absently he reads the back. He gets stuck on the name, Robin, for a second or two, wondering if he's drawn to it because it's his, but it's not right. It doesn't fit.
It takes a moment to locate an ashtray, but he manages to find a heavy green glass one beneath a small stack of Miami Heralds before ash scatters everywhere. Miami. That must be where he now although like everything else around him it doesn't feel right. He takes the top paper in the stack and twists it around until he can make out the headline.
"Miraculous Escape From South Beach Nightclub Fire"
But that's not what grabs his attention. What immediately draws his gaze and freezes his body to the spot is the tiny print in the top corner.
"June 10th, 1968"
It's yet another thing he knows is wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong. He slams the paper back down on top of the mess.
It's all too much. Not a goddamn thing makes any sense. He grinds the butt of the cigarette savagely into the ashtray, then stomps back into the bedroom.
A growl greets him the second he steps through the door.
"Oh give me a break, Gollum," he snarls. "I have no clue what's happening or who I am."
The dog whines as if rejecting the name, or him, and the flash of guilt he feels at the sound only worsens his irritation. He slaps the light switch, plunging the boat back into darkness. A shadow slinks past him, the dog making a break for the other room. With a sigh, he falls back onto the bed, face down.
He must have dozed off again because next time he's aware it's light outside and there's tapping in the distance. Followed quickly by sharp barking.
"Jesus Christ, I'm still here," he groans, looking around the wood-paneled room.
There's another brisk tap and the dog barks again, although not golluming this time. Maybe he's finally chilled out. He's got not idea whether the dog is male or female but 'he' goes with Gollum so he it is for now. Another tap, another bark, and he realises that someone is knocking on the door. He rolls out of bed then pauses, suddenly very aware that he's half-naked. There's no shirt or anything on the floor, or under the bed, so he pulls out a drawer. It reveals a mess of vests awkwardly shoved into the space. Awful, plain white cotton vests. If he had time to find another option he would never…but the tapping and barking is still going, so he pulls one over his head.
He's not sure if it feels more grandpa or dumb jock, but it's all he has without keeping whoever it is waiting any longer. He hurries out into the main room, and is immediately hit by intense regret for every single choice which led him to this point. Even if he can't remember them.
He's cooked.
There's a woman tapping on the glass, and every word he's ever known vanishes from his brain to be replaced by just one, 'sunshine'. Everything about her screams it, from her hair to her smile to her sandals. Even her yellow floral dress, the hem sitting high against tanned thighs.
He's got no idea who she is, but she rolls her eyes in a way he can only describe as affectionate when she spots him heading towards the door. And again when the door fails to open on his first attempt, until he locates the lock and twists. She's so much sunshine that he almost expects it to get warmer when he opens the door.
"Another late night, Mr Madison?" she asks and even her voice sounds like summer. He swears it sparkles through the air towards him, leaving him dazed. So much so he doesn't even argue about the name, although he knows it's not his. He's so dazed he doesn't say anything at all and the silence stretches into awkwardness until he realizes with a start it's because he hasn't replied to her. His cheeks burn.
"Uh, I guess."
The little dog saves him from further embarrassment by running past his leg and out onto the back of the boat, whining happily up at the woman. A wave of gratitude towards the animal rushes over him, accompanied by a pang it takes him a moment to identify as jealousy. Although he doesn't want to think too hard about whether it's more towards her for receiving such adoration instead of the attitude he's been getting, or towards the dog for getting to rub against her legs like that.
"Hi baby!" she croons and crouches down to pet the dog, who licks at her arms in return. "Are you ready for your day with auntie Sherrie?"
Oh shit. The new position makes everything worse. Although her knees are clamped together her skirt rides up her thighs and the loose neckline of her dress means the white line of her bra flashes up at him like some kind of beacon.
She glances up, and although he does his best to drag his eyes away, he's pretty sure she would have seen exactly where they were pointing. Sure enough a knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Well, it's better than a slap around the face.
"Have you got his leash?" she asks and triumph surges. He. He got it right. The dog is a he. Although he highly doubts he's actually called Gollum. Maybe she'll say the dog's actual name next?
"Oh!" he exclaims, kicking himself for yet another too-long silence. "Right, yeah, leash." That's something dogs have, right? Even grumpy little rats like this one. He turns around, looking desperately over the mess that is the room behind him. "It's here…somewhere."
She sighs good-naturedly.
"I don't know how you don't lose more things, Mr Madison." She pushes past him, the little dog trotting at her heels, then flashes him a wider smile over her shoulder. "You need a woman to get this place in order."
Once again the entire concept of words vanishes from his brain. He stares dumbly after her as she marches into the kitchen area and starts poking around through the mess.
"Here it is!" she calls, waving it at him cheerily before clipping the lead onto the little dogs collar. "Come on then, cutie," she coos, "let's go for a walk."
Apparently, it's more than his scrambled brain can handle. He still hasn't regained the power of speech by the time she breezes past him again and out of the door. She pauses in the porch and his heart skips a beat.
"By the way, I won't be able to take him out on Friday," she says. "A modeling agency reached out to me, can you believe it?" Yes, yes he can, but still no words will come so he just gapes at her. "I have a full day assessment. Makeup, wardrobe, head shots, everything. Isn't that exciting?"
"Err, yeah," he manages to choke out and she beams as brightly as if he'd just given a full, impassioned speech.
"See you later, Mr Madison! Have a great day!"
Heels clicking, she climbs nimbly off the boat and onto the dock. The little dog trotting adoringly at her heels. Pretending like he's a sweet little thing rather than Cerberus in terrier form. Fucking Gollum.
His brainpower returns once she's out of view and he's closed the door. Whatever he had still functioning anyway. Apparently none of that excruciating interaction jogged any new memories loose. He really needs to work out who the hell he is and what's going on.
He opens and closes drawers at random, not sure at all what he's looking for. When he opens the nightstand drawer there's a heavy metallic thump and he reels back. He's found something much scarier than clothes and junk. Gingerly, he reaches in and plucks the gun out of the draw. Dangling it between his thumb and index finger. It's heavy, and cold. He lays it down on the bed. It's a revolver, that word comes to mind, but nothing else.
So he has a gun, but knows nothing about guns. Great. That's great. Very safe.
A second look in the drawer reveals a contraption of leather straps which he's guessing is the holster and a small black leather wallet.
His heart leaps inside his chest. At last, he's getting somewhere. He pulls it out and flips it open. Then his knees buckle and he has to sit down.
It's not a wallet. It's a shield. A goddamn badge. A cops badge.
He is not a cop. He knows it deep in his bones. Whatever else he is, he is not a goddamn cop.
He looks closely at the molded metal. Detective A. Madison, Miami Police.
This isn't his. It isn't. It can't be. But the sunshine girl, Sherrie, she had called him Mr Madison, hadn't she? He looks over at the mirror, at the tan, at the crew cut. Detective Madison? Is that really who he is? What does the 'A' stand for? Arthur, Alfred, Andrew?
The memory of his own face comes back to him again.
No, none of those are his name.
He's Eddie.
Tears gather in the corners of his eyes. That's it. He remembers. He remembers his name. He's Eddie. Eddie…
…well that will have to come later. But that's who he is. Not whatever he's seeing in the mirror. And not whatever this damn badge says. That's his name. Eddie.
A further search of the bedroom reveals only a few odds and ends of belongings, nothing which helps, and more clothes. Pressed pants and brightly colored shirts which he regards with distaste and alarm. But as he can't wear this stupid vest and pajamas all day, and there's no other option, he selects the shirt which doesn't make his eyes bleed quite as much as the others and puts it on along with some khaki pants. It's awful. Truly awful. Although at least not seeing his own face in the mirror means he doesn't have to look at himself wearing this horrendous get-up.
Back out in the kitchen he manages to extract a battered tin of coffee from the chaos. The first sip is bitter, he can't find any sugar, and too hot, but it's a comfort anyway. Next to the small stove he discovers an actual wallet, containing a Miami driver's license in the name of Albert Charles Madison which claims he was born in 1935.
There's a theme emerging which he doesn't want to think too hard about. The memories, when they come, all suggest he doesn't belong here. Wrong face, wrong name, wrong time. He's reading through the paper some more, trying to find something, anything, to jog a memory which somehow connects him to Albert Madison and the world around him when there's another tap on the glass. A tiny flicker of hope is quickly extinguished when he looks up to find a man standing there. Wearing a pressed gray suit with an open-necked shirt covered in blue and yellow polka dots. It's just as horrible but at least more toned down than the shirt he's been forced into. God, how bad does it have to be that he's wishing he was wearing that instead of this?
"Just because your car's in the shop you expect a door to door service now?" the guy gripes, pushing past him and into the room.
He extracts a cigarette from a flat metal case, which he then tucks back into his jacket inner pocket. With the movement, Eddie spots the telltale leather of a gun holster under his arm. Another cop? He really, really hopes this guy is another cop. He lights up casually, then nods at the newspaper clutched in Eddie's hand.
"Still barking up that tree, huh, Bud?" He snorts in derision. "Gotta be the only guy in homicide ever to be chasing a case where nobody died."
Eddie lays the paper back down on the table. Leaving the headline facing up, with it's story about a nightclub which caught fire and how the owner and the manager somehow escaped the blaze.
"Buddy, we gotta move," the guy snaps. "I'm sure there's plenty of real murders to keep us busy. You remember those right? Where actual people die? You know, our job…?"
So he is a cop. Relief runs down his spine.
"Jesus Christ, Bud, how much did you drink last night?"
Wait, Buddy? Bud? Why is he calling him Buddy like he's a little kid?
The guy curls his lip at him and Eddie realizes once again he's been silent for much, much too long.
"I'm gonna go wait in the car," the guy says, slowly, as if Eddie's an idiot. Or maybe still drunk. "Do me a favor and don't forget your badge today. I'm not gonna keep on covering for you."
Great, so apparently he's a fuck-up who drinks too much and sucks at his job. Maybe that's the answer. He got blackout drunk and woke up thinking he was someone else? He's not sure alcohol works that way, but if he's an alcoholic then he might have mixed in something else too. Not that he's found any evidence of that around the place. Just a couple of empty and almost empty scotch bottles. He doesn't feel hungover either. Just hopelessly confused.
"Umm, sure, no problem," Eddie mumbles. The guy rolls his eyes and stalks away. Clambering up onto the dock with a lot less grace than Sherrie had and marching off down the wooden structure.
Once he's safely out of sight, Eddie mulls over his options.
On the one hand, he has no memory. He's probably not particularly safe out on the streets. Especially if he's supposed to be a cop. On the other, bits and pieces have been coming back to him. He refuses to worry that none of them seem to be connected with what's going on around him. Maybe he just needs to play along for a little while and do the things he apparently normally does. Something along the way might spark the rest of his memory and then no one else ever needs to know about this weird incident. And if it doesn't, well, then he's going to have to try and find a doctor or something.
It's a good thing the other guy left because it takes Eddie an embarrassing amount of time to work out how to strap on the shoulder holster. The gun tucks beneath his arm and hangs there like a boulder. Knocking against his ribs whenever he moves. He retrieves a sports jacket hanging up by the door and puts it on. Grateful that it hides more of the awful shirt along with the gun. Not wanting to ruin his day even more he tucks the badge and wallet he found into his pockets. He grabs the half-finished pack of Lucky's and the lighter too. Whatever else happens, he's pretty sure he's going to need those today. They immediately live up to their name when he finds a key in the pocket he stows them in, which fits the lock on the glass doors when he tries it.
Boat locked up, he steps off onto the dock, grateful for the immediate solidity beneath his feet. He frowns at the name painted in peeling blue script across the back of the boat. Nautical Nancy. What the hell kind of name is that? There's another tickle in his mind, like it's supposed to mean something, but he can't make it crystallize. He heads towards the road and spots the guy straight away. Leaning up against a dark blue Cadillac with smoke wreathing around his head. He walks towards him, debating subtle ways to find out the dude's name and coming up with nothing when suddenly another man materializes out of nowhere right in front of him. One second, nothing, and the next, there he is. Dressed in a shirt and tie and a goddamn lab coat of all things. Eddie freezes, so shocked that it takes a moment to understand that the man's mouth is opening and closing as though he's speaking, even though not a single sound is coming out.
The man pauses in his silent monologue, observing Eddie closely. Eddie stares back. His mouth opens and closes again and Eddie carefully reaches out a hand. It passes right through the man's body.
"C'mon, Bud!" the guy by the car yells. "We haven't got all day!"
Eddie hurries past the man, or hallucination, or whatever the hell it is. When he reaches the car he looks back and breathes a sigh of relief when there's no one there.
"You OK?" the guy asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
"Err, no," Eddie says, "I'm fine." Admitting to seeing people who aren't there isn't exactly going to work in a plan which depends on him trying to act normal while he fights to regain his memory of what normal even is.
Luck must be with him again, the guy doesn't push it, just stamps out his cigarette on the ground then climbs into the drivers seat. Eddie lets himself into the other side.
A flash of yellow up ahead draws his eye, and he sees Sherrie walking back towards them with the little dog. She waves at him and he waves back. The guy next to him scoffs.
"So she's not irritating the shit out of you today then?" he says, then puts the car in drive and pulls out into the traffic. "How the hell did a guy like you end up with a neighbor like her? An ass that won't quit and swimming in daddy's money. I tell you, you're a better man than me, Bud. That or you've lost your balls along the way somewhere. Perhaps we need to raise a search party."
The guy snickers at his own joke and a flash of gold on the guy's hand catches Eddie's eye.
"You're married," he says.
"So?" he spits back. "I'm not dead. Looking isn't a crime. I'll tell you what's a crime, seeing that everyday and bitching about it!"
He gestures out of the window as he talks although the flow of traffic has taken them out of sight of the dock and Sherrie and Gollum the goddamn multiple personality dog.
Eddie's got no idea what to say, so he leans his head against the window and watches the bright city pass by.
Project Report
The Janus Project
Top Secret
Project Lead: Dr Samuel Owens
Project Aim: Contact and retrieval of asset (phase 1), controlled replication of phenomenon (phase 2).
First contact attempted at: 14:00hrs, April 1st, 1986 (asset date and time: 08:15hrs, June 17th, 1968)
Outcome: Partial success
Report: We have successfully tracked the neural signature of the formerly released HNL asset, Edward Munson, to a location in Miami in 1968. He appears to have inhabited the body of one Detective Albert Charles "Buddy" Madison, confirming a successful transference of consciousness into the past, as per the theory originally posited by Dr Brenner in 1976. The imaging chamber created by Dr Brenner's team to track assets capable of this phenomena has now been re-commissioned and confirmed partially operational. My image was successfully projected to the asset in 1968, but sounds did not project. The chamber also successfully translated the asset's gamma and alpha wave data into holographic projections, allowing me to see and hear his surroundings. The technical team are now troubleshooting the sound transmission to allow full contact to be made.
We have also proven that hypothesis two of the original paper was correct: once the chamber is locked onto the neural signature the two timelines run on a 1:1 concurrent basis. That is, for every hour which passes in the present, an hour also passes for the asset. So far it appears impossible to reset the contact timeline once established.
The theoretical team continues to run mathematical modeling of the various retrieval hypotheses, all of which depend on locating the assets physical body. To that end, our investigative team is following up a number of leads on John Doe hospital admissions across Indiana. We're hopeful that the inexperience of the asset combined with the injuries he sustained would be a limiting factor for his physical teleportation range.
Local monitoring shows that the story of the asset's death has been widely accepted in the community of Hawkins, most notably by the police department and the asset's uncle, Wayne Munson, who it is believed is planning to leave state following the funeral. The asset's legal next-of-kin, Allan Munson, is currently incarcerated and will remain so for at least another three years. We have not been able to identify any other immediate family and do not anticipate any need to activate the Ives protocol.
There remains only one unrelated subject who requires direct and constant monitoring. Dustin Henderson witnessed the asset's transference. As it stands he has agreed to all non-disclosure terms required. However additional monitoring due to the direct nature of his knowledge is only prudent in this case.
— Dr Samuel Owens
The rest of the car ride passes in awkward small talk. Eddie adding responses whenever he can. Mostly non-committal noises and the occasional, 'huh', 'yeah' or, 'you don't say', whenever it seems to fit. It keeps the guy from making any more comments about him, so he counts it a success. Although when they arrive at the Miami Police building and he snaps at him to go get some more coffee, he starts to wonder if maybe he should have tried to bullshit a little more.
Each of the desks in the open office has a little name badge on it, his eyes flick from name to name as he strolls past with his coffee, aiming for the empty desk next to the guy he drove in with and hoping that it's his. He doesn't relax until he spots 'Madison' on a little bronze plaque sitting on the edge of the desk. He sits gratefully and as casually as he can. The sign on the desk next door, marking the guy he rode in with, says 'Thorne', which is useful, but doesn't tell him what to actually call the guy.
The boat might be messy, but this desk is spotless. Or at least empty. The only things on it are a small pot of pens, a typewriter and a wire tray containing a single manila folder with a sheet of blue notepaper pinned to it. Sloping handwriting declaring, 'read me, urgent!!!'
Everyone else in the office seems to be busy, talking quietly, or else reading their own files. Including the guy at the desk next to him. Detective Thorne. Not a single memory has been jogged loose yet, so he takes a sip of his coffee and flips open the folder to look busy.
Nausea clenches his stomach. He should have tried something else. On top of the file sits a photograph. A close up of a woman's head showing a deep round wound. It's matted with hair and blood and little flecks of something pale and pinkish he has a horrible feeling is bone, or maybe even brain matter. He tightens his grip on his mug, extremely glad he hasn't eaten anything yet today.
Trying to keep calm and avoid drawing attention to himself, he moves the photo to the back of the file and starts reading the next form instead. It has County Medical Examiner stamped across the top and gives the woman's name, Camille Deschamps, along with her age, twenty-five. When his eyes land on the cause of her death, he drops the whole folder to the table.
"Why the fuck am I looking at a report for a woman who died after being hit on the head by a falling coconut?!" he exclaims.
The whole office falls silent, staring at him. To his left, the guy he drove in with, Thorne, erupts into hysterical laughter.