Chapter Text
When the truck stops, Hopper senses Steve awake. Okay, at least the kid’ll stop drooling on his shoulder. Perhaps they’ll get to walk around for a while. Sitting in the back of this truck for forty-eight hours, has cramped Hop’s legs, and surely wrecked his spine for good. He nudges Steve: “You okay?”
“Yeah, peachy.”
Steve moves sluggishly, so he’s sitting up straight besides Hop. The swelling on his face has gone down a bit, but Steve looks rough, paler than ever under the single dangling bulb. His bruises shine a full rainbow spectrum, and his big eyes are… kinda wild, kinda haunted.
Like he’s finally admitted to himself this is real. Trouble is, inside, Hop is screaming with a rage that verges on panic, too.
“What’s happening?” Steve pushes his dishevelled hair from his brow.
“Dunno.” Hop’s listening hard, and not to Steve. He can hear voices outside the truck, but little else–no wind, traffic, bird noises. Nothing… save a low rumbling sound.
“Wherever we’re going,” mumbles Steve, “can’t we please fucking get there already? I’m way too dehydrated to pee again.”
Hop turns to him, brandishes a finger. “Look, we can’t have left US or Canadian soil, so… keep vigilant. If I give you an instruction, don’t question it. Follow it, and don’t even think about deviating.”
“We’ve been through this,” grumbles Steve. “I can execute a move, no problem. But it’s kinda difficult. What with the handcuffs, blinding lights, and firearms waved in my face.”
He’s not wrong. They’ve been Soviet captives for two days, driving remote routes cross-country. During any brief hiatus, there’s been precious little chance of escape. If Hopper had been alone, this might’ve been different. He’s a police chief, an ex-soldier, and… who’s he trying to fool?
He’s out-of-shape, in mind and body. He’d probably run into a hail of bullets, for a final, dying puff of a cigarette. Ironically, Steve is possibly the sole reason Hop’s still alive. If the kid hadn’t been with him, he’d have snapped, lashed out for the hell of it; gotten himself shot or beaten to a pulp.
The doors at the back of the van fly open. Hop’s adrenaline gives a languid jolt, and then everything happens similarly to previous stops. Flashlights blind them, guns are trained on them. They’re hauled out, stood side-by-side, handcuffed together. The ground lurches oddly, and Hop’s stomach reacts in tandem. He notes that rumble again, louder now, vying with the Russian-language shouts and chatter. He squints beyond the torches, and notes the truck has pulled up between two large shipping containers in a vast indoor space.
“Is the ground moving?” mumbles Steve. “Or is my head really that messed up?”
“Wishful thinking.” Hop’s figured out that droning noise, and the stink of diesel overwhelming the truck’s petrol. “We’re on a boat.”
“Oh.” The slight tipping of the vessel presses Steve’s arm against his. “They’re taking us to Russia. We’re dead.”
“Not yet.”
Hop’s praying Steve’s not going to choose now to freak out on him. So far, Steve’s stoicism has impressed him, but now he’s breathing way too fast. He’s terrified, obviously; Hop’s not exactly happily buzzed either, but he has to keep them both calm:
“I’m not giving up on that date with Joyce yet,” he whispers, “and you’re not giving up on that Robin chick. Still not gonna tell me why the hottest stud in Hawkins can’t bag the girl he wants?”
“That’s Robin’s secret. Not mine to tell.” Steve’s faint smile dissolves into a grimace. “Looks like I won’t have long to keep it.”
“If you’re gonna spout conchie talk, you can shut your mouth.” Hop’s scouting wildly around. The containers form a maze, and the enemy are consorting among themselves. There’s a small chance they could make a break for it, hide. The diesel engines thrum away, but not too loud yet. They’re still in port. Major bummer they’re handcuffed together, but if there’s any way he can get Steve out of here, he has to conceive a plan right now. He spies an opening, a dark gap between two containers about six yards off…
Crap!
The armed-to-the-teeth Soviets are no longer consorting among themselves. They’re laughing, pointing, and one of the son-of-a-bitches is striding over. Hop braces to be knocked around, sidles in front of Steve. The Soviet sniggers, addresses Steve in a strongly accented voice: “Why are you dressed like a Romanov prince?”
“Whut?” Steve glances at Hop, who’s already cringing inside. Yeah, the goddamn Scoops outfit. The tattered remnants of it, at any rate. Hopper’s seen old black and white photos of the kids in the old Russian royal family, in an HBO documentary. They were all wearing cute little sailor suits.
“Answer me, boy.” The Soviet jabs Steve in the chest with a be-gloved finger.
Steve juts his chin, manages to look defiant and surly: “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, asshole.”
“Ignorant American.” The man shakes his head, slides his attention up to Hopper. “Maybe this is how you dress your whores?”
No, no, no. He can’t… He won’t… Hopper can’t have them even starting to think of Steve like that. Hopper’s final, fraying nerve snaps, unleashing his worst fears, and an irrefutable need to act:
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” He barges forward with his body, using his weight as a weapon to shove the Russian farther away from Steve.
Of course, he yanks Steve forward with him. Much as, when the inevitable butt of an AK-47 hammers into Hop’s stomach, he crashes back on top of Steve. For a good few beats, Hop’s too winded and cramped up to realise he’d better shift himself pronto. When he does, he wheezes and fights his way through a crippling blur of pain, to check if Steve is… nah, he’s not gonna be okay, is he? That would be a stupid question.
Steve’s free hand is clutched to his ribs, and his face is scrunched up. “Ow,” he whispers.
“Sorry.” Hop chokes out a laugh. He’s kinda hysterical, but also relieved. He’ll take “Ow” as “you’ve not just broken my arm or forced my cracked ribs into any major organs. Just added a few bruises upon bruises.”
Steve manages a similarly joy-free chuckle. He unclasps his hand from his ribs, and slips it behind his back. His eyes stretch wide, and he waggles a brow. Hop frowns. What’s he trying to say?
No time for detective work. They’re both hauled to their feet, and the world reels miserably around Hop’s swimming head. There’s more hollering, alongside the flashlights and guns in their faces. A tall, blue-eyed Soviet yells something at Steve.
Hop mumbles: “Fucking knuckleheads;” then he shouts, “If you think we’ve learned Russian these last two days, your lessons suck as bad as your hospitality.”
The Soviet whispers in Hopper’s ear. “If one of you tries to escape, the other dies. Slowly and painfully.”
The man backs away, a mean smile warping his lips. Hop manages to look down his swollen nose at him.
Fine.
He hopes Steve didn’t hear the latest threat, which only steels Hop’s resolve. He needs to get Steve away from the blackhole of destruction that is his entire existence. Christ, this would be easier if he didn’t care so much. After all, Steve isn’t El, isn’t his kid, and he’s what... eighteen? Older than the others.
Yet Hop does care.
Steve sacrificed himself to keep El and the others safe, and Hop had silently vowed two days past that he’d die before Steve got taken to Russia. Because, if they were being kept alive for information about the Upside Down, the enemies obvious first recourse is to torture the kid to get Hop to squeal. And, despite Steve’s bordering-on-creepy acceptance of everything, there’s no-way-in-fucking-hell this high-school darling will last five minutes in a gulag…
They’re shoved along narrow metal corridors that force Hop to double over in order to not to whack his head—one good reason he joined the army, not the navy, in that former life. He’s still seeking any chance. No rational route opens up to him. Not even when they’re finally uncuffed from each other. Too quick, they’re pushed through a low portal into a poky cabin. The metal door slams, and a lock clunks on the far side.
There’s a single bunk, a neon strip-light and a measly-proportioned porthole, all in a cabin about six feet by eight.
“This is… cosy.”
He looks at Steve, who stares back, something about his expression almost buoyant. If that’s hope, Hop might have to throttle him. Despite his recent resolve, Hop’s insides are currently one big, bubbling bog of despair: “What?”
Steve’s cracked lips curve into a smile. He draws something from the back waistband of those stupid shorts. It’s a metal tool. Actually, it’s an adjustable wrench. Not a large one, but functional enough.
“Somebody must’ve dropped it by the truck, then I landed on top of it,” says Steve. “When you collapsed on top of me. Could you… aim better with that next time? I mean, if you wind up killing me, not the Soviets, my Dad’s gonna sue your butt.”
Hop grins back, even though it kills his bruised face: “I could almost kiss you, right now.” He winces; okay, not the best choice of words. Steve doesn’t seem to hear. He’s looking about.
“The bed’s bolted down,” observes Steve. “Could we take it apart? Fashion something bigger than this to swing at ’em?”
“They’ve got firearms. You can’t take them down being badass with a homemade baseball bat. We can’t engage them, period. It’s stupid. Suicidal.”
“Screw you.” Steve sits down heavily on the bunk, tilts the full force of that disarmingly guileless gaze up at Hopper. “What do we do then?”
“Working on it.”
Hopper checks a tiny door opposite the bed, which turns out to be a murky washroom cubicle. He figures they might be able to break through the fittings. So, that’s a possibility. On coming out again, his mind latches onto some blunt hooks on the walls—useless—then the porthole.
He narrows his eyes, scratches his beard. The porthole is not especially armoured, just a standard design. A circle of reinforced glass and steel, hinged at the top, but bolted down. It’s openable, with the right tool. Which they’ve got. Plus, they’ve still not set sail. He steps closer, noting patches of ginger rust. He scrubs at the grimy inch-thick pane with his grimier palm.
“We can open that?” asks Steve, closing in at his shoulder.
“Yeah.” Hop’s breath steams the porthole, and he squints into the darkness beyond. What he’s about to suggest is probably insane, but it is all he’s got: “We’re taking this piece-of-crap window apart. Then you’re getting out of here.”