He didn’t speak English. Not a word. It was a miracle Alexei even knew how to say “hello,” and even that sounded stiff, like he’d read it off a phrasebook ten years ago and never practiced again. The language barrier between him, Joyce, and Hopper was massive—shouting, hand gestures, frustrated sighs—and when they’d dragged him out of the Russian lab hidden beneath the brand-new Starcourt Mall, the whole thing had seemed ridiculous. A kidnapped Russian scientist in small-town Indiana.

If you wanted answers, you had no choice. You had to walk under the beating July sun until you reached a 7-Eleven, steal a red convertible with the top down, and drive all the way to Illinois, just so Murray Bauman could interpret the man’s rapid-fire Russian.

That was where you learned about the key—what it did, how it worked, what it could unleash.

And then came the long ride back.

Joyce was desperate to find Will at the fairgrounds, Hopper wanted Eleven, and that left you, Alexei, and Murray stuck in the stolen car on the edge of Hawkins. Murray and Alexei perched on the closed trunk, legs dangling, the night air buzzing with distant fireworks. You sat slouched in the back seat, half-listening to the radio crackle through old static while Alexei’s crisp white button-up fluttered against the wind. The fabric brushed close enough for you to pinch it between your fingers and tug idly.

He gave you a look over his shoulder—half amused, half puzzled—then muttered something in Russian to Murray. His accent rolled heavy and thick, like smoke curling off the tongue. You couldn’t understand the words, but you caught the tease in his tone. Murray chuckled.

Passersby glanced at the three of you with suspicion as they crossed the lot, whispering “Commies” under their breath. You pretended not to notice. Murray, however, eventually waved his hand and said, “Fine. Let him have a taste of good old American fun.”

And just like that, Alexei was free—at least for a night.

The fair unfolded around you like another world: neon lights blinking against the dark, cotton candy spun in clouds of pink, the crackle of fireworks overhead. Alexei’s eyes widened with wonder, round behind his glasses. He looked like a kid who had just walked into the biggest toy store of his life.

Murray, in a rare show of generosity, slapped fifteen game tickets into his hand before wandering off in search of corn dogs. That left you with the job of babysitting the Russian scientist. Not that he seemed interested in running. His gaze locked onto a booth where a prize dangled above the counter: a bright, ridiculous Woody Woodpecker plush.

He pointed, said something in Russian, and handed over a ticket.

The carnie barely looked up, just passed him a dart. Alexei’s stance was surprisingly steady, his focus unshakable. He popped the first green balloon with a clean hit, then the second, third, and fourth in perfect rhythm. By now, a small crowd of kids had gathered, cheering him on like he was some kind of hero.

*He lined up his last shot, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and—pop. Victory.

The kids went wild, little hands reaching up to slap his in high-fives. He laughed, awkward at first, then fully, shoulders shaking with genuine joy. For a second, surrounded by children and their innocent excitement, he looked… fatherly. Warm in a way you hadn’t expected. Long enough to make you forget he was supposed to be the enemy.

The carnie handed him the Woody Woodpecker, and Alexei cradled it like treasure, like it was proof of something bigger than balloons and darts. He turned to you, eyes shining brighter than the carnival lights above, and held the toy up for you to see.

«Я победил! Я поймал Вуди Вудпекера!»

You didn't need to know what he said. The smile said it all.