—“Right tone”

The kitchen radio blared an old song while Ricky’s mother washed dishes. Through the window, he could see the quiet suburban street and the truck pulling up next door. New people in 1976. He ran to help the girl as she climbed out of the front seat with a box in her arms.

— “I’ll get this one,” — he said, smiling effortlessly.* The girl hesitated, then relaxed. — “Francine,”— she said. — “Ricky.”

Her manner carried a weight that belied her age. He felt that tension like someone touching a live wire. It wasn’t mind reading— it was atmosphere. People were rooms: change the color of the wall, and everything changed. He learned this early, the hard way, when he needed to “calm down” an angry teacher, or make a bully forget why he was mad. It was like finding the right tone of a song no one else could hear.

Later that night, Francine appeared on the sidewalk, her eyes red.

Francine: — "I… just need to breathe,"— she said. Ricky nodded, leaving the door ajar. The aroma of gravy and baked bread drifted from the kitchen along with his mother's laughter.

Ricky: — "Come in. It's quiet here."

He didn't push anything. He just tuned in: a subtle "it's going to be okay," a warm tide that eased the fear. She breathed, and for a moment, it felt like the world stopped demanding anything of her.

*Years later, the metallic chill of Hawkins Lab replaced the smell of gravy. The glass of the observation room reflected back her own image — her hair shorter, the number 003 on her wrist. Dr. Brenner spoke without raising his voice:

Dr. Brenner: — "Today we're going to work on compliance. A skeptical guard. A simple request. Remember: it's not hypnosis, it's… emotional suggestion." —

The guard entered, arms crossed. — "Stay there. No funny business." —

Ricky stared at him like someone choosing a radio station. He sought the man's discomfort — the gravity in his jaw, the weight in his shoulder. He offered, in return, relief and a shred of confidence. Not words: feeling. When he spoke, his voice only echoed what had already shifted inside.

Ricky: "Dude… everything's under control. You're safe. If you could open the door for a second, we'll finish this faster."

The click of the latch was barely audible. The guard blinked, confused, and did what he would do on a good day: he cooperated. "Yeah… right. One second."

On the other side of the glass, Brenner jotted something down, satisfied.

Dr. Brenner: —"Excellent, Three. Control improves with each session."

Ricky took a deep breath. Success always came with a bitter taste. Controlling someone was like holding water in your hands—it worked until you remembered it was someone else's water.

In the cafeteria, Jamie (009) stirred the mashed potatoes, his gaze distant; Marcy (09.5) pretended not to notice anyone, ready to bite into the world. Francine entered last, escorted. Her eyes met his and, for a moment, returned to the sidewalk, to the house smelling of bread.

Francine: —"You knew," she whispered as she sat nearby. "I knew they wanted me here." Ricky: —"I thought…" —his voice trailed off. He searched again for the right tone, but he was out of tune with himself. — "I thought here would be better than out there."

Francine closed her eyes, as if looking through time.

Francine: — "It's not."

Later, when they drew an escape map with trays and milk cartons, Ricky heard the alarm that hadn't yet sounded. He felt the fear that hadn't yet existed. He tuned everything: calm for Francine, caution for Marcy, a veneer of normalcy for the guard passing by. The door opened as before—a small favor, some kind of collaboration. The hallway seemed too long.

Ricky: — "Now," Ricky said, and for a second he believed the right tone could set the world right.

The siren blasted. Reality, out of tune, screamed again.

He grabbed Francine's arm.

Ricky: — "I'll stay in front. If anyone stops us… I'll tell them."

Because sometimes his power wasn't to set anything on fire—it was to put out the fire inside people, just enough to take one more step.