Banging noises vibrated through the room. A gruff voice shouted, "15 it's time for blood draws!"
What? Blood draws?
Blearily, he opened his eyes. Raising himself from his bed, he sharply intakes.
Where is this?
The room was stark white. From the sheets of his bed to the frame, and even the door.
Everything was white.
Before he could continue to ponder, the voice raised, "I'm coming in!"
Shooting from the bed, he searched for anything to defend himself with. He didn't know what was happening, but somewhere in his mind, he knew that on the other side of that door was only hurt.
His heart was clawed to escape his chest, desperately fighting against its fleshy confines. Huffing his breath against his will hitched over and over again. Clutching his chest, he didn't understand why his body was rebelling. Was the other side of the door really this bad?
The door creaked open. Slowly, a foot entered through the crack before the rest of the man's body squeezed through the narrow opening. The man stood a head and a half taller than him, his form draped in a white coat. Beneath the white coat were white pants and a white shirt. No belt. In one of his hands, a suitcase, a plastic white. Brown, thick hair framed his face.
The man shut the thin opening behind him quickly before turning to him, "15 it's just me, Dr. Grove, it's alright I just need some blood and I'll be gone."
15? My name's not 15, it's —
15 is my name
15 is a number not a name
But it's my name
What? No 15 isn't —
Clutching his head, an influx of memories poured into his skull. His brain strained against the information wailing in pain. Assaulted by a migraine, red began to drip from his chin, spots blotted his vision, and darkness crept on the edges. Suddenly, balance became a non-issue as he tipped forward headfirst into the unknown.
Faint yelling made its way through his ears as he felt the door fly open accompanied by a rush of footsteps, he couldn't bother to pay anymore attention.
The beeping of the monitor was the first sound he awoke to. The first sound 015 awoke too. Nick blankly stared at the white ceiling, just like everything else. Except now he realized why it bothered him so much, there were more colors than just shades of white, black, and red.
Chuckling to himself, 015 took account of the situation.
Nick died.
015 died.
Nick and 015 are now alive. 015 is more alive than Nick potentially. Nick is equally dead as 015.
It didn't matter, though; he couldn't be Nick or 015 because they were dead, and Nick knew it was disrespectful to the dead to assume their identity after their death. It's a crime. 015 didn't like crimes because crimes hurt.
So who was he?
015 didn't know. Nick had conjectures.
015 only ever knew of the varying shades of white, black, and red. 015 did his best to make everyone happy. Nick knows 015 isn't normal. 015 is supernatural. There's only one supernatural man of white, red, and black. Therefore, he is Saint Nicholas. Not of Myra because he doesn't want to disrespect the dead.
He is Saint Nicholas of Alderbrook. That is where 015 used to be when he was younger. More importantly, Nicholas or Nic now had a guess where he was. He might be in Stranger Things.
Past Nick never fully watched Stranger Things, only skimming the plotline of the earlier seasons. Despite that, Nic could theorize where he was.
Hawkins Lab.
Nick didn't remember any numbers past 011, but the possibility that there were more was a strong one, and nothing else lined up so perfectly.
The swinging of a door hinge echoed through the room. Removing his eyes from the ceiling, Nic felt it. The brief amount of time during which the door was open gave him a connection of some kind. 015 clumsily reached, expanding his senses before the shutting of the door cut it off.
Grimacing at the sudden snapping of the link. Saint Nicholas decided that before he could do anything else, he needed to retire 015 and Nick. Closing his eyes, he thanked them for their service before burying them mentally.
Hearing a curtain being pushed back, Saint Nic turned his attention towards a man. Donning similar attire except for a black tie. White medium-length hair combed and sideburns paired together with a friendly smile. Immediately, Nic felt a recognition within himself.
Elevens Papa. Not his Papa. His Papa was the man from before, a middle-aged man formally known as Dr. Manson.
A smooth grandfather-like voice emerged from Brenner's lips, "15 I know it's been a long time since you've seen me. Are you feeling better? Do you still remember me?"
"I was 5 years old, you watched me get my hair shaved and tattooed." Attempting to lift his right wrist to show him. Only now did he notice the various needles attached to his arms. Looking at the machines, Nic identified an IV drip, a health monitor, but most alarming, a blood bag.
Following Nic's gaze, Brenner genially remarked, "We're just making sure you're okay. Your Papa was shocked seeing you collapse like that. We just want to check on you. Do you know what happened?"
Nicholas didn't know what to say. He knew lying was bad. But he also knew Dr. Brenner was bad. How did you measure which "bad" is worse? Before he could further contemplate his dilemma, Brenner moved.
Reaching behind the white curtains, Brenner pulled out a small rolling stool before scooting next to me. His lips slightly pulled down as he reached for one of my hands. His hands overlapping mine, his eyes reflected mine as he said calmly, "15 you won't be in trouble. I just don't want to see you hurt again."
My throat welled up. I didn't want to lie. But Saint Nicholas had only just started to live.
" I don't know, everything hurt, then I felt sleepy." The words hurt to say, his voice warbling, he was Saint Nicholas, doer of good things, yet he lied. But he knew that Brenner was the Grinch. If he had to lie to save Christmas, he would.
His eyes stung, yet the needles in his arms discouraged him from wiping; instead, he blinked it away.
Dr. Brenner stared at him before smiling again, "15, you may not know me as well as your Papa, but if you ever feel comfortable enough to talk about it again, even though it hurts, everyone is here for you." Lifting his hand from mine stood from the stool before vanishing behind the curtain.
Watching where his figure departed, Saint Nicholas realized he wasn't fit to be Saint Nicholas. Colors and powers alone weren't everything. He didn't have the courage to do what's right. Even if he's not necessarily wrong, he knew that lying was only the first step down the road. So he couldn't be Saint Nicholas, just Nicholas would do.