Chapter 64: Bob's SuperComm Saves Lives
Nancy
The tunnel ceiling groaned. Warning sign we should have heeded.
"We need to leave," Jonathan said. "This section is unstable."
Too late. The collapse happened in seconds—walls buckling, ceiling falling, darkness and dust and the sensation of being buried alive.
Then nothing. Just pressure and pain and suffocating weight.
"Nancy?" Jonathan's voice, muffled. Close but distant.
"Here. I'm here." My radio was crushed under debris. Arms pinned. Breathing becoming difficult.
This was it. This was how we died. Trapped in tunnel collapse while fighting dimensional invasion.
At least we're together, I thought. At least we're not alone.
Bob
The SuperComm network picked up Nancy's final transmission before the collapse. Just fragments—coordinates, warning, then static.
"They're buried," Hopper said, voice tight.
Everyone looked at me. Twenty people in the command center, all expecting answers.
"I need five minutes," I said. Started working.
The SuperComm network wasn't just communication—it was positioning system. Each radio transmitted unique signature. I'd designed it that way for exactly this scenario.
Signal analysis. Triangulation using three relay points. Directional antenna data. Ground-penetrating radar readings from the sonar equipment I'd stolen from the lab.
"Got them," I said. Marked position on the map. "Fifteen feet below surface, junction seven, forty meters from entrance."
"You're sure?" Hopper asked.
"Yes. Math doesn't lie." I handed him coordinates. "Dig there. Fast. They have maybe thirty minutes of air."
Hopper
We broke every speed limit getting to the site. Brought excavation equipment, medical supplies, oxygen tanks. If Bob's calculations were right, this would be precision rescue.
If he was wrong, we were wasting time while Nancy and Jonathan suffocated.
"Dig here," I ordered, marking the exact spot Bob specified.
The crews worked. Shovels, pickaxes, controlled demolition. Twenty feet of earth and rock between us and them.
At twenty-three minutes, we broke through.
Nancy emerged first, gasping, covered in dirt. Then Jonathan, bleeding from head wound but alive.
"Bob's calculations?" I asked.
"Exactly right," Nancy confirmed. "We're directly under the marker."
I radioed back. "Bob, you magnificent son of a bitch. You did it."
His relieved laugh came through crystal clear. "Just math, Hopper. Just math."
Joyce
Bob emerged from the command center looking exhausted and radiant. He'd saved Nancy and Jonathan through pure technical genius. Again.
Something inside me snapped. Or maybe aligned. I'd been dancing around it for weeks, terrified of losing him, watching him risk himself repeatedly.
He was brilliant. Brave. Beautiful. Mine.
"Marry me," I blurted out.
Bob stopped. Stared. "What?"
"Marry me. Right now. Today. I can't lose you, Bob. Can't watch you risk yourself without knowing we're committed. Without knowing you'll come home to me." Tears streamed down my face. "Marry me. Please."
He crossed the distance, cupped my face. "Yes. Absolutely yes. Today, tomorrow, whenever you want. Yes, Joyce. Always yes."
We kissed in the middle of the bunker, surrounded by tactical maps and dimensional theories and the constant threat of death.
And for one perfect moment, the world was just us.
Steve
Watched Bob and Joyce celebrate. Everyone else congratulated them, hugged them, shared their joy.
I couldn't. Couldn't share it. Couldn't pretend I wasn't seeing death flag materializing.
Happy Bob was doomed Bob. Every timeline, every iteration. The pattern was absolute—Bob finds joy, Bob sacrifices himself shortly after.
History repeating. Fate reasserting. Death postponed but not prevented.
"Steve?" Chrissy touched my arm. "You okay?"
"No." My corruption pulsed darker. "Bob's happiness correlates with his death. Original timeline, every alternate timeline I've glimpsed through corruption dreams. He gets engaged, proposes marriage, finds genuine love—then dies within days."
"But you've changed so much—"
"Not enough. Not where it counts." I watched Bob spin Joyce around, both laughing. "Three close calls already. Engagement now. We're approaching his canonical death moment. Tomorrow we assault the hub. If pattern holds, Bob dies during or shortly after."
"Then we protect him."
"I've been trying! Three years of preparation, constant vigilance, and he still nearly died three times!" My voice cracked. "What if protection isn't enough? What if some deaths are inevitable?"
Chrissy grabbed my corrupted face, forced me to meet her eyes. "You saved Barb. You're saving Will. You'll save Bob too. Because you don't accept inevitable. That's who you are."
"Or I'm delusional, fighting fate that can't be changed."
"Then be delusional. Keep fighting. That's better than surrender."
Bob
Found Steve later, standing alone outside the bunker. He stared at nothing, corruption spreading visibly down his arms now.
"You're not happy for us," I said. Statement, not accusation.
"I'm terrified for you."
"Why?"
"Because happiness makes you vulnerable. Makes you take risks, volunteer for dangerous missions, play hero." Steve's eyes held something desperate. "Every time you're happy, you nearly die, Bob. It's pattern I can't break."
"That's paranoid thinking—"
"Is it? Three close calls in two weeks. Each time, you volunteered for the most dangerous option. Because you're brave, because you love Joyce, because you want to prove you're useful." His corruption flared. "Tomorrow we assault the Mind Flayer's hub. Final battle. And I'm terrified you'll volunteer for something that gets you killed."
The certainty in his voice made my skin crawl. Like he'd seen my death already, was watching it approach.
"I'll be careful—"
"Promise me. Promise you won't volunteer for suicide missions. That you'll let others take risks. That you'll survive this so you can marry Joyce."
The intensity scared me. But also touched me.
"I promise, Steve. I'll be careful."
"That's what you said last time." He turned away. "But I'll keep you alive anyway. Because that's what I do."
Steve
Midnight. Everyone sleeping. Bob and Joyce planning quiet wedding for next week.
If he survives tomorrow.
The assault was set. Teams assembled, explosives positioned, strategies finalized. We'd hit the Mind Flayer's hub at dawn, collapse the tunnel network, sever its connection to our dimension.
High-risk. Maximum danger. Perfect opportunity for Bob to play hero and die.
Not this time. Not while I'm still conscious. Not while I have any power left.
I updated the mission parameters: Bob stays topside, coordinates communications, stays safe. No exceptions, no volunteers, no heroics.
The Mind Flayer laughed: You cannot save him, traveler. Some deaths are inevitable. Fight it all you want—fate reasserts. Bob Newby dies. Always has, always will.
"Not this time."
We'll see. Dawn comes soon. And with it, the final test of your preparations. Will they be enough? Or will you watch him fall despite everything?
I checked my weapons. Phase 3 abilities hummed ready. Corruption spread further down my arms.
Tomorrow, we ended the Mind Flayer's presence in Hawkins. Tomorrow, I'd prove death wasn't inevitable.
Tomorrow, Bob Newby would survive.
He has to.
Because if I couldn't save one good man from fate, what was the point of anything?
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