Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night falls silently over Hawkins, Indiana. With it comes the silver light of the moon, lighting the town in dark hues of blue. It’s quiet and still, most of the inhabitants of the small town long since gone to bed, resting for the morning to come. The woods surrounding the town whisper in the wind, exchanging secrets held only for the shroud of night.

The only remaining sign of life sits on the edge of town in the form of a large wooden lodge, the windows still glowing with warm yellow light. The parking lot is empty but voices echo from the door of the lodge, laughter punctuating the chatter every couple of moments. A neon sign advertising ‘ No Vacancies’ flickers off and on before deciding to stay on, humming softly with electricity.

As the moon rises to its peak in the midnight sky, the labored rumbling of a very old pickup truck comes coughing down the road. The world falls silent as if to listen, all eyes turned to the chipping green paint and the wobbling wheels as the vehicle turns into the parking lot of the lodge, pulling into one spot with practiced ease. A woman steps out of the truck seconds after the engine is killed, her stature small and unassuming– other than the sawed-off shotgun hanging loosely over her shoulder.

This woman walks proudly up to the massive wooden doors of the lodge, rapping her knuckles once, twice, three times before pulling it open. There’s a pause, a breath, before the lodge explodes in cheers. The woman is ushered in; excited, warm voices piling out from the open door into the cold air before it’s shut again, muffling the celebration. 

The town is not offended by this rejection of invitation– it’s witnessed this too many times to count. It stands benevolent, silent, still in its wait for morning.

A pack of wolves howl in the depth of the forest. Something scurries to hide in the brush along the side of the road. A breath is held. 

Night continues on in Hawkins, Indiana, blissfully unaware of the absolute tomfoolery that has yet to come.

//

Steve Harrington awakens three hours before his alarm goes off.

He blinks, caught off guard by his sudden awakening, unsure of what brought him into consciousness. There’s no windows in his apartment’s bedroom so he seeks for the red light of his alarm clock, squinting through bleary eyes to read the time.

3:43 AM .

A flash of recollection strikes Steve in the back of the head like a plank of wood, ambushing him with vague splashes of memory from his dream. A wide expanse of moonlit trees, something growling, something tearing into his flesh. He blinks and it’s gone again, like wiping steam from a mirror. 

“Aw, beans,” Steve groans, rolling back into the cool embrace of his bed, legs kicking childishly in protest of the time.

The forest calls for its keeper, Steve thinks. And then he laughs at himself for the thought, at the image of the trees pulling him into the shadows in an embrace. As if .

//

Robin Buckley sits on the dusty ground behind the daunting stage behind her, rustling impatiently through her backpack. Oscar Winning Olivia Colman sniffs her hand curiously, her sweet little mouse head butting against her knuckles. Robin indulges her with a pat on her tiny back, other hand still in the depths of her bag.

“Where is it?” she murmurs, tongue peeking from her lips in concentration. She brightens when her fingers close around the object she’s searching for, tugging it non-delicately from the bag and holding it up in triumph.

Closed in her fingers is a chain necklace, a rabbit’s paw hanging from the middle, dangling down to her wrist. Robin hums in delight, shoving it into one of the pockets of her oversized cargo pants, thanking her past self again for the gift of many pockets .

“For good luck, Olivia Colman,” Robin explains, cupping the satin white mouse in her hands and bringing her up to eye-level. “Of course it’s fake, who do you think I am? A monster? Don’t be silly.” The mouse sniffles at her palm and does not respond otherwise. Robin places a kiss on her tiny baby head.

From the stage, the crackle and feedback of a cheap mic rings out. A loud voice booms “ Introducing, your favorite strongwoman, the She-Wolf! ”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Robin chants in a panicked whisper, allowing Oscar Winning Olivia Colman to scurry up her arm to sit on her shoulder as she gathers her stage-props, tripping over her own feet in her hurry to get up to the stage.

Robin pauses just before the curtain, taking a breath and bouncing on her toes, muscles flexing as she shakes the tension out of her arms. And then, with a renewed confidence and a sparkle of stage-presence, Robin steps out.

The crowd roars for Robin Buckley, She-Wolf, everyone’s favorite strongwoman.

//

Edward Munson, also known as Eddie ‘Not-This-Guy-Again’ Munson, stands behind the front counter of his uncle’s fine establishment. Often debated to be a museum, or a tourist shop, or some other colorful words Eddie does not mind to repeat but chooses not to anyway. He doesn’t really question it, though, happy to stand behind the counter all day and introduce the rare handful of out-of-town customers that may come in.

The shop-slash-museum is silent, having been closed for an hour and a half now. Not that it would be exactly loud during the day, given their lack of frequent customers. But, still, it’s a different vibe when it’s closed. 

Eddie clinks the rings on his fingers together absentmindedly, looking for the last of his closing chores. The list in his mind is scrambled, as are many things in his brain, and he hopes that if he’s forgetting anything, it comes back to him soon.

After a couple minutes and still no recollection, Eddie shrugs. He gathers his keys and his wallet and his backpack, brushing his hands through his long hair, frizzy after having it in a multitude of shitty buns throughout the day. A vaguely familiar tune hums in his throat as he makes his way through the shop, brushing past glass cases of stuffed rabbits with clay antlers and blurry, laminated photos of what could be Bigfoot or Mothman or any other assumed cryptid. Just as he reaches to flip off the lights of the Cryptonomica , something stops him dead in his tracks.

It sounds like an exhale of air; a wheezy rasp of breath just along the ridge of Eddie’s ear. Or maybe it’s someone calling for him, yearning and distant. Maybe it’s the growl of something hungry. Either way, it starts a cold sweat beading along Eddie’s spine, raising the hairs on the backs of his pale arms. It stops the breath in his lungs short, leaving him panting like something just punched all the air out of him.

The Cryptonomica is always a little frightening when it’s empty– when it’s just Eddie and the cold, beady eyes of taxidermied, fake cryptids, their faces mean and accusing him silently of their deaths. It’s always irrational, Eddie knows this and Wayne reminds him when he gets especially squicked out sometimes. But right now, with the pads of Eddie’s fingers brushing the lightswitch and his sweating back facing the black innards of the store, Eddie swears something is about to wrap its jaws around his neck and tear him to shreds. 

Eddie takes a quick breath and turns, face twisted in fear and his arms already raising to protect himself. He falters when he finds nothing– no open-jawed beast, no screaming ghoul– nothing. He swallows thickly, painfully.

With trembling hands and his eyes still trained on the twitching shadows in the shop, Eddie fumbles his way out. He doesn’t stop shaking until the door is shut and locked, hearing the bell on top of the door give a muffled, cheerful ring from inside as it rattles shut. It’s only until he’s out in the cooling, orange day outside does he realize he left the lights on.

Eddie ‘No-Fucking-Way’ Munson does not go back inside. 

//

The lodge’s cheerful visitor does not stay long. She leaves two nights later, small and unassuming form bounding out from the front doors into her shuddering truck, shotgun and all. There’s the urgency of a mission in her shoulders, the tense line of them highlighted by the gleaming light of a nearly full moon. The town is silent to watch her leave, and the trees rustle in excitement as the chipped green truck makes its way past the town lines, as if the forest is delighted to be left home alone once again.

Meanwhile, Steve Harrington, prophet-boy and forest’s plaything, prepares himself for a night alone. He clips his radio to his belt and places his ranger hat atop his carefully maintained hair, wincing when he feels the strands flatten. He stands in front of the gaping mouth of the trees and steps into them without fear; so sure of himself after years of venturing into this sharp mouth day after day. After all, the worst he’s ever going to get in Hawkins is a slightly out-of-control bonfire some irresponsible teenagers didn’t give a shit about. Did anybody even listen to Smokey the Bear anymore?

Meanwhile, Robin Buckley, She-Wolf, everyone’s favorite strongwoman, settles down in her hotel room with Oscar Winning Olivia Colman curled up on her chest. The after-show excitement has begun to settle, leaving her with pleasantly sore muscles and the rising anticipation of a show the next day. She grins as she closes her eyes; feeling the contentedness of being sure in her strength. If a troubling thought dares to enter her mind– of abandonment, or fear of failure, etcetera etcetera , Robin simply tilts her head down to look at the gleaming red eyes of her best assistant and is dashed of any possible doubt. There’s no time for doubt when you’ve got fridges to punch tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Eddie ‘Did-That-Really-Happen?’ Munson sits on the ratty couch in the living room of his trailer, knee bouncing so aggressively the mug on his coffee table shakes. His fingers shake when he tries to roll a joint so he settles on packing a b– a vase , cursing beneath his breath when his lighter refuses to light. Paranoia shadows his brain, and it eases back slightly when he takes a few stinging breaths of that good good stink herb. He sighs and relaxes back into his couch, hiking his knees up to his chest. Sleep comes easy like this, so he falls into it, relaxing until he’s asleep with his jaw slack open with his novelty Dragon Ball Z vase cradled loosely in his lap. The trees embracing Eddie’s trailer rustle, whispering farewells and goodnights, welcomes and hellos.

The moon, waning gibbous (note that down, really!), stares with love down at Hawkins, Indiana. It loves all of its inhabitants, its quirks, its mishaps. It pities the town, too, understanding more than anything else the silver thread of fate and its incomprehensible knots and twists. The moon loves, and it welcomes, and it waits . 

Chapter Text

The trees shift. They’re restless tonight, unsure, anticipating. They’re hiding something, embracing their little treasure like a feral dog guarding a strip of meat.

The moon glimmers, asking for permission, and the trees listen. They shift minutely, allowing the silver light of the moon to glitter across harsh, stone edges, the opportunity gone just as it arrives.

That stone keeps the light of the moon it's been granted, feeding on it, inhaling it. It takes and it takes until that silver glow begins whispering from the stone, revealing under the blue-black shadows of the trees its true hidden form.

Anybody who might stumble across this formation, if they could see it, would compare it to Stonehenge. Tall, glimmering boulders balancing against each other to form a massive arch, the empty space inside forming its own little moon. That little moon builds until it can’t anymore, the arch full to bursting with light, a beacon to any possible being in the vicinity. Air whistles excitedly around this stone formation, blowing leaves around in wild circles.

The town encircled by these suddenly excited trees remains unaware, peaceful, asleep. Its protector is hours out of the town by now, too aware, glancing anxiously behind the ragged seat of her truck to get a glance of her shotgun buckled into the backseat every couple of minutes. When she turns back she anxiously peeks out of the windshield, the contours of her face lighting with silver light. 

The full moon is nearly here, and so are its children. 

//

Steve Harrington is responding to a distress call. It’s rare that he ever gets one, but he’s protective of his forest, so he hops obediently into his truck, adjusts his ranger hat, and makes his way toward the call.

Somebody’s been causing a racket, apparently. Causing a damn fire too, which irritates Steve because come on , have these people never even fucking heard of Smokey the Bear? Christ. 

It’s mid-evening, the setting sun glaring into Steve’s eyes as his truck rocks to a stop in front of camp lot number five, inhabited by a decent sized RV and a truck that looks very similar to a crushed soda can. The front half is just a mess , the driver’s side crumpled and the headlights knocked completely out. Steve hisses through his teeth as he steps out from his truck, sunglasses balanced on the straight edge of his nose and hefty flashlight wielded in his hand.

As he steps further into the campsite he does a quick scan, acknowledging the smoldering remains of what must have been a decently sized bonfire not long ago. His boots take one particularly loud chew of gravel, and a quick scramble of sounds from the RV startle him into attention. 

A sound reaches Steve’s ears– the cocking of a gun. He curses beneath his breath and sidesteps behind a tree, leaning against the bark and tapping his thigh anxiously with one hand, unsure of his next move.

Hesitant, but still channeling the booming, proud voice of his father, Steve calls, “Y’ello?”

A peppered blast tears through the door of the RV, the sound thundering through the trees and Steve’s ears. He flinches, hard, yelping a ‘ JEEZus!’ that’s buried beneath the echoing sound of the gunshot.

“Oh, shit!” a voice, tearful and panicked, calls from behind the shredded door of the trailer. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t- Jesus–!”

“Not cool, man!” Steve yells, peeking nervously around the bark of his safety tree. “You are violating so many forest rules right now! You– I’m– have you ever even heard of Smokey the Bear, dude?”

“S– Smokey?” that nervous voice is almost laughing, a bit hysterical. Steve relates.

“Yeah, man! Tell you what, you come out, tell me what’s going on, and I won’t have you arrested for all this shit, capeesh?”

“Shit– shit, yeah, I get it! I’m comin’ out!”

“No guns!”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ assumed that!”

Steve steps out from behind the tree, protectively clutching his clunky flashlight at his side. There’s a scurry of movement from the trailer, and then two shaking hands appear in the open space of the shredded door. Then a curly head of hair, and the extremely nervous expression of Dustin Henderson, current sophomore in Hawkins’ only high school. Steve sighs and hangs his head.

“Dustin,” Steve starts and stops in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses. He doesn’t know the kid, not really, just the type of know that you have when you live in a small town such as Hawkins.

“Aw, shit.” Dustin scrambles all the way out of the RV, bouncing anxiously on his toes. “Steve, don’t tell my mom, man, please.”

“What the hell are you doing out here, man? With a shotgun ?! And starting fires in a goddamn forest during a dry season– I know your mom taught you better than that!”

Dustin hangs his head, burying his face in his hands. “I know, man, I know. I just… I was scared, man. There’s… Jesus, dude, I got chased down by something.”

“Y’got chased ? By what?” Steve cocks a hip, hands braced on his belt. The cool evening wind brushes pleasantly across his back, but it makes Dustin shudder violently.

“Something big .” Dustin’s face is hard, serious. Steve thinks he’s never seen a kid this age look so genuinely scared and not have it be seen in a mirror. “I mean big , Steve. Fuck, I mean, look at what it did to Gareth’s truck! Oh shit, Gareth! ”

That piques Steve’s interest. He hardens the line of his brow, gaze suddenly shifting to the edge of the treeline surrounding them. He feels nervous, all of a sudden. He feels watched.

“Gareth? You’re here with somebody?”

“Yeah, fuck! Oh god, Steve, you gotta find him. He’s– he’s fucked !”

Dustin starts hyperventilating, quick, panicked inhales of breath. Steve is abruptly and completely thrown out of his depth. He doesn’t know what to do with kids, doesn’t quite understand how they work. He might’ve when he was one himself, before he burnt out sometime in junior year, but now he’s an old man the age of twenty-three and he just doesn’t get what to do .

So, Steve panics. And he slaps the kid across the head.

“ Ow! ” Dustin steps back, indignance painted across his face. Though, his breathing has somewhat slowed back to its normal pace, the panic in his eyes replaced with irritation.

“Sorry!” Steve yelps, face growing hot with embarrassment. “I panicked, sorry!”

“You panicked so you hit me ?! I’m gonna tell my fucking mom!”

“You tell your mom and I’ll tell her you nearly shot my damn arm off with a shotgun !”

“Whatever!” Dustin throws his arms up in the air, stomps a frantic path in the gravel a couple of times. Then he whirls back to Steve, pointing accusingly. “You’re not even a real cop, man! You’re just a forest narc!”

Before Steve can offer his rebuttal that no, he is not ‘just a forest narc’, he’s a goddamn scientist of nature and the only reason Hawkins National Forest isn’t burned to ash right now, something creaks. It’s loud, too, like the sound came from just behind Dustin or off to Steve’s side. Steve stops to listen but Dustin just freezes , his eyes wide and nervously shifting around like a hunted rabbit.

Dustin kicks into action, scrambling over dirt and gravel to the bonfire, hands working to save the remaining embers scattered throughout. Steve watches him, confused, yelping when Dustin manages to recover the flames.

“Put that out! What the hell, man? It’s fine, it’s just the trees!” Steve reaches to grab Dustin by his shoulders, stumbling when the kid scrambles away, kicking dust and gravel up as he goes. “It’s the trees, Henderson, not a damn bear!”

“That’s the problem, Steve!” Dustin snaps, throwing his hands out and shoving against Steve’s chest. The sunglasses balanced against his nose are jarred off, landing in the firepit and being quickly consumed by the restoked flames. Steve curses beneath his breath in frustration, staring dejectedly at the melting plastic of his once beloved sunglasses. When he turns back to Dustin, the teenager’s face is shadowed with panic once more, his mouth twisted and upset. “That’s the problem, ” he repeats, looking away from Steve to watch the treeline as if they’re seconds away from coming to life and snatching him up.

Hell. Maybe they are. Steve’s certainly never been a stranger to weird shit.

//

Robin Buckley is preparing for a show.

It’s a small gig, one she’s grateful for nonetheless. Any kind of money is nice when you’re bouncing endlessly between hotel rooms. This particular gig takes place in the lobby of her current hotel, up on a hastily crafted stage in front of a young boy’s birthday party and a couple stragglers left over from the free continental breakfast.

The setup is easy– a couple of weights here, a filing cabinet the owner of the hotel reluctantly offered to her after she very slyly handed over an extra chunk of cash she made from her last show. Some other tricks that she obviously can’t reveal because then she wouldn’t be a real magician. You know how it is with tricks and magicians.

Oscar Winning Olivia Colman sits patiently on Robin’s shoulder as she starts the show, not even flinching with each wide, dramatic gesture she makes with her hands. The mouse does her tricks with ease, twirling on command and looking pretty (her best trick), and Robin feeds her treats while the overexcited kids in the birthday party cheer over the rodent. 

“Oh, you know what?” Robin pauses in the middle of a set, turning to Oscar Winning Olivia Colman. She turns back to the crowd, shaking her head in faux disappointment. “Sorry, guys, I lost part of my set, just give me a sec.”

A quick scan of the audience tells Robin that her act is working, some kids turning to each other in confusion or disappointment, a couple of the older folks furrowing their brows. A woman in the back, out of place with her frankly massive duster jacket, looks faintly amused. Robin tries not to reveal her giddiness at her success.

She walks casually over to the filing cabinet, popping open one of the drawers and pretending to search through a stack of files even though it’s completely empty. Then she clicks her tongue in disappointment, closing the drawer and stepping back with her hands on her hips, staring in thought at the cabinet.

“Oh!” Robin claps her hands together, stepping forward again and bracing her palms on either side of the metal furniture. Then she braces, hefts it up, and holds it easily over her head with little more than a strained grunt, making a show of looking at the spot where the cabinet just left. There’s a loud rustle of ‘ ooh ’s and ‘ aah ’s from the kids in the birthday party, accompanied by some begrudging, light applause from the adults in the audience. Someone wolf whistles, and Robin hopes to god it wasn’t some sleazy old guy.

The grip Robin has on the furniture suddenly slips, leaving her fumbling to catch the weight of it before it bashes her fucking head in. The leftovers of the awed expressions die quickly at her failed attempt to stick the landing, and her cheeks heat quickly with embarrassment. She shrugs it off, however, squatting down to pick up the piece of paper she definitely didn’t leave before setting up the show.

“Olivia Colman, are you seeing this?” Robin asks the mouse on her shoulder, who is currently combing her tiny paws through her hair. “This says I need a volunteer from the audience to finish the rest of my set!”

At this, the kids in the birthday party all swivel to stare at one kid donned in full birthday boy regalia, paper crown and Sonic themed shirt included. He looks appropriately startled by this, eyes wide and shoulders tense. Robin takes pity on him, understanding the uncomfort of having all those unwanted eyes on you, and scans the rest of the room instead.

Her eyes fall, once again, upon the woman with a massive duster jacket. Once Robin looks longer than a second, she realizes just how huge it is on her, considering that she’s definitely shorter than ol’ birthday boy despite definitely being, like, five times his age. The woman must notice Robin’s searching gaze, because she’s shaking her head with a kind smile before Robin can fully extend an inviting hand.

“Lady in that cool duster jacket!” Robin calls, and some of the folks in the audience turn to see who she’s calling upon. The woman looks unimpressed but almost surprised, crossing her arms across her chest. “Come on up, help me out here for a second.”

“No, thanks,” says the woman, laughing a little through her words. Robin pouts, placing her hands on her hips.

“Why not?” Robin cocks her head, staring inquisitively at the amused expression the woman is beginning to don. “Don’t you wanna punch some stuff? It’s really cool, I promise.”

“I’m more of a pacifist,” she says, eyebrows raised. It looks sort of like a challenge, and Robin isn’t sure if she thinks that because it really is or because of her constant validation issues with older women. No matter, though, Robin knows when to accept defeat.

She raises her hands in surrender, bowing her head. “Alright, understood.” 

Robin sighs as she turns back to the birthday boy and tries to convey her pity in a way he will catch. “How about you, kid? Feel like helping me beat up some stuff?”

The kid looks hesitantly around the table at his friends, a couple of which are snickering lightly at his assumed misfortune. Then he sighs, shrugs, and says, “Yeah, sure.”

Robin would describe the kid’s walk up to the stage as an execution walk if she was any good with metaphors. He stands next to her, stiff and unsure, waving at a proud-looking dad who sits in the thin crowd.

“Don’t worry, little dude. You’ll be fine,” Robin murmurs, patting his shoulder lightly. The kid winces. “Now, what I’m going to show you is only possible with somebody to help, which– what’s your name, friend?”

“Uh, Barry,” the kid mutters, resolutely not making eye contact.

“Barry! Which Barry is going to provide for me. Sound cool?” Robin directs the last part to Barry, who meets her eyes for the first time and does a shrug-nod combination that does not inspire confidence. She takes it anyways.

Leading the both of them over to the previously discarded filing cabinet, she sits on her toes beside it. She waves Barry over, who nervously makes his way over and stands on the opposite side, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sturdy-looking bluejeans.

“How do you feel about punching things, Barry? Things, not people, because punching people is bad. But things ."

“Um.” Barry furrows his eyebrows, looking uncertainly out off the stage before meeting her gaze again. “It’s– it’s okay, I guess? I don’t do it a whole lot. It hurts my hand, so, y’know…”

“For sure, for sure,” Robin picks up, nodding along. Then she raps her knuckles against one of the sturdy metal drawers, listening to the metal ring out in response. “What if I told you we could crumple this thing like a soda can with just a tap?”

“That’s– really?” Barry looks intrigued now, squinting at the drawer Robin’s knuckles were tapping just a second ago. 

“Really!” Robin grins, watching him knock his own knuckles against the metal as if to confirm its solidity. Olivia Colman squeaks from where she’s burrowed into Robin’s hair. Robin likes to think it’s encouragement for this young aspiring strongman. “You wanna try?” 

“Uhh, sure!” Barry clenches his fists hesitantly, though there’s some genuine excitement in his voice that makes Robin think this is why I left. This is exactly why I needed to leave, and she raises her eyebrows at him in encouragement.

“Alright, so, hold your hands like this…” Robin guides his hands so they’re clasped, pointer fingers out and held together, pressed against the middle (weakest) drawer of the cabinet. She occasionally shifts to give the audience a look at what they’re doing, and Barry will turn his head to smile shakily at his friends and his dad. 

“Alright, everyone!” Robin claps her hands together, pressing them together in an imitation of the gesture she had Barry do. “Are you ready to witness an incredible feat of strength– one no average human could even attempt?”

Even if the crowd doesn’t look too excited or even impressed, Barry is bouncing anxiously on his toes, ready to punch the shit out of a metal cabinet. And Robin will always encourage that urge, so who gives a hoot what the crowd is feeling? She turns her attention back to him and presses her own fingers to the drawer, right next to his.

“Alright, Bear, you ready?” Robin asks, Barry nodding rapidly before she’s even finished. “On three, okay?”

“One…”

Robin takes a breath and braces her shoulders, tensing her biceps. Barry smiles big and wide.

“Two…”

Robin pulls back minutely, straightening her posture. Barry doesn’t notice her shifting and keeps his hands still.

“ Three! ”

Robin tucks her index fingers into her fists and slams them into the metal, just a moment before Barry’s, though his eyes are closed in anticipation and he pushes his fists into the cabinet just enough that Robin doesn’t think he’ll notice the trick. The cabinet, as expected, crumples like a soda can, caving in on itself like a collapsing star.

Something else happens too, though. It’s like… well, it’s like drinking five Red Bulls before cramming in a study sesh, which Robin can personally attest to. It’s like getting a whiff of smelling salts, or getting just startled enough by a good horror movie that it makes staticy adrenaline course through her limbs. It’s intoxicating and insane and it makes Robin feel stronger than she has in her entire life.

She loses control of it a little bit. Sue her.

As well as crumpling in on itself, the cabinet goes rocketing toward the back of the makeshift stage, collapsing into the plaster walls and sending debris hailing out from the new cabinet-shaped hole. Robin has enough reflex to duck in front of Barry before any of the plaster can reach them, feeling some of it rain weakly across her back. She steps back from an awed looking Barry to gape at her own work; the twisted metal, the crumbling plaster. Holy shit.

It takes a second to register the childish cheers from the crowd, all of the kids chanting Barry’s name. The kid laughs, jumping down from the stage with no further acknowledgement of Robin to join the swarming group of celebrating prepubescents.

Robin stares down at her hands; her knuckles are red and raw from the impact, but Robin is treated to the astounding sight of her skin literally knitting itself back together. She takes a shaking breath, carding her shaking hands through her hair and startling when her fingers bump against the satin fur of Oscar Winning Olivia Colman. She pulls the mouse out gently, cradling her between her palms. 

When Robin properly looks out into the crowd, she sees a couple of things. One is the birthday party, still crowded around Barry and cheering on his incredible success. The second is the concerned looking adults, some of them shuffling out of the dining area-slash-stage, eager to be away from the shitshow that is bound to happen soon. The third is the hotel’s manager, his face red with anger, hands fisted in his hair as he stares at his precious, crumbling wall.

The final thing is that woman, her duster jacket swishing and fluttering behind her as she storms up to the stage, her face furious.

“Oh, Oscar Winning Olivia Colman,” Robin whispers fearfully, cradling her trusted assistant to her chest. “We’re really in it now.”

//

Eddie Munson is taking inventory.

There’s not much to do during closing, especially with his boss being his favorite (and only) uncle. He does the work diligently anyway, proud to be among these freaks of nature the Cryptonomica houses– himself included. He makes sure all the trinkets are accounted for, counts the pitiful amount of cash they’ve made that day, sighs as he picks up some trash a tourist must have left earlier in the day. 

As he’s dusting the case of a fish with several plastic eyeballs glued to the length of its back, the bell above the front door rings cheerfully. Eddie turns to find his uncle stepping through, a hat bunched between his fists, his expression weary.

“Hey,” Eddie greets warily, unsure of his uncle’s troubled stance. “What’s up, Wayne?”

“Hey, Eds.” Wayne doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes, walking slowly through the front half of the museum-slash-shop. “You, uh, finishin’ up for the day?”

“Sure am.” Eddie sets down the feather duster he’s holding, making awkward eye contact with the multi-eyed fish beside him. He breaks it, unsettled, turning to face his uncle. “What’s going on, man?”

Wayne sighs. It’s heavy and tired, like it takes all of his energy just to do it. He moves to sit in one of the rickety old chairs they have scattered around the shop, his head hung low.

“I’m gettin’ too old for this, Eddie.” Wayne grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand. Eddie frowns as he comes to sit down in the seat beside the older man, wincing when the chair creaks beneath his weight. “Too damn old.”

“What’s going on, old man?” Eddie leans over, resting his elbows on his knees. Wayne doesn’t scold him for the name, which means that some serious shit is going down. He straightens, suddenly, genuinely nervous. “You’re freaking me out, Wayne. Did something happen? Is– Jesus, is it Carver and his gang again?”

“No, no, it’s not any of that.” Wayne sighs. He scrubs his face one more time before facing Eddie, lips pursed in a tired smile. “We’re gonna lose the shop, I think. It’s lookin’ highly likely, son.”

Eddie falters, unsure of what to think. He looks away, brings up a hand to fiddle anxiously with the piece of jewelry in his septum. “What does that mean?” he asks, too scared to meet his uncle’s eyes again.

“Well. We’re real low on money. Lower than we have been since we started.” The chair creaks as Wayne shifts, extending his legs out across the ratty carpet. “It’s only gettin’ more expensive to keep it up here, Eds. We just aren’t bringin’ in money fast enough.” He pauses for a moment, and Eddie feels his gaze on the side of his head. For some reason, he feels like he’s going to cry. “Don’t get down about it, kid. It’s just some old taxidermy.”

“No, it’s not,” Eddie protests, voice weak. A hand, calloused and warm, rests on his shoulder.

“You’re right. Sorry.” Wayne pats his back, once, twice. Then he pulls back, and Eddie resolutely doesn’t chase after the contact. That’d be lame. “Still, bud. We’ve known this was gonna happen.”

“I know,” Eddie whispers.

They sit in silence for a long couple of moments, heavy and tense. Wayne sighs and stands after a while, wordlessly patting Eddie’s back and making his way toward the entrance of the shop.

“Oh, Eddie,” Wayne calls, pausing in his action to open the door. Eddie looks up and hopes his eyes aren’t too visibly glossy. “Be careful on your way back home, alright? Got a weird feelin’ tonight.”

“You and your weird feelings, old man.”

“You watch your mouth, son,” Wayne chides, but he’s smiling. Then he steps out, the bell ringing merrily, the door clattering shut. Eddie sits in silence with his head in his hands until the roar of Wayne’s truck fades from his ears.

Like hell this museum is getting canned. Not on Eddie’s watch. 

Chapter Text

By the time Steve Harrington can catch a breath, the silver light of the moon has begun to crest over the trees. He peers curiously at it for a moment, tracking the way it lights up the glossy leaves of the trees around him. The breath he takes is long, filling his lungs with cold air until it hurts his chest, exhaling in a rush through his mouth.

Steve sent Dustin home only a moment ago, watching the half-crumpled truck roll cautiously down the gravel path connecting the campsite to the road. The kid had been eager to leave, very nearly forgetting to even tell Steve what direction Gareth had gone during their ‘altercation’. Which Steve still knows jack shit about, because why tell him anything? It’s not like his whole thing is about the forest and navigating the forest.

Whatever.

With his trusty flashlight wielded and his nose cold with the absence of his sunglasses, Steve delves into the belly of the woods. The glaring light of his flashlight casts over rocks and soil, bouncing between the sturdy bodies of the surrounding trees. His eyes search uselessly for a long time; unsure of what he’s looking for, unable to parse most things through the thick shadows the trees cast.

And then something trips him. Steve grunts, falling forward and bracing himself on the rough bark of a tree ahead of him, just barely catching himself before he could eat a facefull of mud. He fumbles with his flashlight for a second, trying to search for what tripped him with suddenly unstable hands.

There’s… something. It writhes on the ground pathetically, as if in pain after Steve tripped over it. He squats, leaning in close with his flashlight casting a beacon upon the writhing thing. It’s slimy, covered in some black, glossy goop, speckled with yellow and red dots. Steve makes a face when it squirms and it leaves a snail trail behind it, marking the dirt below it with the same black, speckled slime.

Unsettled, Steve stands, righting himself and turning to the tree he caught himself on. Once he looks closer, he finds that the tree is leaking, bleeding that black substance through the ragged bark. He exhales shakily, stepping closer and (unintelligently) dipping a finger into the substance. It comes away sticky, a string of it connecting Steve’s hand to the trunk. A foul smell wafts into Steve’s nose as he tries to shake the slime from his hand and he winces, turning his face into his shoulder as he gags.

“What the fuck?” Steve whispers, the wind catching his voice and dispersing it through the air around him. He gags again and wipes the goop off on his slacks, not really sure what else to do with it.

There’s a trail of Nasty Goop (trademark pending) that drools from the tree, smearing through the dirt and grass in what Steve realizes is a distinct path. He realizes, very suddenly, that this is some weird shit . Now, Steve has not gotten involved in weird shit since he was a high schooler. But now, here it is, calling to him, leading him into a thicker patch of trees that he’s warned hikers from going into plenty of times before. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” Steve breathes, shoulders deflating with his sound of utter defeat. Like a scolded child, Steve begins his trek, head down and boots shuffling through the coarse dirt as he heads toward his destiny.

//

Robin Buckley is actively being kidnapped, she thinks.

The woman in the duster jacket is much stronger than she looks, by the way. She’s dragging Robin through the hotel lobby, pinching her ear like she’s a misbehaving child and not a, frankly, impressively buff twenty-one year old. Robin’s still stuck halfway in a state of shock, replaying that moment of super-strength in her mind, stumbling over her own feet as she’s corralled out of the hotel.

The woman is seething openly as she storms, switching between scolding Robin and apologizing sincerely to the still-fuming hotel owner who’s still following them, his face still plum red. The air is startlingly cool once the woman brings them outside, pushing Robin out of her rising panic attack.

“So sorry again! I’ll keep her in check, don’t you worry!” The woman calls through the front entrance, her grip still tight on Robin but now around her forearm instead of her ear. It distinctly reminds Robin of the weary stress grip her dad used to do when she got bouncy as a teenager. The woman whirls on her, her face firm and angry, contrasting with the prominent smile lines around her mouth and eyes. “Do you understand what you just did?”

“Uh…” Robin blinks, probably looking very intelligent. “I… punched some shit? And it was very cool?”

The woman presses her hands to her face. She murmurs something like “These fucking kids,” in a very tired voice. Then she looks up, points, and nods in the direction of her outstretched hand. Robin follows her gesture, eyes trailing before they fall on a rusty, very old looking green truck. The paint is chipping and the rear bumper is hanging halfway off, like something bit it and tugged until it came loose.

“Truck,” Robin says. Again, very intelligent. The woman throws her hands into the air before her arms fall back down to her sides, so exasperated it’s tangible.

“Get in!” Her voice is incredulous, like Robin is silly for not catching onto what she was trying to say. Robin frowns.

“Sorry, what’s happening? Am I– am I being kidnapped? Because, no offense, lady, I could probably win a fight between the two of us.” Robin crosses her arms over her chest, using the height difference between them to stare down at her in a way she hopes is intimidating. The woman raises an eyebrow, and the look she returns is definitely way more intimidating than Robin could ever attempt.

“Do you wanna bet?”

“...Not really.”

“Then get in the truck .”

“Yes ma’am.”

The woman sighs sharply and smiles tightly at Robin, one that falls just as quickly as she put it on. She leads Robin to the truck in an army march, though she opens Robin’s door for her which she thinks was a very nice thing to do. The seats are ragged but comfortable, and Robin slumps into hers, suddenly exhausted. That energy from before is gone, leaving her limp and weary and just wanting to be home. Olivia Colman squeaks softly from her shoulder, and Robin smiles at her warmly.

The driver’s side door slams shut once the woman gets in, and the truck comes alive with a wheezing roar. The two of them share no words as the older woman pulls out of the spot she haphazardly pulled into, though Oscar Winning Olivia Colman fills the silence with her curious snuffling and squeaking. 

“Um, to be clear,” Robin starts once they’re out of the parking lot, voice timid and anxious. “I have no idea what I just did.”

“Uh-huh.” The lady doesn’t even spare Robin a glance. Her jaw is tight with stress. “You rogues, I swear. You just think you can get away with everything. It’s– the full moon is tonight , what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just–” Robin’s brain catches up with what the woman said. She frowns. “What does the full moon have to do with this?”

The woman does turn toward her at this. She’s frowning, which is an expression Robin is starting to get familiar with.

“You’re serious?” She asks, scoffing minutely. “Kid, your stage name is She-Wolf . You’re telling me you don’t know what the full moon has to do with your whole deal? ”

“What deal?” Robin raises her hands, exasperated. “I punch shit. That’s all I do. And, like, lift weights and stuff. I’m just strong, lady.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hey–!”

“No, kid, listen.” She raises a finger to silence Robin, still facing the road as she does. It is embarrassingly effective. Then she sighs, shaking her head. “What’s your name?”

“Robin.”

“ Robin. I’m Joyce, it’s good to meet you.” She pauses. “No, actually, it’s very inconvenient to meet you.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Robin grumbles, turning away from Joyce to press her head against the window. The scenery passes by in a speeding blur, turning the colors of the arriving Fall season completely indecipherable. 

“You’re welcome,” Joyce says, sounding very much not welcome. “Listen. Your strength isn’t just because you spend too much time at the gym.”

“I spend a perfectly reasonable amount of time at the gym.”

“Stop interrupting.” Joyce flicks the arm that Robin has resting on the center console. Robin snaps her arm back with a grumble but relents anyways, resolving herself to an uncharacteristic bout of silence. “You do understand the concept of werewolves, right?”

“I mean, yeah?” Robin rolls her head back to Joyce, frowning.

“Well, there you go,” Joyce says matter-of-factly, as if that explains anything. Robin even waits for further elaboration, raising her eyebrows when none comes.

“What?” Robin laughs, incredulous. “You’re saying I’m a werewolf? What the fuck?”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“No!” Robin shouts, easing when Olivia Colman startles from her shoulder. She sighs, shaking her head, cursing every decision that has led her to this moment. “That’s– I mean, that’s ridiculous. I’ve never changed or whatever. I’ve never been bitten by a big scary wolf. Shit, I’ve never even owned a dog. Also, werewolves aren’t fucking real!”

“You never know.” Joyce shrugs. Robin watches her, exasperated and exhausted, as she makes a turn with a truly impressive amount of nonchalance. “I know some shit, kid. You’re going to have to trust me, here.”

“How?! You kidnapped me, dude!” 

“You got into my truck, dude ,” Joyce drawls, waving Robin off. Robin wants to scream, so she instead cradles Oscar Winning Olivia Colman between her palms and carefully runs her fingers over her soft back. “This is for your safety. And everyone else’s. I promise you that. And once tonight has passed, I’ll let you leave whenever you want, as long as you promise not to do stupid shit before the full moon again.”

Robin sits in silence for a long couple of moments, listening to the rumbling of the truck’s engine, the sound of its tires crunching over gravel and dirt once they turn onto an unpaved, rural road. On one hand, this lady is definitely fucking insane. On the other, she did punch a hole through a steel cabinet and send it flying into a wall, tearing open her knuckles only for them to heal seconds later. That’s pretty hard to explain, even when Robin tries to think as skeptical as possible.

Robin sighs. “Yeah, alright. Fucking– sure, yeah, today’s not gonna get any better for me, anyways.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They fall back into silence once again, and Robin hopes it lasts until they get to wherever Joyce is taking them.

But then Joyce says, “Actually,” a thoughtful frown on her face. “How have you managed to get through full moons in the past?”

//

Eddie Munson has whipped up a plan.

A pile of supplies lays across his bed, each item meticulously chosen and lined up. The first is an old, battered video camera, laid next to an equally as battered tripod. Next to those is a bottle of Ass Spray Eddie picked up from a prank store two months ago as a failed birthday present to Wayne. And then, his sweet baby, his second favorite personal possession, his lion costume. He stole it from the theatre department in his high school and it has hung proudly but unused in his closet ever since. He loves it.

The lion costume has been altered many times since its original collection, patched and unpatched, sewn and torn. This time around, Eddie’s altered the fur, fluffing it and plucking until it’s a patchy mess. He grins every time he looks at it, unreasonably proud of his creation.

The trailer is quiet and still– Wayne gone to work at his non-Cryptonomica job, the one that actually pays their bills. One of Eddie’s records plays in the background of his scheming, the volume much lower than he typically keeps it. He’s sure the neighbors are thankful for this blessing he’s granted them. 

Eddie packs a bag. He packs the lion costume, the tripod, the Ass Spray. The video camera is placed gingerly on top of everything else, Eddie making sure to keep its fragile bits tucked into the soft fabric of the lion costume. A couple extra batteries go into the bag, as well as a frankly massive flashlight. The ragged, threadbare straps of the backpack are loose over his shoulders as he tosses it on.

A couple other things are added to Eddie’s figurative inventory as he leaves: the keys to his van, a handful of hair ties, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, his frame-swallowing leather jacket. The sun hangs low in the sky once Eddie steps out of the trailer, the storm door clattering shut behind him. Eddie grins at the prospect of his plan the whole way to his van; the vision of it playing out in the blackness of his eyelids every time he closes them.

The woods swallow up Eddie’s van not long after he leaves, the gravel of the unpaved road playing an uneven rhythm that he covers up with a CD Jeff burned for him not long ago. Sick guitar riffs play Eddie in as he pulls his van into a clearing, parking it beside a jagged lip of rocks.

The sky begins turning a deep blue, scars of orange and pink still cutting through the horizon as Eddie sets up the camera. The tripod is shaky and the camera makes it extra top-heavy, but he gets it to work after several cuss breaks and frustrated kicks at the grass. His backpack is tossed to sit up against that same lip of rocks, unzipped and hanging limply open to show the ratty fur of the lion costume. He grins at the sight of it once he’s set up the camera successfully, striding open and tugging it easily from where it sits in the bag.

The scars of remaining light turn the ratty fur into something gleaming. If Eddie was a smarter man, he’d compare it to the shining light of hope for the Cryptonomica. Instead, he just notes that it looks fucking sick.

“Alright,” Eddie breathes, mouth open in a smile. “You ready for your Hawkins debut, Stink Ape?”

//

Half an hour into Steve’s wander into his looming destiny, he wanders into an uncharacteristically large gap between the dense thicket. He pauses for a breath, knocking back his ranger’s hat to run a hand through his hair, wincing at the sweat beading along his forehead. He supposes he isn’t a basketball playing teenager anymore.

The flashlight in his hand flickers. He stares at it wide-eyed, watching the light falter weakly, pulsing as if breathing. Dread settles in his chest as it fades to dark completely, no weak blink of light to accompany it again.

“Oh, come on,” Steve whispers, a tad frantic. He shakes the light, listening to the rattle of the batteries inside the plastic. It doesn’t turn back on, not even after he slaps his palm against the bulb. It always turns back on after he slaps it a couple of times. He curses beneath his breath, tossing the flashlight into a patch of mud beneath his feet. Then he picks it back up, because littering is bad, and Steve is not a bad man. 

With the sudden wash of darkness, Steve loses sight of what’s around him. However, it does reveal to him a small, shining point of light. It’s weak, barely even enough to reach the leather points of his boots. He steps toward it, steps fumbling and tripping in the mud and grass.

As Steve gets closer, he realizes the point of light connects to a flashlight, much smaller and lightweight compared to the one he carries with him. He strides forward, plucking it from the patch of weeds it had been discarded into. He frowns, squinting at the grip of the flashlight, trying to discern the shape of a stain that’s been left along the plastic.

A cold feeling settles in Steve’s belly once he realizes that it’s blood; still wet, still red. A tired, frightened breath shudders from his chest.

That breath is just as quickly sucked back into his body as a voice, meek and quiet, murmurs through the air.

“Steve Harrington,” it calls, beckoning his attention. Steve falls back on his ass, shining the small flashlight toward the direction of the voice. The beam of light cuts out sharply on the shadowy, solid outline of a figure, weaker than the beaming pinpricks of light that project from its head. There’s no defining features, no face or fingers or anything, but Steve knows what this is. Of course he knows what this is. 

“Are you ready, Steve? It is time.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Face your destiny, Steve Harrington. Follow me.”

Steve drops his head to his chest and sighs in defeat.