Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eddie’s watch beeped softly at 5:28am, two minutes before the rest of the world needed to exist. He didn’t move. Not right away. Just lay there, staring at the curve of her face in the faint blue light bleeding through the seams of the tent’s canvas.

Ursula hadn’t stirred yet. Not really. Her breath was still slow. Hair mussed and tangled where it had dried across his chest sometime during the night. She looked like something enchanted. Not delicate—never delicate—but wild and spellbound in the way that broke people’s hearts if they looked too long.

It was only the fifth morning of waking up with her in his arms, and he was already addicted. The way her lashes fluttered before she blinked. The crease between her brows when consciousness came back online. Like she was returning from somewhere else, and her first instinct was to find him. Lock eyes. Like she was checking the world hadn’t ended while she was unconscious.

Eddie didn’t want to miss a second of it. Not ever. He wanted to see that look every damn morning for the rest of his life. And even if he lived a thousand years, he knew—he’d never, could never, get used to something that goddamn magical.

5:30 AM.

The second alarm chirped softly in the quiet room.

Ursula stirred under the covers—barely. A feather’s shift. Then her lashes fluttered once… twice… like her body had remembered the cue before her mind had caught up. For a moment she was perfectly still again, caught in the breath between dream and dawn. Then her eyes opened. Not sudden. Not startled. Just slow, delicate. A storybook kind of waking—like some invisible spell had just broken across her skin.

Her gaze moved, hazy and searching, until it landed on him. Eddie. Awake. Watching. Holding his breath like he always did. And as soon as she saw him—

That smile. Soft. Secret. Lit from someplace deep in her chest. Like the sight of him alone was the answer to a wish she’d forgotten she made. It hit him like it always did. Like magic. Real and warm and undeserved.

Ursula blinked slowly. “Hey,” she whispered, voice still wrapped in sleep.

He kissed her temple lightly, just as she started to stretch, fingers twitching against his ribs. “Hey,” he whispered back.

She blinked, brow scrunched, voice scratchy with sleep. “Ugh. What time is it.”

“Technically? Still illegal to be conscious o’clock,” he murmured.

She stared at the ceiling for a long beat before turning her head, blinking blearily at him. “…How the hell did I get in here?” she mumbled, voice gravel-rough from sleep. “I remember… Kali. And the joint. And talking. I remember showering. But then…” She trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly like she was running diagnostics on her own memory.

Eddie grinned, brushing a curl from her temple. “You passed out on me,” he said gently. “Last joint. Porch swing. Completely crashed mid-sentence.”

Her eyes widened a little. “Wait. For real?”

“Seriously,” he said. “You were toast. Me and your unconscious body had a whole silent movie moment. I carried you in, got the alarms set, tucked you in like a princess.”

Ursula blinked at him. “Aww. Dude. You’re the best.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I try.”

“No, but like—for real, dude.” Her voice changed—sharpened with sincerity, all traces of groggy fading. She pushed herself up onto one elbow, eyes boring into his. “You are literally the best person ever. I’m serious. I really like, appreciate you, Eddie. Like… a whole bunch.”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck like it was no big deal. “Ain’t no thang, baby.”

“Ain’t no thang?” She let that hang in the air, unflinching. “You made sure I didn’t sleep through mission morning. You carried my tired ass in. You always have my six. So it totally is a ‘thang.’”

He squinted at her. “Wait—what does that even mean? ‘Have your six’?”

“It’s military slang,” she said. “It means you’ve got my back. Like, if we’re moving forward—twelve o’clock is the front, six o’clock is behind. You cover the rear. You make sure no one sneaks up. You protect the place I can’t see.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. And god she loved that about him. 

“You know, you’re my favorite person in the whole fucking world,” she said. And she meant it. 

For a second, he couldn’t speak. His throat went dry. So he leaned in instead. “You’re my favorite too,” he whispered.

“Uggh!” She grabbed his face with both hands, scrunched her nose, and dragged him in like she was furious about it. “I fucking love your goddamn face,” she growled. Like it pissed her off how much she meant it.

The kiss that followed started out in that feral gremlin, nose-nuzzling, lip-biting chaos that showed him just how much she loved his stupid goddamn face—her hands gripping his jaw like she was about to shake him, her teeth catching his lip, her breath hot with that wild, half-laughing growl she only made when she was overflowing and pretending to be pissed about it.

And fuck he loved her goddamn face too and couldn’t help but smile against her bitey little mouth—She felt it. That grin. That softness. And for a second—just a second—she cracked. “…Kiss me,” she whispered.

Not a command. A request. And that was it. That was the thing.

He felt his own breath catch—not from nerves, but from the way his whole body responded to the surrender in her voice. She didn’t give like this. Didn’t ask like this. This wasn’t her letting him in—this was her giving up the wheel.

And holy fuck if that didn’t light something in him.

Because this—this was what he’d been circling around in all those quiet fantasies when he let his mind drift too far. Not just holding her. Not just kissing her back. But taking her. Laying her down and claiming her, slow and deep and thorough. Giving her what she couldn’t give herself—not because she was weak, but because she was always too busy holding the world up to ever let go.

And now she had. So he did what he’d always wanted to do. He kissed her like he meant to undo her. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her in like gravity wasn’t strong enough. The other curled behind her neck, firm, guiding, anchoring. He took her mouth with purpose—no tentative press, no teasing. Just full contact, deep and hot, dragging her under.

Her breath caught. Her fingers curled in his shirt. And for once, she followed instead of led. It was surrender.

And for the first time, he didn’t have to imagine what it would be like. He had it. And he kissed her like he planned to keep it. And for a moment, there was no war. No countdown. Just two people in a quiet tent, lips pressed like they had all the time in the world.

From the far end of the tent, a soft voice floated through the partitioned flap. “…Dusty buns. Wake up.”

Susie.

Eddie and Ursula froze, heads turning at the same time.

And then: “Mmmm… good morning, my beautiful Susie-poo…” Dustin’s voice was thick with sleep and sunshine.

Susie giggled—a breathless, giddy sound that could light a Christmas tree on its own.

Eddie and Ursula turned back to each other with twin expressions of awe.

“Duuuude,” Ursula whispered, eyes shining. “My tiny little parents are so fucking cute.”

“Disgustingly cute,” Eddie murmured. 

They basked in it for a second. Until—A distinctly wet smooch. Followed by another. And another. The unmistakable sound of extended, squelchy teenage makeout. Their faces froze.

Ursula’s eye twitched. Her jaw locked. “Ewww for fucks sakes,” she whispered, horror dawning.

Eddie blinked and broke out into a wicked teasing grin. “Oh shit…”

“Fuck my life…I can hear my parents making out,” Ursula hissed, face contorting. “Dude… this is grosstusting. I think I’m gonna—” She broke into a series of loud retching noises, full body gagging, one hand over her mouth, the other waving dramatically like she was exorcising demons.

A few sleepy giggles rippled from the girls’ bunk as Ursula’s loud, theatrical retching echoed through the tent walls.

From beneath a blanket somewhere near the back, Erica Sinclair’s voice cut through the morning haze—flat, unimpressed, and sharp as a throwing knife. “If I hear one more ghattdamn slurp,” she said, not even bothering to lift her head, “I will march over there, rip your faces apart with my bare hands, and go right back to sleep with a smile on my face like nothing happened.”

It was classic Erica Sinclair—savage, lethal, and somehow more threatening with bedhead and My Little Pony pajamas than most people were at full power.

You could still hear the frantic embarrassed giggles of Susie and Dustin as they climbed out of Dustin’s cot and headed out to the common space for the comms synch.

Ursula flopped onto her back. “This is my life.”

Eddie wheezed into the pillow. “And what a magical life it is.”

The tent was already starting to shift around them.

Muted zippers. Rustling sleeping bags. The faint creak of cots as the rest of the camp began surfacing from the depths of pre-dawn unconsciousness. Footsteps padded low against canvas floors. The hum of bodies moving through routine.

Ursula yawned and stretched, then rolled out from the covers in a tangle of limbs and sleep-tousled hair. She reached for the nearest sweatshirt—Eddie’s, obviously—and tugged it over her head before grabbing her boots and shuffling barefoot through the tent flap that led into the common area.

Eddie followed, pulling on his Iron Maiden tee and tying his curls back into a low bun as he walked.

The air in the shared space was cool and shadow-blue. Most of the overhead lanterns were still dimmed to their lowest amber setting, just enough to see. They were all in various states of pajama disarray: rumpled t-shirts, sweats, flannel pants, mismatched socks. No one glamorous. Everyone real.

Susie was already there, standing at the end of the long modular dining table with her fingers laced through Dustin’s. She had bed hair and starry eyes. Dustin was still blinking through his fog, but his grin hadn’t faded since the moment she’d kissed him awake.

On the table in front of them, a makeshift breakfast spread had been laid out like a little continental miracle. Eden and Argyle’s handiwork, clearly. There was a plate of muffins arranged like they were auditioning for a commercial—blueberry, banana nut, and a couple mystery ones that might’ve been chocolate or experimental. A bowl of hard-boiled eggs sat nestled in a dish towel for insulation. Beside it, Ursula’s stash of high-protein granola bars had been redistributed like battlefield rations, stacked next to an open box of Honey Nut Cheerios and something off-brand with a cartoon frog on the front.

But the true hero was at the far end of the table: the coffee maker. Stainless steel, plugged into a long green extension cord that snaked across the floor like a lifeline. The machine had been set to brew automatically at 5:30, and right on cue, it had delivered. The carafe was already half full, steam rising in gentle curls. The smell alone was enough to make it feel like maybe—just maybe—they wouldn’t all die today.

Ursula blinked at it with reverence. “Bless Eden,” she muttered. “Bless Argyle. Bless programmable timers and caffeine chemistry.”

Mike trudged in next, sweatshirt backwards, hair sticking up like a cartoon rooster. He mumbled something unintelligible that might have been “morning” and collapsed into one of the folding camp chairs.

Will followed, less bleary but no more verbal, and silently handed Mike a protein bar without a word.

Across the common room, Nancy ducked out from the left side bunk section, wrapped in a blanket with one corner still dragging. She looked about as enthusiastic as a vampire with jet lag. Behind her, Steve emerged from his own cot—single, plush, isolated in his corner like he’d specifically requested the “divorced dad in a furniture catalog” package. His hair was already styled. Somehow. Bastard.

Ursula squinted at him. “Did you seriously do your hair before putting on pants?”

Steve shrugged, totally unapologetic. “I mean… yeah. But to be fair, I look way more ready for the day than these slackers.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

“Wow,” Ursula said, blinking at the crew now half-asleep and half-dressed around her. “Look at this elite tactical strike team. Truly the pinnacle of morning readiness and tactical effectiveness.”

“Bite me,” Nancy muttered.

“I just might,” Ursula replied sweetly, already heading for the supply crates.

Eddie snorted and sat down at the table, watching her move. She was barefoot, hoodie too big, legs bare, sleep still clinging to her eyes—but even now, even like this, she moved like something with gravity. Like someone who knew this was the last calm they were going to get. She unlatched the weapons crate with a soft click and started pulling gear—fatigues, belts, pre-assigned weapons bags.

Showtime was coming. But not just yet. Right now? They had five more minutes of soft light. Pajamas. Quiet.

The first cup of coffee hit like divine intervention.

It was hot, dark, and strong enough to wake the dead—which, honestly, felt appropriate considering the week they were having. Eddie handed Ursula a steaming mug, and she took it like a benediction, cradling it in both hands, eyes half-lidded in sleepy reverence.

Then she grabbed a muffin off the tray—blueberry, topped with a crumble—and took a massive bite. “Mother fuck,” she said around a mouthful, eyes widening. “That’s a good ass muffin.”

Eddie barked a laugh.

Still chewing, she pointed vaguely toward the gear case in the corner. “Okay. Sunrise team, let’s gear up.”

She crossed the tent barefoot, hauling open the black tactical case like a general unveiling war plans. Inside were four neatly pre-bagged bundles—compressed and labeled, each one holding a full change of fatigues, boots, and mission kit. She tossed one each to Eddie, Steve, and Nancy, keeping the last for herself.

Each bundle unfurled with a soft hiss of shifting fabric, revealing a striking camouflage pattern in deep turquoise and cool blue, overlaid with jagged, irregular blots of red. The fatigues looked like something engineered for alien terrain—digitized chaos in ocean and ember, every shade built to vanish against the right kind of hell. The fabric was heavy but flexible, and slightly matte—treated for low visibility and infrared dispersion.

Steve held up the folded fatigues from his bundle, brow cocked. “Okay but seriously—how did I end up getting grief for my hair when you matched all our recon outfits to your hair?”

Ursula didn’t even look up from sorting the gear into piles. “I didn’t match the camo custom designed by CIA scientists to my hair, dingus. I matched my hair to the camo.”

Nancy paused mid-pour at the coffee station. “Wait—that’s why your hair is that color?”

Ursula shrugged as she passed out socks. “I mean, yeah. Turquoise has always been my favorite color, but when I got stuck in the upside down, it just—worked. I was already dyed this color when I did my whole year of “survival camp” over there. And it blended. Way better than I thought it would. Like weirdly well. Between that and my shadow step, I’m pretty much invisible over there. So… I kept it.”

Eddie stiffened. His hand faltered over the boot lace he’d been threading. His stomach dropped a little. Her hair—this exact luminous ocean turquoise he’d loved from the second he saw her—wasn’t just… her?

She glanced at Nancy. “Honestly? If it hadn’t been the best camouflage ever over there, I probably would’ve gone for something a little less ‘hi I’m a teenage delinquent’ before showing up in 1986. But it keeps me hidden. So it stayed.”

Dustin, already half into his comms station setup, looked up. “Well, I love it no matter what the reason is.”

Ursula grinned. “Thanks, dad. I used to think about all the crazy colors I was gonna dye it once this whole mission was over. Like full mermaid punk rock madness. But it’s kinda been my thing for so long now… it feels like me. My signature color, you know? And I love it this color. I don’t think I’ll change it.”

Eddie, Lacing the last eyelets on his boots, looked down at the new leather. The laces tightened, so did something in his chest. Relief, sure—but it tangled with a weird kind of anger. That the thing he loved about her, something that had always seemed like boldness and art and defiance, had started out as necessity. As hiding. As survival.

It didn’t change how much he loved it. But now he had to carry that piece of it too.

The other items were standard, but deadly serious: a compression tank top spun from fireproof fabric, thick waterproof socks, bullet-proof Kevlar vests, and a pair of high combat boots—deep tread, paracord laces, the kind of gear that wouldn’t fail you when failure meant death.

One by one, the sunrise recon team took their respective bundles and peeled off into separate corners of the tent to change. There was a quiet rustle of zippers, the thunk of boots hitting floorboards, the low shuffle of people gearing up for war while still not entirely awake.

When they reemerged, Ursula didn’t wait. She stepped forward with military precision, eyes sharp as she looked each of them over. “Pants tucked into socks,” she barked.

There was a pause. Nancy blinked. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t,” Ursula said calmly, “you run the risk of bloomtail parasites crawling up your leg, laying eggs under your skin, and having the larvae eat their way back out.”

The color drained from Steve’s face. “What?”

“Necrophagous rodents,” Ursula said. “And they’re gross. So just—tuck and seal. No gaps.”

The team scrambled to comply, suddenly very interested in making sure their socks were fortress-level secure.

Eddie adjusted the cuff at his ankle, eyebrows raised. “Is this something we should’ve been warned about sooner?”

Ursula shrugged. “I promise I’ll give you all the full Upsidedown Monster Manual when we’re back. For now? This is just standard precautionary protocol.”

“Wait—so they’re close to where we’ll be?” Nancy asked, eyes wide.

“No,” Ursula said. “They don’t usually hang near portals. Most of the critters are scared of them. No worries though. We’re not going that far in this time. Just stay geared, stay sharp, and don’t freak out. You’re good.” She said it evenly, with a practiced kind of calm. Like this was just another morning in the field.

Ursula snapped open the long black weapons case like she’d done it a thousand times. Maybe she had. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t even glance at a checklist—just reached in and started moving with field-surgeon precision.

“Munson,” she said, fishing out the heaviest of the lineup and holding it across her forearms. “This one’s yours.”

Eddie stepped up and blinked. “Holy shit.” He took it from her reverently. “This is—wait, is this the—?”

“Barrett M82,” Ursula confirmed, locking eyes with him. “.50 caliber. Semi-auto. Sniper-ready but mobile. It kicks harder than you’ll expect, so… expect it.”

He nearly cradled the thing like a newborn. “This is a tank killer.”

“And now it’s yours,” Ursula said flatly, handing him a box of .50 BMG bullets. “Don’t treat it like a guitar.”

Eddie’s mouth twitched, but he nodded.

Next she hauled out something shorter, chunkier. Passed it to Steve stock-first. “This one’s a Beretta 1301.”

He caught it one-handed, then brought it up to eye level. “Twelve gauge?”

“Fast cycle, tight spread, built for speed,” Ursula said. “Perfect for somebody who doesn’t know how to shut up,” she said as she slapped an unopened box of 12 gauge buckshot shells into his hand.

Steve smirked. “So it’s loud. Like me.”

“Exactly like you,” she said dryly.

She bent and reached for a third, sleeker weapon wrapped in soft black foam. “Wheeler.”

Nancy stepped forward, expression cool and unreadable.

Ursula handed her the shotgun with care. “Panzer M4. Semi-auto, fast recoil recovery. You’re good with your hands, and this one’s a treat.”

Nancy tested the weight of it, nodded once. “Looks clean.”

“Is clean,” Ursula said, handing her two boxes of 12 gauge shells, one straight three inch slugs, and the other buckshot. “I field-stripped it myself.”

She slung her own weapon last—an M4 Carbine already fitted with a short tactical scope and vertical grip. She slung an ammo belt already loaded with .223. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Next came the sidearms.

Ursula grabbed the largest handgun in the case and slapped it solidly into Eddie’s palm. “Desert Eagle,” she said. “.50 AE. Shares bullets with your Barret. It’s a fucking big boy. Kicks like hell. Don’t fire it unless you have to. And if you do—”

“I don’t miss,” Eddie said, then hesitated. “Well, I don’t plan to.”

She ignored that and turned to Steve, tossing him a polymer-framed Glock with a no-nonsense motion, followed by a box of Winchester hollow point 9 millimeter rounds. “Seventeen rounds. Reliable under pressure. Use it like a backup, not a crutch.”

Steve flipped it once in his hand, then nodded. “Feels good.”

Nancy’s Sig Sauer was handed over with a smaller holster, sleek and polished, and a second box of 9 millimeter hollow points. “Nine mil. Low recoil. You’ll shoot straight, I trust.”

Nancy clipped it onto her hip. “Always do.”

Finally, Ursula reached for the last two. She slid one Colt Commander into the holster at her hip and clipped the other to the leather thigh strap already snug around her right leg.

Then she cracked open the box of .45 jacketed hollowpoints and pulled a mag from her vest.

She didn’t sit. She didn’t pause. She didn’t even glance down. One by one, her fingers worked the rounds into the magazine with mechanical precision—clean, confident movements that made no effort to show off. Just muscle memory, cold and steady.

The seconds stacked into a little over a minute, then she popped the finished mag into the holder on her vest and grabbed the next.

Steve was the first to notice. “She’s not even looking,” he muttered, eyes tracking the hypnotic rhythm of her hands.

Nancy leaned forward, eyebrows drawn.

Eddie just watched—quiet, wide-eyed, like he was seeing something sacred. Or terrifying.

Another magazine done. Another minute. Another mag holstered. By the time the third one was seated, the silence had stretched so taut you could’ve cut it with a bayonet. How many bullets had she had to load in her life to be able to do it like that? None of them asked. But they all knew the answer wasn’t zero. 

Ursula didn’t pause. She crouched beside the gear crate again and reached in with practiced ease, pulling out the first set of weapons meant for secondary defense.

“Eddie,” she said, holding up a matched set of blades. She handed them off hilt-first—two Condor Makara machetes, matte black, eighteen-inch blades with paracord-wrapped handles, the ones he’d trained with. “Glad these made it through the demogorgon raid.”

Eddie blinked and took them gently, almost reverently. “Holy shit,” he said under his breath. “I thought they were gone.”

“Nope,” she said. “I think Lucas found them in the construction pile.”

He weighed them in his hands for half a second, like confirming they were real. Then, with a flick of each wrist, gave the blades a clean, practiced slice through the air—left, then right—before sliding them into their sheaths and snapping them into place on his utility belt, one at each hip.

Next, she reached in and pulled out a worn wooden bat, the end spiked with railroad nails. Steve didn’t need an introduction. “Your old friend,” she said, handing it over.

Steve let out a short huff and nodded, giving it a lazy spin in his grip. “Well hey there, gorgeous.”

She turned, grabbing one of two identical flashlights—sleek, heavy-duty, with black polymer grips and chrome switch plates. She placed one in Nancy’s hands and kept the other for herself.

“Stun guns. High-voltage, rechargeable. Flashlight’s fully functional. Just don’t get trigger happy, it takes a full two minutes to recharge.”

Nancy’s eyebrows lifted. “This thing’s basically a mini cattle prod.”

“Yeah,” Ursula said. “Try not to zap yourself, that thing does three-hundred-thousand volts.”

Next came the comms: first the black rubberized tracker bracelets, one placed at each person’s pile; then the wired earpiece headsets with low-profile mouthpieces; backup walkies laid gently beside each stack.

Ursula kept moving. A body cam the size of a Zippo lighter. A jailbroken iPhone from her kit—dark screen, modified casing. She handed it all out, item by item. Smoke bombs. Coil of climbing rope. A hunting knife with a serrated edge that looked like it had seen real shit. A compact butane torch and a squeeze bottle of accelerant. Each of them—Nancy, Steve, Eddie—got an identical loadout. A matched kit.

Tools of survival, laid out like cutlery before war. She didn’t slow down. Just kept creating the piles—gear, gear, more gear.

Last came the grenades. Three total for each. She didn’t need to explain what they were.

Everyone stared.

“I know,” she said dryly. “Don’t worry. We’re not touching anything yet. Most of this stuff is in the ‘better to have it and not need it’ category. Just caffeinate and load your ammo up.” She nodded toward the thermos and half-empty tray of protein bars like they were weapons too.

“I’m gonna walk the comms team through setup real quick. You’ll each get a full rundown before we move out. Just hold tight and don’t poke anything sharp.”

She straightened, dusting her palms off on the thighs of her fatigues, eyes sweeping the line of gear-stunned faces now seated around the table. Machetes. Bats. Blades. Bombs. All set neatly in front of them like breakfast trays for the end of the world.

“Cool,” she said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She pivoted toward the small folding table loaded with tech gear and gave a sharp nod. “Mom. Dad. Mike. Let’s light it up.”

Suzie snapped to with cheerful efficiency, already flipping open the main case and booting the tablet. Dustin followed with a grunt, still scowling at the early hour but moving through the motions with muscle memory. Mike trailed them both, sweatshirt still half-zipped but now at least turned the correct direction, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he dropped into his seat and started toggling comm channels.

Within seconds, the four of them were synced. Cameras powered on. Green lights blinked to life across the board.

Ursula picked up the matte black tracking bracelet from her pile and held it up for the others to see. “This is your wireless tracker,” she said. She popped the clasp open and fastened it around her wrist with a practiced flick. “Watch me, then we’ll get you synced one at a time.”

Eddie, Steve, and Nancy pulled their own from their gear piles.

“Okay Mike, see the blue button on the main screen—top right corner? Looks kinda like a Viking rune?”

Mike squinted at the interface. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Cool. Make it discoverable,” she instructed.

His face blanked.

Right. 1986. Be kind, rewind. Ursula cleared her throat. “Mouse over to the icon.”

He obeyed. “Okay…”

“Now right-click,” she said patiently.

A small square opened. “There’s a thing now that says ‘make discoverable,’” Mike said.

“Perfect. Now left-click it,” she said.

Another box appeared with names listed. “Left-click your name?” Mike asked.

“Yup. See? This shit’s easy.” Ursula grinned.

Mike clicked, and the connection locked in. “Now click the active window—the one with the turquoise circle.” Ursula began a slow circuit around the space. On the monitor, the turquoise dot tracked her steps, accompanied by a scrolling readout of latitude and longitude.

“See?” she said. “That’s me. Now I’m tracked.”

Everyone leaned in. Steve let out a low whistle. Nancy tilted her head, watching the screen with narrowed eyes. But it was Susie and Dustin—who actually understood how advanced this tech was—who looked like they were seeing magic. Susie’s eyes widened, her fingers twitching over the controls like she couldn’t wait to get under the hood. Dustin grinned, practically bouncing.

“Okay,” Ursula continued. “With this, no one gets lost unless something eats your fucking hand off. If you get separated, hide. Not in the woods. The woods will eat you. Hide in a house. We will find you.”

She held their attention, her voice hard and clear. “This thing isn’t coming off your body until we are back here at comms. Understood?”

Before anyone could ask what happens if it falls off and gets lost, Ursula moved. She paused beside Eddie, reaching into her kit and pulling out a small flathead screwdriver. Then she lifted her wrist and held it out, showing the clasp. Without a word, she passed him the tool.

Eddie took it, immediately understanding. Of course it screwed on.

He slid the flathead into the tiny lock beside the band’s hinge and twisted. The mechanism clicked, sealing the bracelet tight around her wrist like a prison cuff.

“Thanks, love,” she murmured, just loud enough for Eddie to hear. Her voice softened for half a second—just enough to remind him she was still in there, somewhere beneath the steel. Then she straightened. “Okay. Your turn.”

Dustin was already hovering, hands half-raised like a pit crew mechanic about to tag in. Eddie offered his wrist, and Dustin guided him through the same syncing sequence—click here, highlight there, watch for the red light to blink three times and hold. Simple, once you knew the moves. Ursula didn’t hover, didn’t babysit. She just crouched and began screwing his comms tracker into place, each twist of the screwdriver locking it down tighter.

Nancy was next.

She moved in with a soldier’s grace, syncing her tracker with a few short clicks, adjusting her headset as the signal locked in. And as Dustin confirmed her connection, Ursula leaned close to Eddie again, breath brushing warm against the curve of his neck. Her lips didn’t move much.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered, the words quiet and quick like a battlefield secret.

And damn if he didn’t sit up a little straighter, that flash of reassurance burning like a flare in the dark.

Suzie tapped through a series of menus and brought up a map. The screen lit up with a flickering topography—grayscale render of the Upside Down’s terrain. Blinking markers showed four tiny indicators already pulsing in place. “Tracker reads good,” she confirmed. “All four linked and mapped. This is so cool.”

Dustin glanced over his shoulder at the field team. “Alright nerds, line up. You’re getting fitted with body cams.”

Eddie grumbled but stood first. Steve and Nancy fell in behind him like soldiers at roll call.

Ursula oversaw everything with crisp precision, moving through the checklist like she’d run it a hundred times before. “Cam on the left strap. Mic channel three. Backup walkie on your right hip—loop the cord twice, it tangles if you don’t.”

When all four were locked in, the monitors bloomed—four crisp windows, each one a live feed from the body cams clipped to Ursula’s hand-picked recon team. The mission was ready. The countdown had begun.

“Visuals are super clean,” Mike muttered, checking focus on each lens. “This is insane, Urs. Minimal delay to like under a millisecond. Like, nothing’s buffering, the picture is sharp as shit…  Signal’s holding steady.”

Each team member was checked and cleared one by one—gear tested, connections synced, frequencies locked. Headsets were adjusted, shoulder clips tightened, and the buzz of low voices faded into a purposeful quiet. No one said it out loud, but it felt real now. Mission mode. And Ursula was running point.

She stood at the center of the tent like a command tower in combat boots, her eyes sweeping over the squad. “Primary comms happen on the headset,” she said. “We do not use the walkies unless it’s a backup situation. They’re too noisy. Being quiet over there is best practice at all times. Understood?”

Four nods. No questions.

“Ok. Next. Arms check,” Ursula ordered, clapping her hands once, sharp and commanding. “Top to bottom. Let’s move.”

Each team member immediately reached for their primary, the motion practiced now, though none of them had done it under her direct scrutiny until this morning. The tent felt tighter with the weight of it—steel and protocol settling over them like armor.

Ursula turned toward Eddie and pointed the end of her pen at him without a word.

He responded instantly. The Barrett came up in his hands, heavy and familiar. He ejected the magazine with a clean snap, eyes sweeping the chamber before sliding it back in and locking it with a solid click. One round chambered. Safety on. His hands didn’t tremble. He gave a tight nod, eyes still fixed forward.

“Okay, good,” Ursula said, shifting her stance. Her eyes moved next to Steve. “Harrington. Make me proud.”

Steve pulled up the shotgun and worked it with a short pump and a practiced twist. The chamber popped open—he counted the shells with a glance, checked for a clear path, and closed it up. One hand moved to the safety. Thumb down. Secured.

Nancy didn’t wait for prompt. She had already stepped into motion, flipping the side latch on the Panzer with deft fingers. Chamber check. Load. Lock. The click was precise. Her finger brushed the safety like it was second nature.

Steve let out a quiet, amused breath. “Showoff,” he muttered, half to himself.

Then Ursula moved. Her AR came up in one hand, already shouldered. She racked it and chambered a round with a motion so fluid it might have been muscle memory from another life. Safety clicked into place with a soft tap of her thumb. She gave a single, silent nod. No flourish. Just readiness.

“Ok, present those sidearms,” she ordered, scanning their hands, their fingers, their eyes.

Holsters clicked.

Eddie drew the Desert Eagle. He flicked the slide, checked the magazine, loaded one into the chamber, safety on. His hand returned it to his thigh like he’d done it a thousand times.

Ursula didn’t react. Not outwardly. But somewhere in the static of her lizard brain, the motion filed itself under spank bank, priority folder.

Steve’s Glock 17 was up and ready, rechecked, loaded, safety toggled and holstered.

Nancy’s SIG came out and disappeared again before anyone could blink.

Ursula’s own draw was twin-fast—Colt Commanders from hip and thigh. Her thumbs moved in unison as she locked the slides, chambered both rounds, flipped the safeties, and reholstered without breaking stride.

“Three grenades,” she said, nodding to the belt pouches. “Keep them snug. No swinging. And I swear to god—if anyone pulls one just because you panic, I’ll kill you myself.”

The team didn’t laugh. They just checked their belts.

“Melee weapons?” Ursula prompted, voice sharp but even as she scanned the gear laid out in front of them.

Eddie reached for the machetes—his machetes. The ones she gave him during training week, the ones he thought he’d lost in the demo raid. His fingers closed around the grips and his shoulders loosened half an inch.

Steve’s fingers flexed around the familiar weight of the nail bat. Nancy adjusted the stun gun at her hip. Ursula tapped her own matching unit.

She took one final look at the table—empty now except for the thermos of coffee and a few remaining protein bars—and straightened.

[she turned then to Will who had been quietly watching the madness unfold and asked him if he was ready 

Behind them, Will’s voice—Clear, steady. Focused, as the ghost ring of psionic energy bloomed from Will's neck and spread. Will's eyes closed but moving rapidly under his lids. “Zoso’s stable,” he said. “He’s locked in. No movement from Vecna. Hive’s still asleep.”

Ursula didn’t turn around. She just nodded once, gaze fixed forward. “Copy that,” she said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She exhaled once through her nose, then took a measured step forward—boots hitting the canvas floor with deliberate weight. The gear around them had been checked. Loaded. Accounted for. Coffee mugs still steamed. But the softness was gone now. It had drained out of her the second she stood up.

What remained was steel.

“Alright,” she said, turning on her heel to face the table. “Final briefing.”

The room straightened on instinct. No one spoke. This was ignition. 

Ursula paced—slow and precise, eyes sharp, her fatigue jacket swinging open with each turn. There was a hum around her, static off tension, like the air itself understood the shift. “Listen up,” she said. “From the moment we step outside this tent, I am not your friend. I am not your daughter. I am not your girlfriend. I am your mission commander. And during this operation, my word is law. My command is absolute.”

Her eyes flicked to each of them. One beat each. Hard contact. No room for confusion.

“There is no free choice on this mission. There is no interpretation of orders. There is no second-guessing. If that’s a problem now—or if you even think it might become a problem—you will be relieved of duty immediately. Permanently. No arguments. No second chances.”

Silence.

“If you follow my rules,” she continued, voice unwavering, “we will come home. We will come home with all four of us breathing and intact, in time for breakfast and showers and playing with guns instead of depending on them. That is not optimism. That is logistics.”

She stopped pacing and stood at the head of the table, eyes locked onto the recon team. 

“Wheeler?” Ursula’s tone was sharp, unflinching, all command.

Nancy nodded once, firm. “Understood.”

“Harrington?” Ursula didn’t blink.

Steve sat up straighter. “Got it. I’m in.”

Her eyes landed last on Eddie. He gave a little salute. “Roger that, General.”

Ursula narrowed her gaze. “You agree to follow every command I give. No improvisation. No theatrics. No martyr bullshit.”

“I agree,” Eddie said, trying for light but not quite landing it.

She didn’t blink. “Again.”

“I’ll be a good boy,” he quipped, aiming for charm.

“There’s no boys allowed on this mission,” Ursula said coldly. “Only soldiers who follow the rules.”

There was no smile. No warmth. No room for anything but obedience. Fuck. She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t anyone’s anything. She was the commander. And this was life or death.

The smirk dropped. Eddie sat forward, more sober now. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ursula held his eyes for one last beat, then moved to grab her pack. “Lock it in, soldier.”

And he did. “I trust you,” Eddie said. “I’ll follow your lead.”

She didn’t acknowledge the sentiment. Just gave a curt nod, clipped and military. “Good.” She turned on her heel. “Okay, team. Eyes on me.”

Seven pairs of eyes lifted. No hesitation. No sarcasm. They were locked in. She had become their general—fully, completely. The softness was gone. In its place: command. Discipline. Precision. She didn’t ask for authority. She owned it. Earned it. She was strong. Terrifying. And absolutely lethal.

“The plan is as follows,” she said, voice level and exact. “We’ll begin by checking the portal at Fred Benson’s murder site. Determine if it’s still open and active. If it is, it will be locked down on both sides.”

She paced slowly in front of the table.

“Security surveillance cameras will be deployed on both sides of the rift—one here, one on the Inverted side.”

She gave them a second to absorb.

“A perimeter will be set in the Upside Down using PAG-7—pyroclastic gel. Twenty-meter radius minimum. That should prevent any IR-01 anomalies from crossing into the primary realm, or from coming within strike distance of the portal.”

Another pause.

She turned and paced the other direction. “We test the perimeter by tossing a rock through from the right side of the rift. Watch for it to explode when the gel sprays, and we’re good to go.”

She stopped pacing. “On the primary side, we set up a visual barrier. FBI tape, camouflage netting. A warning sign will be posted: Trespassers will trigger bear spray release. Area under surveillance.”

She scanned the team again. “We test the sprayer from inside the truck before we leave the site. No exceptions.”

Her eyes didn’t blink. Her posture didn’t budge.

“When Benson’s site is secured and covered for surveillance,” she continued, voice crisp and unwavering, “we’ll move to the forest gate site and follow the same protocol.”

No one spoke. No one shifted. Just nods. Silent understanding.

“After that, we begin recon at the Creel house. That’s when Will’s communication becomes imperative. If the coast is clear—if there’s no movement from the hive—we proceed.”

Her gaze flicked to Will, and he gave a single nod, jaw tight.

“A security perimeter will be established on our side of the Creel house grounds. Once it’s up, I’ll plant as much of the thermite as I can using—” she paused for the briefest second, “—my Polly Pocket portal power.”

The corners of her mouth twitched and she made brief eye contact with Eddie. The first and only joke of the debrief. It passed as fast as it came.

From the other end of the table, Susie tilted her head. “What do you mean by Polly Pocket portal?”

Ursula didn’t sigh. Didn’t pause. Just turned toward the comms table with that same military efficiency. “It’s a small-scale breach,” she said. “I can open a tiny portal—like, dinner-plate-sized—between the realms. They only stay open for a minute, two tops. Just enough time for me to reach across.”

“That’s it?” Nancy asked. “You just… reach through?”

“Yeah. Just my hand,” Ursula replied. “But it’ll let us plant the payload without anyone having to step through and risk alerting the hive.”

The table fell quiet.

Steve blinked. “Okay but… you can open portals? How is this the first we’re hearing about this?”

“Yeah,” Dustin added, eyes narrowed. “Seems like kind of a major thing to leave off the dossier.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. “Think about it, it’s the kind of thing the lab would’ve turned into a weapon.”

His tone had changed—lower, harder. He leaned forward, eyes locked on Steve, then Dustin, then Nancy. “She kept it a secret because she had to. Because people in power would have made her use it for something she didn’t want. The fact that she’s telling you now?” He looked back at Ursula, then back to the others. “It means she trusts you with her life.”

Ursula gave a single, sharp nod. “Exactly.”

A beat passed. And something unsaid shifted in the air. They all noticed it—even if no one said it outright. That Eddie had already known. That she’d told him. Not anyone else. Not even her parents.

Just him.

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

Dustin finally cleared his throat. “Okay but like… can we see it?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “Can you show us? Just a little one?”

Ursula shook her head. “No.”

Dustin looked deflated. “No?”

“It takes a lot out of me,” she said. “And I can’t waste the energy just to prove it to you ahead of time.”

She met each of their eyes in turn. “You’ll see it when we get to the Creel house.”

The moment settled. Then the machine of mission prep kicked back into motion. Final checks were run. Weapons confirmed. Body cams synced. Sidearms and primary arms double-checked. The thermite payload—sealed, marked, volatile—was loaded into the back of Black Betty alongside the reinforced cases containing surveillance gear. Cameras, tripods, extension lines, metal scaffolding spikes for surveillance device mounting, motion sensors, power sources, and a massive sledgehammer with a wooden side and a rubber side, all prepacked and strapped down.

Ursula handed out spare truck keys to Steve, Nancy, and Eddie, each of them tucking theirs into a side pouch or zipped interior pocket without question.

Then she crossed back to the table, backpack half-zipped, and started scavenging the leftovers like a raccoon preparing for apocalypse.

The last of the protein bars—gone. The handful of remaining fun-sized candy bars—swept. The thermos, still radiating warmth, was snapped closed and shoved into the side mesh. She grabbed another of the blueberry miracle muffins, the kind that tasted like god had personally blessed the batter, and held on to it to eat on the road, and then whistled to Bahamutt who obediently came to her side. 

Then she turned. Will. Mike. Her mom. Her dad. The quiet backbone of the mission.

She didn’t make a speech. She didn’t smile. But the voice that came out of her didn’t belong to the general anymore. “I love you guys,” she said.

And they all said it back without hesitation. Even Mike. Even Will.

“We love you, Urs.”

Because with days like this—days wrapped in thermite, blades, and coffee—you never really knew if this was the last time you’d get the words out.

So you did.

And then the recon team loaded into Black Betty.

And then they were gone.

Chapter Text

Black Betty growled through the pre-dawn quiet of Forest Hills, her tires eating gravel like it owed her money. Matte black and mean as hell, the truck looked like a shadow with wheels—a full crew cab beast of a ‘73 Chevy K10, refitted with tech far too advanced for 1986 and humming with restrained power. A rhinestone-studded ram skull glared out from the front grill like a cursed talisman, and a tattered pirate flag whipped at the antennae, snapping in the wind as the road narrowed toward the woods.

Ursula had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly over the gearshift, eyes fixed on the stretch of two-lane blacktop winding into the trees. She was silent. Focused. Eyes like a sniper’s—calm, cold, calculating. Even her breathing was strategic.

Eddie sat shotgun.

And god, he hated every second of it.

Not because of the mission. Not because they were on their way to the literal site of a supernatural murder. Not even because they were preparing to breach a gate into a hell-dimension.

No, he hated it because she was untouchable.

She’d told him—told all of them—back at the tent: once she stepped out, she wasn’t Ursula the friend or daughter or girlfriend anymore. She was the general.

And she meant it. Every movement now was precise. Military. Controlled. No softness. No warmth. No fingers laced through his. She wasn’t cold, exactly. Just… distant. A blade sheathed at the hip.

But Eddie wasn’t coping nearly as well. He kept glancing sideways at her, every few miles, hoping she’d soften for just one second. Maybe offer a smile. A brush of her pinkie against his.

Not because he thought she needed it. No—she didn’t need anything.

He did.

He needed it.

Needed to pretend, just for one second, that the war hadn’t already started.

But she never broke.

Bahamutt was wedged beside him—barely fitting in the passenger side footwell, paws braced, shoulder pressed tight against Eddie’s leg. The sleek brown beast sat alert, leathery brown nose twitching, snuffling the air with a low huff like he could already smell the Upside Down bleeding through the trees. His breath fogged the window. His tail thudded once, low and heavy, against the leather seat.

In the backseat, Steve and Nancy were silent too—hands intertwined between them, hidden in the shadow space just behind the driver’s seat. Nancy’s thumb traced absent circles over Steve’s knuckles. It was a quiet kind of defiance. A secret softness they let themselves keep for just a few more minutes. Because Ursula couldn’t see. Because she wouldn’t allow it if she could.

Because once they arrived, the moment would be over.

Recon had officially begun.

And nothing soft survived recon.

The hum of Black Betty’s engine filled the quiet between her words—low, steady, like the growl of something alive. The road narrowed again, canopy thickening overhead, tree limbs clawing at the edges of the windshield like bony fingers. They were close now. You could feel it. The air was starting to change.

“Okay, guys. When we get to the portal, here’s the sequence.”

Ursula adjusted her grip on the wheel, eyes still fixed forward, voice even but sharp as a scalpel.

“First,” she continued, “we check in with comms while observing the site for threats. Eyes up. Heads on a swivel. Steve, you’re on line with Mike. Nancy, sync with Susie. Eddie, you’ve got my dad.”

Eddie nodded once, jaw tight. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

“Second, we check with Will. He’ll talk to Zoso, make sure the portal isn’t leaking any threat signatures. If we’re clear, I’ll give the go. We exit in formation. Weapons hot. Phase One.”

Her voice didn’t waver. Not even a breath.

“Nancy is my second. You flank me—no more than five feet off my right shoulder.”

He said nothing. Just stared ahead like the words hadn’t cut. Even if his brain understood—of course it was Nancy. Ursula had run real missions with future Nancy. And even here, even now, Nancy was sharp, disciplined, steady under fire. It made sense. It was the smart call.

But it still felt like shit.

Like being the general meant they weren’t partners anymore. Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something in him twitched.

It was a flicker. A shift behind the eyes. Subtle enough that even he didn’t notice at first. But Nancy did. Her gaze flicked to him in the rearview mirror—sharp, quick. She saw the flinch. The weight behind it.

Ursula didn’t pause.

“Eddie. Steve. You’re the portal flank. Steve, take the back corner. Keep visual with me and Nancy. Eddie, you’re on front. I want your eyes on anything that tries to breach. You see it move, you call it in. Got it?”

Eddie gave a small nod. “Got it.”

“Once you’re stationed and can give me a mutual clear, I’ll do the walk around to give B the route parameters. Nancy, you’re covering me during the loop. Eyes on me. Back to back coverage.”

From the passenger seat, Bahamutt let out a low chuff and pressed harder against Eddie’s leg, as if he knew what was coming. As if the muscle under that ribbed coat of his was already coiled, waiting to move.

“Once B knows the patrol loop,” Ursula went on, “he’ll start circling. One steady pace. Keep him in your peripheral at all times. He’ll bark if anything’s coming, but if he breaks cadence? That’s a tell. That second could save our lives.”

Black Betty rolled over a patch of cracked asphalt and dipped low as they hit the edge of the forest boundary. The headlights cut long swaths through the thinning mist ahead, lighting up the perimeter road like a countdown.

She lifted her chin.

“Don’t just watch the portal,” Ursula said from behind the wheel, tone sharp with authority. “Stay aware of the surroundings. We don’t know if there’s anything hanging around in the treeline that came through before we got there.”

Her voice cut through the hum of tires on gravel.

“It helps to set up a count. Watch the portal for a count of five, scan the outer limit for five. Portal, woods, portal, woods, portal, woods. Then give the clear over comms on the thirty mark. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve answered quickly from the back seat.

Eddie was already picturing it—five-counts, alternating visuals, a rhythm pattern. That’s how his brain worked. Always had. Quiet cadences looping under the noise. He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking toward her.

“So,” he asked, casual but precise, “want me to offset my count from Steve’s? So we’re not calling clear at the same time?”

For just half a second, Ursula’s mask slipped. She gave him a warm, grateful smile—brief, quiet, and aimed just for him.

And it held him better than her hand could have in that moment.

“Smart,” she said, snapping right back into command. “That would be perfect. Pick up the offset based on Harrington’s first clear call. You’ve got the advanced rhythm skills.”

Eddie’s body unclenched. The tension in his chest loosened like a valve. He reached down and gave Bahamutt a scratch behind the ears, fingers threading into soft fur.

It was the closest thing to comfort he was going to get today. And it would have to be enough. 

Ursula didn’t pause. Her tone stayed level, clipped and certain, cutting clean through the truck’s steady growl. “Once we’ve secured the area,” she said, “I’m gonna set up the surveillance proximity alarm and rig the dinomist.”

From the back seat, Steve leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “That’s the pepper spray for dinosaurs, right?”

“Right,” Ursula confirmed. “I won’t activate it until we go through to the other side. That’ll keep anything from following us back. And my mom can disarm it remotely before we return.”

Nancy frowned. “How?”

Ursula didn’t flinch. “Don’t worry about that now. It works. That’s all you need to focus on.”

There was a pause. Tires hummed beneath them, the forest creeping closer on both sides.

Eddie shifted in the passenger seat, fingers twitching against the strap of his seatbelt. “So what do we do,” he asked, “if something does come through? Or tries to ambush us from the woods?”

Ursula’s eyes stayed forward. Her hands didn’t tighten on the wheel. She was calm, steady. Her voice, when it came, was just as precise as before. “We should be clear of anything coming through during phase one. But yeah,” she said, “if we get ambushed, we need an exact strategy.”

She didn’t need to glance back. Her voice carried, commanding the entire truck.

“If B breaks cadence,” she continued, “say it on comms the second you notice, and prepare to move to me. Find the fastest, clearest route. But don’t break position unless I say it. Or unless B barks.”

Steve shifted in his seat. Nancy leaned forward slightly.

“If Bahamutt barks—or I give the signal—all three of you flank me. Nancy behind, Steve left, Eddie right.” No one interrupted. “If something comes at us,” Ursula said, “get as close to me as possible so I can push my shield out to cover you.”

She glanced at the rearview mirror, just long enough to make sure they were locked in. “Don’t shoot until I say so,” she said. “There’s no panic shots allowed. Me shooting isn’t a signal to shoot. Only my command is.”

Her eyes cut to Nancy next. “And if I’m taken out or incapacitated, Wheeler is next in the chain of command. Nancy, you’re my second. You dig?”

Nancy nodded once. “I dig.”

Steve grunted his agreement. “Got it.”

Eddie exhaled and leaned his head back. “Loud and clear.”

Ursula glanced at him sideways, caught the twist in his expression—the tension in his jaw, the flicker behind his eyes. “That’s not gonna happen though,” she said, voice steady but not unkind. “This one’s gonna go nice and smooth. We have an advanced warning system. We should be good.”

Eddie gritted his teeth and nodded. He kept his eyes forward, trying not to let his leg bounce against the floorboard. Trying not to betray how hard his pulse was hammering beneath his skin.

Ursula shifted gears.

“So. Phase two,” she said. “We breach the portal.”

Steve straightened in the back seat. Nancy leaned in closer to hear.

“We check with Will,” Ursula continued, “and once we have the green light, it’s time to go.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe wrong. Just laid it out like a blueprint she’d been perfecting for years. “I go first,” she said. “No one follows until I give the go ahead.”

Her tone darkened. Cut sharper. “No one follows me if we lose comms before I give the go ahead. No matter what. Following me in without my go ahead is fucking treason. You fucking feel me?”

Eddie looked down, jaw tight, and gave a silent nod.

Nancy’s voice was clear: “Yes.”

Steve echoed, “We feel you.”

Ursula gave a single nod. “Once I’ve confirmed it’s clear, the order is: Nancy, Eddie, Steve, Bahamutt.”

Her hands stayed tight on the wheel, eyes cutting forward through the windshield like she was already seeing through the portal.

“We follow phase one protocol again. I’m saying it again because there can be absolutely no deviation from the protocol.”

Her voice had that edge again. Not angry—just the blade of precision honed by terror and memory. The kind of tone that didn’t allow room for doubt.

“Nancy is my second. You flank me. Stay no more than five feet off my right shoulder.”

“Affirmative,” Nancy said without hesitation.

“Eddie and Steve, you’re portal flank.”

Steve leaned forward between the front seats, tone dry but alert. “Got it, boss.”

“Steve—back corner. Keep visual with me and Nancy. Eddie—front corner.”

Eddie gave a short nod, soaking in the specifics. Ursula didn’t slow.

“Eddie, don’t leave my sightline. Steve, don’t leave Nancy’s.”

She paused just long enough for the command to settle.

“You two are our lookout for anything trying to come at the portal from the area around the portal—IR side. So station up there. When you can both give me an all clear, I’ll give B the new parameters by doing a walk around again. Nancy covers me. Just like before.”

No one interrupted. No one blinked.

“Once B knows the second patrol route, he’ll start circling. He’s going to keep a steady pace—but slower over there. Don’t be wigged if he’s moving at a slower clip than he was on this side. There’s a lot of unfamiliar smells for him to parse. So, just like before, he’ll patrol while I work. Keep him in your peripheral at all times. He’ll bark if anything comes our way, but if he breaks cadence—it’s a tell. And it could be the extra second we need.”

She exhaled through her nose. Eyes still forward. All fire. “This part is ultra vigilance time, guys. There’s a lot of nasty shit over there that can come in big numbers, fast. Not just demobats. So employ all your senses. Any environmental change—smell, barometric pressure, sound shifts. Report anything off. We don’t write off anything.”

The truck fell into momentary silence as her words landed.

Then Ursula spoke again, calm but absolute. “Don’t watch the portal this time. Stay aware of the surroundings. Nothing’s coming in behind us.”

She turned the wheel hard as the forest opened wider around them, gravel crunching beneath Black Betty’s thick tires.

“I still need check-ins on the thirty marks.” Her gaze cut to the rearview mirror. “Eddie—on the downbeat. Got it?”

Eddie managed a smile. It wasn’t convincing. She clocked the fear in his eyes before he looked away. She hated it—hated seeing it on him—but she couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t offer him softness. Not now. Not when they were minutes from crossing over.

“Good,” she said flatly, eyes snapping forward again. “I’m gonna throw up the camera, proximity alarm, and the PAG-7 sprayer.”

Steve leaned slightly into the space between the seats. “That’s the fire jelly stuff, right?”

“Exactly,” Ursula confirmed. “Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes on either side if we stay uninterrupted. Most of the critters over there are scared of the portals. So most stuff stays away. It’s only when fuckface taps into the hive and sends his minions that there’s really any heat.”

“Once we’re set over there,” Ursula said, tone returning to tactical as the mist thinned outside the windshield, “we make sure my mom deactivates the Dinomist. Then we pull out—Eddie and Bahamutt first, then Steve, then Nancy, and I’m the last one through.”

She paused just long enough to glance sideways, the headlights catching the flash of her eyes.

“I’ll test the PAG-7 before we start extraction. Toss a rock or something through—”

Her lips curled into that feral, fire Genasi grin, sharp and rare. It cut quick across her face like heat lightning. “—and then you’ll finally see why we call it hellskin.”

For a split second, Eddie felt the burn of it—exhilaration at seeing the pyro show her teeth, even if only for a second. It sparked in his gut like it always did.

But in the backseat, Nancy and Steve both tightened their grip on each other’s hands. Their eyes met. No words passed between them, just the shared, silent horror of what that grin promised.

The expression vanished from Ursula’s face as fast as it had come. “Final move is the decoy. FBI tape, perimeter barrier, full federal theater,” she continued, voice all command again. “Turn on the Dino. Call my dad—make sure the cameras are online and broadcasting. Then we head out.”

Black Betty surged forward into the forest mouth, like she knew the way. Ursula kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift. Her voice cut clean through the ambient hum of tires on wet gravel. “Everyone clear?”

The chorus came—tight, clipped, unanimous. “Clear.”

“Cool,” she said, rolling her neck side to side like she was cracking it into mission mode. “Once we’re done at Benson’s, we run the exact same protocol at the forest gate. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

There was a pause.

Steve blinked, deadpan. “Yeah. Absolutely easy.”

He and Eddie locked eyes, mutual dread flashing loud and silent between them.

Ursula glanced at the rearview mirror. “Okay, Harrington. Repeat your orders.”

Steve sat up straighter. “Uh—yeah. Back corner portal flank. Once B’s in patrol, I keep Nancy in my line of sight, eyes on the dog, and alternate five-second sweeps—portal, woods, portal, woods. Comms check every thirty seconds.”

“Excellent. A-plus, Harrington,” she said without a shred of sarcasm. “Wheeler?”

Nancy answered without hesitation. “I’m your second. Right shoulder flank. Cover your six, keep visual on Steve.”

“Good,” Ursula said. “Munson?”

“I’m front flank,” Eddie replied, trying to keep his voice even. “Five count on the portal, five count on the front tree line. Sync my checks on Steve’s downbeat. No moves unless the general gives the command.”

“Perfect, she said.” The tension in the truck coiled tighter. Ursula didn’t slow it down. “What do we do if we get ambushed?”

Eddie answered before anyone else could. “We collapse into tight formation. We come to you.”

Ursula smirked. Not the kind that promised violence, just one of those rare, sharp edges that felt like steel-on-steel approval. “Rad,” she said. “See? We got this all day long.”

Her fingers tightened around the wheel as she took the turn onto Forest Hills Drive. The trees closed in around them, the morning dimming by degrees. The road ahead was slick and shadow-laced, but she drove like she’d been born to it.

No one spoke again.

Because recon had begun.

Chapter Text

They reached the site of Fred Benson’s murder just as the mist thinned enough to reveal the clearing. The portal pulsed at the center of it—wet and alive-looking, like it had lungs and a heartbeat, its light an eldritch red that shimmered against the black bark of the surrounding trees.

Ursula eased Black Betty to a stop, engine low and rumbling. She kept her eyes forward but tilted her head just enough. “Steve. Crack the back window.”

Steve reached behind him and slid the small pane open with a squeak.

Bahamutt didn’t need a command. He was already moving, snout pressed forward as he squeezed through the truck’s sliding window into the bed with practiced ease. Two paws landed on the closed tailgate, claws ticking against the metal. He sniffed once. Then again. Then sneezed—short and sharp, a reset. He needed a clean palette.

And so he worked—nose to the wind, pausing in each position like a sentinel cycling through sentry points. First the tailgate. Then over the left wheel well. A few more deep sniffs. Another sneeze. Reset. Then the front edge of the tonneau box. Then the right side wheel well. Each move precise. Each breath measured. Each sneeze deliberate, purging old data to make room for new.

Ursula kept her gaze pinned to the rearview mirror, watching B with razor focus, bracing for the moment when his cadence broke—when the sniff turned to a growl or a bark or a sharp pivot that would mean all hell was about to break loose. But there was nothing.

So far, so good.

Still, her gut was coiled tight.

Through the corner of her eye, in quick flashes of reflection from the side mirror, she caught glimpses of Steve and Nancy. The kid versions. Soft-jawed, under-armored, and still decades away from becoming the people they were supposed to be. The people they had been, in the timeline she came from.

Her heart hurt.

Steve and Nancy Harrington. Her godfather. Her second mom. Two of the most important and influential adults in her life—and right now they were nothing close to prepared. Not really. Not for what lay ahead. Not for the things that slithered and shrieked and hunted in the inverted realm. They hadn’t earned their scars yet. Hadn’t bled and trained and planned across four long decades of war.

They weren’t ready.

And this wasn’t just another scouting mission. She’d seen far more innocent interactions with the inverted realm and its menagerie of horrors devolve into tragedy than she could even count. This shit had to go off without a hitch. No improvising. No mistakes.

She was walking Nancy and Steve into a goddamn death sentence. And Eddie, too.

Her love.

Failure wasn’t on the table. Not today.

“Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird,” Ursula said, fingers flexing once around the grip of the M4 resting across her lap. “Check-in. Confirm status of surveillance feed and tracker signals.”

The response came quickly, Dustin’s voice bright and clipped over the open channel. “Copy that, Thunderbird. Systems check underway. Body cam feeds are live—visual confirmed for all four. Tracker signals are active and synced. No anomalies on network.”

“Good,” Ursula said. “Maintain watch on signal integrity. Notify if any lag or drop occurs.”

“Affirmative,” Dustin replied, voice sharp over the open channel, the ever-present background hum of Camp Hellfire’s comms rig crackling faintly behind him.

Ursula leaned slightly toward the mic pickup clipped to her vest. “Will, give me a 10-5 on Zoso,” she said, tone clipped, command-clear.

A pause stretched just a beat too long before Will responded, hesitant, “…10-5?”

“It’s a relay code,” Dustin interjected helpfully from the comms tent, the sound of typing and quiet activity in the background betraying his multitasking. “She wants you to patch through Zoso’s current status.”

“Ah. Okay,” Will said, understanding dawning in his voice. “I’m doing it now.”

The moment Will’s mind reached out across the psychic tether, the comms line crackled—sharp, sudden, metallic static bleeding across the open channel like the system had hiccupped.

Steve’s head jerked up instinctively from his post, eyes narrowing at the hiss in his ear. Nancy’s hand ghosted toward her rifle grip, brows pulled low. Even Eddie winced and scanned the woods beyond the portal.

But Ursula didn’t so much as blink. She just chuffed, quiet and dry.

Will Byers was powerful—staggeringly so—and no one but maybe El had even the faintest sense of how deep his psionic current ran. Not even Mike. Not even Jonathan. Ursula had seen it firsthand. A little psionic radio interference ain’t shit. 

“Zoso’s completed a full aerial pass,” Will’s voice came through again, slightly thinner now—spooled out across the tether. “No heat signatures. No movement. The portal zone is clear. He’s circling now—high and wide. I’ll stay tethered until you relocate.”

“10-4,” Ursula said, already pivoting back to scan the treeline again. “Mute your feed until you’ve got something. The crackle’s pulling focus.”

“Copy that,” Will confirmed, his voice fading cleanly as the link stilled.

Ursula didn’t miss a beat. “Mom, I’m gonna need you to log Eddie and Steve’s thirty-second checks once they’ve got positions.”

“Already queued,” came Susie’s voice across the open line—calm, focused, no-nonsense.

A soft shuffle behind her pulled Ursula’s gaze to the rearview. The truck window rattled as Bahamutt slid back into the cab from the bed, paws landing with careful weight on the center console. His nose brushed her jaw, and with military-grade politeness, he gave her a single, measured lick on the chin.

She exhaled slowly, not quite a smile, not quite a sigh. “Coast is clear,” she muttered to herself.

Bahamutt dropped to the seat beside her and huffed, ears forward, his breathing slow and measured. The perimeter held.

For now.

“Okay team,” Ursula said, her voice steady and commanding as she turned slightly in her seat to look at the others. “Let’s roll. This site needs everything from the truck bed labeled in yellow tape. There’s two cases—Eddie and Steve, grab one each. Left hand carry, right hand on your weapon.”

Steve gave a quick nod and opened his door, already shifting in his seat. Eddie exhaled through his nose, pulse ticking faster but fingers steady.

“Nancy, you carry nothing,” Ursula continued. “Weapon up at all times. I’ll grab the scaffolding and the sledgehammer. We get to position, drop the gear, and hold. Thirty-second checks until me and B finish the route.”

She let the plan hang for a beat in the air, let the weight of it settle on their shoulders. No room for improvisation. Not here. “Everybody clear?” she asked, scanning their faces one by one.

“Yes,” Nancy answered immediately, already shouldering her weapon.

“Yup,” Steve echoed, sliding out of the truck with a glance toward the treeline.

“Clear,” Eddie confirmed, jaw set, his voice quieter but sure.

Ursula didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just said, “Okay troops. Safety’s off. We’re going in hot.”

The sound of safeties clicking off followed—tiny, metallic chirps like baby birds waking up in a nest of loaded barrels. Clean. Sequential. Comforting, in its own brutal way.

Ursula cracked her door, eyes narrowed at the treeline, her fingers brushing the M4 slung at her side as she stepped out into the clearing. The air out here smelled like wet copper and moss rot. The portal pulsed faintly in the distance like a wound that had never scabbed.

No hesitation. She was already moving.

Ursula moved first, boots crunching soft against the pine litter as she stepped out of the cab, eyes squinted against the treeline. Shadows stretched long between the trees, and though nothing moved, the stillness felt watchful.

She didn’t speak at first—just scanned, M4 raised to a ready position, her gaze sweeping left to right. Then, over her shoulder, low and clipped, “Harrington. Munson. Go.”

Behind her, boots hit dirt. Steve peeled off toward the truck bed without hesitation, following Ursula’s earlier instruction—left hand on the gear, right hand always free, always on his weapon. Eddie mirrored the motion on the other side of the bed. Each of them grabbed one of the cases marked with thick yellow tape.

“Wheeler, up,” Ursula said without turning. She didn’t have to.

Already, Nancy was at her shoulder, Panzer up, barrel lifted, her posture low and ready. Her eyes tracked opposite of Ursula’s—covering the angles her general couldn’t see.

Ursula crouched briefly and hooked the bundled scaffolding stakes under one arm, the sledgehammer under the other. The weight was familiar. Comforting. She nodded once. “Okay. Move out.”

The four of them moved like clockwork, Ursula’s directives drilled deep. Concise. Uncomplicated. No room for guesswork. Everyone had their job. Everyone had their lane.

Still, even through the clarity of structure, she could feel the edge in them. Tension unspoken. Steve’s jaw was tight. Nancy’s breath a little faster than normal. Eddie’s grip white-knuckled around the handle of the case.

They were scared.

And rightfully so.

Steve took up position at the back corner portal flank. Eddie flanked the front. They dropped their gear simultaneously—boxes thudding into the dirt, just off-center from where they’d hold. No words. Just movement. Just breath.

Steve braced the Beretta 1301, eyes bouncing between the portal and the treeline. He locked into his count: five seconds on the red pulse of the breach, five seconds on the woods. Back and forth. Back and forth. Thirty seconds passed. “Clear,” Steve said into the comms, clipped and quick.

Eddie inhaled. That was his cue.

He raised the Barrett, let the world narrow through the scope, and stepped into the rhythm. But not in unison. No—he placed himself on the offset.

Steve would say “clear.”

Fifteen seconds would pass.

Eddie would say “clear.”

Another fifteen.

Steve again.

A staggered pulse. A downbeat and a backbeat. A rhythmic cycle.

Eddie knew rhythm better than he knew how to breathe. The time signature of recon wasn’t so different from a song with teeth. He didn’t even need to think about it—his body found the pulse, settled in. And without ever saying a word, his measured offset gave Steve something to lock onto.

By the second full pass, it was working.

Steve was steadier now—his pattern more fluid, his gaze sharper. Eddie’s counter-rhythm wasn’t just syncing—it was grounding. And that anchor, between the two of them, started to feel like a lifeline.

They were holding. Cadence clean. Back and forth.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

And for the first time since the portal had started pulsing, it didn’t feel like a suicide mission.

It felt like maybe—just maybe—they had this.

Meanwhile, Ursula moved out, boots cutting through the underbrush like she’d walked this ground a hundred times. Nancy stayed tight at her shoulder, weapon up, eyes never still—covering the arcs Ursula’s peripheral couldn’t reach. They were a tight unit, moving with precision, silent except for the soft crunch of gravel and dirt beneath their feet.

Bahamutt kept perfect pace, slightly ahead and a half-step left, beginning his patrol loop with the same exactness he’d shown on the truck. Ursula didn’t need to say a word. His posture said it all—head high, nose active, ears twitching. He wasn’t playing.

As they circled the perimeter—twenty meters clean around the still-pulsing portal—Ursula scooped up the supply box Steve had dropped as she passed. She didn’t break stride, didn’t even slow down. Just reached, hoisted, and added it to the bundle of scaffolding cradled under one arm.

She kept moving.

At the far edge of the circuit, near the breach’s front curve, she stooped to grab the second case—the one Eddie had placed with his usual reverence and restraint. 

Behind her, Bahamutt’s gait had locked in. The cadence of his patrol—deliberate, focused, thorough—was unmistakable now. He swept his nose back and forth in a metronomic rhythm, wide passes from left to right, sniff-scan-sniff, a perfect search grid in motion.

Eddie clocked it first.

That’s what she meant, he thought. A steady cadence.

This wasn’t some show of doggy obedience. This was routine. Military. Tactical. Perfectly drilled.

Steve saw it too. And not for the first time, the thought came unbidden, fierce and clear: Mister B was a good fucking dog. No—he was more than that. He was one of them.

Ursula didn’t glance back, didn’t check if anyone was watching. She knew the loop was holding. She could feel it in the rhythm.

And so far, the rhythm was perfect.

“Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird,” Ursula said, eyes still on the treeline. “Bahamutt is in his patrol loop. Mike—keep eyes on B’s tracker and Steve’s. Let us know immediately if B pauses or changes direction.”

“Ok,” Mike answered instantly, voice focused.

Ursula didn’t waste the beat. “Will, is the inverted side clear? Safe to approach?”

“Affirmative,” Will replied. “No movement. No anomalies. You’re clear.”

Ursula turned her head toward Nancy, her voice firm but even. “I need two hands for these cases. Cover me double till we’re up there.”

Nancy didn’t blink. “Copy that,” she said, eyes already tracking the gaps Ursula couldn’t see.

Behind them, the quiet rhythm of the operation kept ticking. Steve’s voice came over the comms first—“Clear”—steady and punctual, his thirty-second report sharp and sure. Eddie followed half a beat later—“Clear”—his cadence offset but intentional, perfectly timed to avoid overlap. That syncopated rhythm between them, Ursula realized, was fast becoming a metronome for the whole field team. She didn’t comment. Just clocked it and moved.

The sledgehammer and bundled scaffolding stakes were slung under one arm. With her other, Ursula scooped both gear cases into a balanced carry, one stacked atop the other. Nancy fell into step behind her, rifle high and tight, her expression locked into that sniper’s squint—the one that meant her brain was already a few steps ahead of her body, already checking angles and cover lines, already anticipating fire before it came.

They approached the portal.

Its light hadn’t dimmed. That sick, blood-colored shimmer still licked at the air like heat off an invisible flame, casting long shadows across the leaf rot and tangled roots of the clearing. Ursula dropped the gear, kicked one of the scaffolding stakes slightly straighter with the toe of her boot, and flicked her fingers once—silent hand signal to stay alert. She was going in.

What followed was pure muscle memory.

In under four minutes flat, the base of the scaffolding was snapped together and positioned. Ursula drove the rubber side of the sledge onto the top with clean, practiced blows—one, two, three, four—seating the structure firmly into the ground. Then the arch came together, top beam locked in with a twist of her wrists, joints slotted and secured without needing to look.

The camera came next—a multidirectional sensor lens mounted precisely at the apex center of the arch, orientation triple-checked by touch. On either side of it, spaced about a foot apart, she secured the twin Dinomist sprayers—short black canisters with reinforced nozzles. The delivery lines hung loose for now, but she’d connect those to the canisters last. Each piece was magnetic, and they locked to the frame with crisp, satisfying snaps.

Then the motion sensors. Four on each side—two positioned low, two mounted higher—giving the setup full vertical awareness from ankle to chest height. Every angle accounted for. Every movement that crossed that arch’s plane would register.

She wasn’t just building surveillance. She was building a fucking guillotine for whatever came too close.

With a practiced flick of her wrist, Ursula reached for the power switch tucked beneath the camera’s magnetic housing and toggled it on. A tiny green LED winked to life. One by one, she repeated the action down the line—motion sensors, camera, sprayers. Each came online with soft clicks and hums, a chain of readiness coming alive under her fingers.

“Thunderbird to Camp Hellfire,” she said over the open line, not pausing in her work. “Confirm power feed. We should be live across all systems.”

“Reading full green,” Dustin answered almost instantly. “Motion sensors are pinging. Visual feed is sharp. Sprayer systems showing primed. We’re good to go.”

“Copy that,” Ursula said, already crouched to secure the feed lines. The hoses for the Dinomist system—coiled like venomous snakes in waiting—were pulled taut, clicked into the spray nozzles, and connected to the sealed canisters labeled in thick black marker: DINO-REPEL Mk. IV.

Pepper spray for dinosaurs, as Steve had once called it.

And he wasn’t wrong.

She stood, exhaled once, then grabbed the first side of the arch. It came up in one smooth motion, slotted into the anchored base with a solid metallic snap. The second side followed—lift, angle, lock. The arch was now upright. Tall. Silent. Watching.

It looked like a stargate. But not the kind that led to adventure. This one led to nightmares.

“Thunderbird to Camp Hellfire,” Ursula called again. “Check my lens angle and spray vector. Any adjustments?”

A beat. Then Susie’s voice came clear. “You’re dead center. Spray spread is symmetrical. No adjustments necessary.”

“Phase one complete,” Ursula muttered, mostly to herself, taking a small step back to study her work.

Behind her, Nancy stayed sharp, rifle still tracking the perimeter. From the comms, Eddie’s voice came in on time—“Clear.” Then Steve’s, offset just right—“Clear.”

Ursula rolled her shoulder once, letting the tension crack out of her spine.

“See?” she murmured. “Easy peasy.” She straightened and turned toward the truck. “Hold positions,” she said clearly into comms. “Maintain count.”

Behind them, the comms clicked again: “Clear,” Steve said.

With Nancy covering at her shoulder—eyes sharp, rifle up—Ursula grabbed the two empty surveillance boxes, jogged them to the truck bed, and tossed them in with a solid thunk. 

“Clear,” came Eddie’s voice this time.

A second later, she was back in motion, snagging the next bundle of scaffolding and the pair of fresh gear boxes marked in orange tape. The metal shifted against her side with a faint rattle.

They returned to the portal.

“This is Thunderbird,” Ursula called over the open line. “I’m going to breach. Munson, Harrington—same setup. Each of you take one box. Steve, you’re on scaffolding. Drop it just inside the portal, then move to your post. Maintain count.”

No one questioned it. No one needed to.

Ursula brought two fingers to her lips and whistled—short, sharp. Bahamutt moved instantly, bounding to Eddie’s side with silent precision. He sat, upright and alert, posture perfect, eyes forward.

“Do not breach the portal until you have the word from me,” Ursula said, her tone steely and final. A command—not a request. The kind that carried weight and consequence.

“Copy,” Steve said without hesitation.

“Affirmative,” came Nancy’s voice, low and clipped.

Eddie nodded once. “Understood.”

Will’s voice followed, low and steady across the open channel. “Zoso’s still circling. It’s got eyes on the portal. You’re green.”

Ursula lifted her M4. And without turning to even say goodbye, she breached.

The moment she crossed the portal threshold, reality inverted.

Color drained. Heat vanished. The forest that met her on the other side was wrong—still recognizable, but sickened, like it had been peeled from the world she knew and left to rot in the dark.

The clearing mirrored the one they had just left outside Forest Hills, but here, the ground was slick with a blackish-red film like coagulated blood. Trees loomed at sharp angles, their bark veined with glowing veins of dull crimson, branches clawing the air like skeletal fingers. A static fog clung low to the earth, curling around her boots as she stepped forward, breathing like it had lungs of its own.

And she changed.

Her form bent in the shadowstep—color gone, flesh muted into sleek grays and blacks, like living smoke bound by muscle and war. Her rifle remained in her hands, but now it looked forged from night itself. Her skin shimmered faintly with movement that wasn’t movement, her outline softening at the edges like she was both there and not. A soft hiss—barely perceptible—escaped from the ground as she inhaled.

Spores.

They filled the air around her instantly—mossy, wet, moldy. They slithered into her lungs like smoke from a dying fire. Every breath felt damp. Heavy. Wrong. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. She was in.

The wet curled around her like a second skin, heavy with decay and distant static. Ursula adjusted her stance, boots sinking just slightly into the spongey, fungus-slicked ground as she raised her chin and spoke clearly into the open comms line.

“Thunderbird to Camp Hellfire. Confirm comms link. Visuals, trackers, audio—check me now.”

There was a flicker of static, then Dustin’s voice came through clean. “Copy, Thunderbird. You’re coming in loud and clear. Body cam feed is live. Tracker signal’s stable and active.”

A pause.

Then Susie’s voice, sharp and utterly out of character, cracked through the line. “What the fuck—”

Ursula’s breath caught, audible across the open channel. Not at the reaction itself—but at who it came from. Susie never swore. Not ever. Not in Ursula’s entire life. For her to say that meant one thing—what she was seeing through the camera feed was bad enough to break her.

“Urs?” Eddie’s voice cut in next, a little tight, but unmistakably relieved. “We’ve got you. Loud and clear on this side. Tracker’s holding. Cam feed’s good. You’re solid.”

“Copy that,” Ursula said, her voice low as she pivoted slowly in place.

The portal shimmered behind her like an open wound, casting ripples of red light onto the inverted clearing’s fungal floor. She scanned the immediate area—low, wide arcs of her weapon sweeping alongside her gaze. No movement. No heat signatures. No obvious threat. The perimeter was stable for now.

Then she looked up.

Far, far above her—nearly lost in the shifting gloom of the inverted sky—drifted a shape she hadn’t seen in this form before. A long, golden ribbon of light, coiling and uncurling like a stream of sand in zero gravity. Silent. Watching.

The purified form of the Mind Flayer.

Zoso.

Before she could say a word, Will’s voice buzzed over the line. “I can see you through Zoso’s vision, Ursula. He’s… I think he’s happy to see you.”

A pause.

“This is so weird,” he said with awed disbelief in his tone.

Ursula chuffed a dry laugh that hit the mic. “This is so fucking weird,” she muttered, not meaning to say it out loud—but it bled through the open line anyway.

Ursula exhaled, her breath curling in the damp, fungal-heavy air. She kept her voice level, measured. “Momma, flip my cam to infrared.”

There was no pause—Susie’s voice came through immediately. “Set.”

“Good. I’m doing a loop,” Ursula said, already moving along the established arc of the perimeter. “Watch for movement. Anomalies. Anything that doesn’t match baseline.”

“Tracking,” Susie confirmed.

Ursula swept the perimeter with slow, deliberate steps, boots barely making a sound on the spongy, mycelium-patched ground. The red light from the portal was a low pulse behind her. Spores floated thick in the air like soft ash, but nothing stirred beyond that.

“Clear,” Susie said a moment later. “No movement on infrared.”

Ursula sighed through her nose, letting just a little of the pressure drop from her shoulders. “Okay,” she said into the open line. “Bring them through.”

She didn’t need to repeat the order. Nancy breached first—smooth, silent, rifle raised, gaze already mirroring Ursula’s angle of watch. She slid in close to Ursula’s side, barely a foot separating them.

Then Eddie stepped through, Bahamutt pacing at his hip. The transition was seamless—like they’d drilled it, like they’d done it a hundred times. Eddie’s grip was tight around the surveillance case marked with orange tape. 

He’d seen Ursula in her shadow form once before. But it had already started to fade by the time he thought to really look—he’d just been torn back from death, after all. But now… now he really saw her.

She was hidden. Not invisible, not exactly—but obscured. Shrouded in something flickering and wrong, something his eyes kept trying to slide off of. Her skin wasn’t solid anymore. It rippled like heat over asphalt, darker than black, like the air itself was struggling to decide if she was even real. The form clung to her, shadow-sworn and half-dissolved, swallowing light and spitting it back muted and strange.

The effect only hit her skin, but it was enough. Combined with the camouflage fatigues, and her turquoise hair dulled to near-gray in the gloom, he could finally see how she’d stayed hidden here for so long.

It was beautiful, in its way. And terrifying. He wished he could touch her to see if she felt different here too. 

He set the gear down gently at Ursula’s feet and met her eyes. She gave him a small, solemn nod, and he fell back behind her, picking up his count without hesitation. 5 seconds on the left sweep. 5 on the right. Every 30, a quiet “clear.”

Ursula watched him for a moment longer than necessary. His face was set, focused. And underneath the fear she knew was sitting behind his ribs, he was doing so fucking good. Her chest tightened—pride and love hitting her in a sudden, unwelcome wave. He was scared. But he was doing it anyway. God, she loved him for that.

Steve came through next, breathing steady, footfalls clean. He dropped the second surveillance case beside Ursula’s boots without a word and broke off immediately to position—back corner flank—his weapon already sweeping.

Steve keyed into the check rhythm before she even looked up. Good.

“Okay team,” she said over comms, voice low but steady. “You guys are doing great. Momma, you can activate the Dinomist now.”

“Sprayers are hot,” came Susie’s voice, calm and clear.

“You comms guys are killing it over there,” Ursula added. “Keep it up.”

Then—

“Clear,” Steve’s voice cut in. Steady. Measured.

Fifteen seconds later, “Clear,” from Eddie. Same pitch. Offset clean.

Steve. Eddie. Steve. Eddie.

The beat built naturally, like breath, like song. Steve always on the one. Eddie hitting on the three. The backbeat. Perfect. Ursula could feel it under her skin, the cadence lacing her focus tighter with each pass.

And then it hit.

Goddamn. Eddie’s rhythm wasn’t just helping Steve lock in—it was syncing the entire op. Her spine straightened. Her grip tightened. She was gonna kiss that boy’s mouth right off his face later.

Now that both flanks were set and rhythm held tight—Steve’s clears steady on the thirty, Eddie’s following on the backbeat—Ursula shifted her weight and gave a soft two-tone whistle.

Bahamutt trotted to her side immediately. “Let’s move,” she said, voice low but firm.

Nancy was already with her—rifle up, eyes scanning the wide gaps in Ursula’s periphery without being told. The three of them began their counter-clockwise patrol of the twenty-meter perimeter. Same route as before. Same tight formation. Nothing loose. Nothing forgotten.

They moved together like a machine. No chatter. No wasted movement.

Once the loop was complete, Ursula gave a low command and B peeled off to begin his patrol. He fell into it immediately, nose sweeping, head bobbing slow and steady like a metronome. Just like she’d said, his pace was about a third slower than it had been on the right side up. The air here was thicker. More resistant. Like wading through soup laced with mold and shadow.

And Eddie noticed. Not just the precision of the dog—though Jesus, the fucking dog—but her.

Ursula.

The way she moved. The way she gave commands without hesitation. The way her eyes never stopped working. She was born for leadership and strategy, whether she hated it or not. And honestly, it was probably that hate—her refusal to want it—that made her so damn good at it.

Eddie watched from his post, cadence on autopilot now—thirty-second intervals, five on the left sweep, five on the right. But his focus had drifted. It was on her.

Ursula was already setting up. She gripped the sledgehammer—two-handed, heavy as hell—and drove the base of the scaffolding into the damp earth with hard, rhythmic blows. Each strike landed deep, the kind that vibrated through bone if you were standing too close. Eddie had used that thing once. It wasn’t forgiving.

She dropped the hammer, then snapped the arch together with clean, practiced precision. Camera mounted at the apex. Motion detectors next, four to a side—two low, two high. Then came the PAG-7 sprayers, fixed magnetically near the camera’s flanks like venom glands on some high-tech predator.

She didn’t slow. Just moved. Connected the hoses, secured the mounts. Then lifted the full arch and snapped it into the anchored base, one side, then the other—each with a satisfying, solid clunk. She crouched again and fitted the hose ends into the PAG-7 canisters, locking them in with sharp twists.

Then she stood tall, raised her chin slightly, and keyed into comms. “Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird. Confirm Site Two rig is online.”

Dustin’s voice came in without delay. “Confirmed. All systems green. Camera’s live, sensors active, PAG-7 pressurized. We’re reading you full across the board.”

Eddie nodded to himself, the rhythm of his watch barely noticed beneath the buzz in his chest.

Yeah. It was live. Every piece in place. Every defense mounted. She’d built it like a soldier, but also like an artist. It was perfect.

Ursula clicked back into comms. “Momma, kill the Dinomist. Let’s bring it back in.”

A soft click and a short hiss through the open channel was all it took. Susie’s confirmation followed right behind. “Dinomist deactivated. You’re clear for reentry.”

Well shit, Ursula thought, almost startled by the weight of the moment. It was done. And perfectly. No missteps. No screw-ups. No screaming. No blood.

She had a good fucking team.

“Okay, guys,” she said aloud, voice ringing through the comms. “We’re done here. Let’s move out.”

Without being told, Bahamutt stepped into position beside Eddie. Ursula gave a sharp nod, and Eddie tapped the dog’s shoulder once, murmuring a soft “let’s go, buddy” as they crossed the threshold of the portal.

Steve and Nancy followed—Nancy first, rifle still in hand, scanning every angle. Steve carried both orange-taped gear boxes, his pace steady as he fell in behind her.

The truck bed gave a satisfying rattle as the cases were stowed, gear clattering into place with familiar weight.

Ursula stood alone on the upside-down side of the breach for a half-second longer. Watching. Listening. Making sure.

Then she stepped through last. Back into the right-side-up. Back into the fog. Back into the fight.

Ursula didn’t wait. “Momma, activate PAG-7 perimeter.”

“Copy,” Susie confirmed crisply. “PAG-7 online.”

Ursula’s eyes swept the forest floor. She crouched, picked up a jagged rock—dense, sharp-edged, just heavy enough. She weighed it once in her palm.

“Okay, nerds,” she said, voice dry but electric. “Wanna see what hellskin’ll do to anything that gets too friendly with this portal?”

“Fuck yes,” came Dustin’s voice over the open line, practically vibrating.

Steve was grinning before the rock even left her hand. “Let’s go.”

Even Will cracked a quiet, “I’m watching.”

Eddie just muttered under his breath, “Light it up, baby.”

Nancy didn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on the breach. Tense. Calculating. Hands tight around her weapon.

Ursula threw. The rock spun through the air and crossed the veil.

The explosion was immediate.

The gel sprayed and ignited on contact with the air in a perfect radius around the scaffolding arch on the other side. A fire-ring eruption—fast and brutal, like a landmine made of napalm had gone off in reverse. The heat didn’t stay contained. It came roaring back through the breach, blasting across the team in a wave so intense it felt like a furnace exhaled right in their faces.

They all staggered. Not from force. From heat. From awe.

“OH MY GOD,” Dustin yelled.

“Holy shit,” Steve barked, laughing through it.

Eddie’s voice was low. Breathless. “That’s… that’s insane.”

From the comms tent, Mike cheered audibly. “That’s what I’m TALKING ABOUT!”

Even Will let out a quiet, “Whoa.”

And Susie, more startled than excited, still managed, “That’s a perfect spread.”

Nancy didn’t cheer. She didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched. “That’s… intense,” she said, but it sounded more like a warning than approval.

Ursula turned back toward the team, her silhouette lit by the fading flicker from the still-burning circle behind her. Her face was calm. But her eyes? Her eyes were pure, wild mischief.

Eddie stared at her like he didn’t know whether to salute her or drag her behind the truck and make out with her for an hour. She was dangerous. All shadow and flame. And God, she looked fucking sexy as hell like that.

Then, just for a second, she let the fire-glow flicker in her expression. She looked at them and grinned.

Nancy didn’t even blink. “Well,” she said, voice flat as slate, “that should do it.”

Steve laughed—quick, incredulous, because what the hell else could he do?

Ursula met his laughter immediately, the sound rolling warm and real out of her chest before she caught herself.

Eddie just shook his head, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe any of them were real, especially her.

Ursula only let the moment hang for a heartbeat. Then she exhaled, gave herself one last second to shake off the fire sillies, and clicked back into mission mode. “All right let’s deploy the decoy so we can get the fuck out of here,” she said, voice crisp and decisive again.

They headed back to the truck without needing to be told twice.

The CIA caution tape was in the gear bin—bright yellow with black stencil. Ursula handed it off to Nancy. The metal warning sign, already mounted to a post and strapped beside the stakes, was pulled free and carried to the treeline.

Steve held the metal sign in place as Eddie drove it into the dirt with the sledgehammer—two-handed, three hits, clean.

Ursula went dumbfaced watching him. Just stood there for a second, slack-jawed, like her brain had blue-screened. It was the motion. The weight. The efficiency. Something about the way he moved—clean, powerful, precise—lit up a very specific corner of her brain.

For a flash, unbidden, the image hit her: Eddie in a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, splitting firewood in the woods somewhere, all sweat and muscle and maybe a beard, and the smell of pine bark. Chopping wood like it was a holy calling.

Oh. Lumberjack.

Nancy caught the look. Of course she did. Elbowed her sharply but with a smile—like, get it together, Commander hornball—and Ursula snapped back to reality with a blink.

Wordlessly, she grabbed the tape stakes and handed them off to Eddie in exchange for the sledgehammer.

Then Eddie knelt, bracing the first steel stake while Ursula raised the sledge herself and brought it down. One hit. Two. Set. Another stake followed. Then another.

Nancy came behind, looping the caution tape through the installed stakes with fluid efficiency.

Steve brought up the rear, holding the roll aloft and feeding slack as she moved—circling the perimeter in a wide sweep, looping and tightening the band as she went.

The tape rose in a bright arc, unbroken and clear.

The site was sealed.

Lastly, Ursula grabbed the rolled mesh from the truck bed—a broad swath of camouflage netting already pre-hooked with a heavy-duty carabiner. She marched it straight back to the scaffolding arch and clipped it into place at the apex. The mesh unfurled downward in a rippling wave, soft but heavy, the kind of material that wouldn’t snag in the wind and wouldn’t glint under a flashlight. She stretched the net wide, dragging it to the ground, then staked the corners into the soil to mask the glow of the portal completely from view.

It wouldn’t fool radar. It wouldn’t stop a high-level sweep. But it wasn’t meant to. This wasn’t about fooling satellites. It was about keeping idiots out—deterring campers, kids, cops, and any nosy jackass who might ignore the CIA tape and wander into a death zone soaked in aerosolized capsaicin designed to drop creatures the size of elephants.

Now they were set.

They climbed back into the truck, boots thudding against the metal frame, weapons still slung but safeties re-engaged. Ursula slid behind the wheel, checked the mirrors out of habit, then leaned slightly forward. “Momma, activate the Dinomist. Primary site is sealed.”

“Activating now,” Susie replied, cool as ever—but Ursula could hear the edge of fatigue in her voice. She was holding it together. Just like the rest of them.

Behind them, the pressurized hiss kicked in—sprayers mounted low on either side of the arch releasing a thin stream of deterrent mist into the air around the portal. The breeze caught it, curled it, pulled it into a shimmering, invisible veil that would sting like hell on contact. Dinomist: the world’s most aggressive no-trespassing sign.

“Alright,” Ursula said, reaching behind the seat and pulling out four plastic bottles, “slam your water. All of it. That spore air’s a dehydrator. You’re gonna feel it in your lungs if you don’t stay ahead of it.”

One bottle went to Steve. One to Nancy. One to Eddie—who caught it with his knee and cracked it with his teeth like a barbarian. Mister B got two poured into his collapsible bowl, lapping at them eagerly with a low huff of gratitude.

Ursula drained her own, then turned in her seat, elbow braced on the steering wheel as she looked at the rest of the team. “That was a best-case scenario,” she said. “And you nailed it. No mistakes. No improvising. Just clean, solid execution. You guys did good. Really fucking good.”

Steve offered her a tired, satisfied grin. Nancy just nodded, adjusting her grip on the Panzer. Eddie didn’t say anything—but the look on his face made it clear.

She grinned back at them. “All right,” she said, voice steady, “time to head out to Forest Gate.”

She shifted in her seat just enough to speak toward the mic clipped to her vest. “Will, I need Zoso overhead at Vecna’s site. We need to make sure our breach didn’t register in the hive.”

“Copy that,” Will replied instantly, his voice level but alert. “I’ll let you know as soon as we see anything.”

Ursula nodded once, more to herself than anyone, then glanced at Steve and Nancy—each of them still keyed up but holding steady. She turned her eyes to Eddie last, her expression softening at the corners.

She smiled. “All right. Let’s hit it.”

Then, without another word, she dropped the bottle, grabbed the wheel, started the engine and headed out into the morning fog.

Chapter Text

Hopper’s cabin, cutting low through the lingering fog. But behind the cabin, tucked into the treeline like a secret military outpost, the Hellfire HQ was already humming.

Not a tent, really—more like a nylon citadel. Three interconnected structures, forest-camouflaged, weather-sealed, and fortified, stretched across the clearing to form a footprint about the size of a modest house. Rigid, modular walls. Flooring thick enough to stomp on. Industrial-strength zippers locked down the entry flaps, and a dozen thick orange extension cords ran like veins through the pine needles, snaking all the way from the cabin to keep the operation alive. This was no backyard sleepover. This was war camp, glamping-style.

Inside the central dome—Command and Comms—the hum was louder, sharper. Computers lined the tables in tight, efficient rows. Signal repeaters blinked in tight synchrony. The floor underfoot was layered with mats for shock absorption, cords bundled in heavy-duty sleeves to avoid tripping. The screens cast a sterile blue glow, illuminating the focused faces of the core team still manning the station.

Mike sat at the relay console, a steaming mug balanced precariously on top of a thick printout of the comms logs. His eyes were bleary, but locked in. Susie, prim as ever, had already made her bed, brushed her teeth, and was now running a triple-check on signal encryption and visual feeds. She worked like someone who’d done it a thousand times—even though this was her first.

Dustin—rumpled, sharp, one sock missing—sat in a green folding camp chair, chewing idly on the cord of a headset mic and glancing between Susie’s screen and Will’s closed eyes like he was waiting for a bomb to go off. It wasn’t that he expected one. It was that, at this point, he knew better than to rule it out.

The rest of the party was starting to stir in the other two tents—Barracks and Armory. Robin’s feet thudded against the ground as she rolled off her cot and groaned. Somewhere outside, Lucas was already teasing Max about running boot camp, his voice low and flirt-heavy. “I will drop and give you twenty right now if it gets me a kiss,” he declared.

Max snorted. “Okay,” she said, deadpan. “Pucker up, stalker.”

The air outside smelled faintly of coffee, vinyl, and burnt toast. But here, in Command, the world had already begun. The portal was open. The ops team was active. And Zoso was closing in on the Creel House.

Will sat slightly apart, sunk into one of the inflatable Intex couches, his hands folded loosely in his lap. His eyes were closed, lids fluttering faintly—REM-state twitching beneath the surface. Faint ghost-rings of psionic energy rippled out from the back of his neck in slow pulses, distorting the air around him like heat rising off blacktop. He wasn’t looking at any screens. He didn’t have to.

Will’s head tilted slightly to the side, breath shallow. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

The world was gone.

No tent, no Dustin’s chewing, no Mike’s muttering, no soft static from the radio feeds. Just the dark and the gold.

He was with Zoso.

They moved together—a stream of luminous particulates, golden and gleaming, cascading like sand in a celestial hourglass, swirling through the ash-drenched sky of the Upside Down. The familiar dread of this dimension sat just beneath Will’s skin, but Zoso dulled the edge of it. Where the world had once pulsed with rot and aggression, now it felt… quiet. Still.

The Creel House loomed ahead, its gnarled spires rising like broken bones through the black fog.

Zoso slowed.

They circled it—slow and wide—golden light casting soft halos against the thorned vines choking the structure. The house looked dead. No motion, no tremor. The great tendrils that once pulsed like veins now lay dormant, heavy with decay. The hive was hibernating.

Zoso drifted closer. The gold cloud thickened, swirling through broken eaves and shattered windows, brushing against the husk of the house. Still no response. The hive stayed silent.

Then—separation.

The division of consciousness hit like a punch to the gut. Three threads of awareness split across distance and dimension—one inside his own body, one trailing through the sky above the Creel House, and one now breaking off to descend into the attic—and the nausea came fast and sharp. For a moment, Will’s breath hitched. He braced against it, focusing hard on the smallest thread. The broken-off tendril of light. The one he could manage.

Will felt it like a tension easing. The small tendril of Zoso’s mass—no bigger than a human torso’s worth of motes—peeled away from the main stream, delicate and controlled. It ascended, sliding through a cracked attic window, drifting into the space where Vecna lay.

Will saw him.

Vecna’s body was still curled in the exact position El had left it in—twisted, broken, his skin pale and slick with residue. The vines around him pulsed faintly, like something kept barely alive by memory alone. But there was no movement. No awakening.

Vecna was out. Deep out.

Will, still riding Zoso’s consciousness like a passenger with partial control, formed the question as thought—not words, but intent:

Can this piece of you stay here? Watch him? The rest of you—can you move to Forest Gate? We need eyes there too.

There was no verbal response. But Zoso rippled—like a nod made of sand and starlight.

Yes.

The larger body began to drift again, light trailing through the ashen air, leaving the slivered observer tucked like a guardian above Vecna’s resting place.

Will’s breath caught. Then—He untethered. The golden dark fell away, and the tent came rushing back in.

He exhaled sharply, one hand gripping the arm of the inflatable couch as his senses reassembled in pieces. The smell of warm electronics and dusted nylon hit first. Then the low murmur of the camp. The flicker of lights across their makeshift command center. The dull ache at the base of his skull pressed inward like a migraine that hadn’t quite formed—but would. The psionic heat-ripple that had pulsed faintly from the back of his neck stilled, its rhythm gone.

He blinked once. Twice.

A shadow moved beside him.

El sat down without a word, plate in her lap stacked with fresh Eggos, syrup glistening under the overhead LEDs. She pulled something from the pocket of her hoodie and handed it to him quietly.

The red bandanna.

The one Ursula had given her last night after returning from the void. Still faintly creased. Still smelling faintly like the ozone hum of psionics and campfire.

Will wiped the thin trickle of blood from under his nose and gave her a grateful look. She said nothing. Just held out the plate, offering him one of the Eggos without pause.

He took it.

They sat like that a second, the familiarity of it settling the air between them.

Dustin’s camp chair creaked as he leaned forward. Mike hovered just behind, half-crossed arms and tight lips. Susie sat perched at her console, one hand unconsciously rolling a pencil between her fingers. Waiting.

Will finished chewing, swallowed, and spoke. “He’s still there. Top floor of the Creel house. Looks like he hasn’t moved at all.”

“El’s hit still holding?” Mike asked quickly.

“Yeah,” Will said, rubbing the bandanna along his upper lip once more. “Zoso circled the whole place. The hive’s quiet. No heat. No sound. It’s hibernating.”

Dustin nodded slowly. “We heard you ask if Zoso could leave a piece behind?”

Will nodded. “He did. Peeled off a small piece of himself. It’s in the attic with Vecna now. Keeping watch while the rest of him moves to Forest Gate.”

Susie let out a tiny breath. “And Vecna?”

“Still unconscious,” Will said. “Still tangled in vines. Looks like…nothing’s changed.”

Mike looked to the map pinned beside the comms desk. “That buys us time.”

Dustin gave a low whistle. “And eyes on the bastard the whole time we’re running ops.”

Will just nodded.

It wasn’t good news. Not exactly. But it wasn’t bad news either. And in a world this fucked, not bad news was a kind of miracle. They had a watchful eye on Vecna. The hive hadn’t stirred. And the portal team was still in motion. For now, they were holding the line.

It was subtle at first—just the way Susie didn’t bounce her leg. How she hadn’t hummed through the static like usual. Her hands moved across the controls with clockwork precision, eyes fixed on the monitors. But Dustin could see it.

She wasn’t okay.

Dustin turned slightly in his chair and caught Lucas’s eye. Didn’t say anything. Just gave the look. The one that said: need a minute.

He leaned a little toward her, nudged her arm lightly with his elbow. “Hey, Susie-Poo,” he murmured, keeping his tone easy, “how about we stretch our legs for a sec? Get some air?”

Susie blinked like she’d just come up for air and nodded—too quickly.

Lucas glanced past him at Susie, then gave a tiny nod and stood up. “We got it,” he said, grabbing his own headset. “Right, Max?”

Max looked up from her breakfast bar and narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay… sure.”

Dustin made it casual as he reached for the mic. “Camp Hellfire, this is DustBuster. Me and Susie-Poo are gonna take five—Lucas and Max are on deck.”

A moment later, Ursula’s voice cut through the line—solid and controlled. “10-4, DustBuster. We’re twenty out from your sector. But be back on the boards before Phase Three.”

“Copy that.” He pulled the headset off, tossed it to Lucas—who caught it with one hand—and then gently reached for Susie’s. She took it without a word.

They walked together out the back flap of the tent, the early light dappled through the trees. The porch swing waited on the deck behind Hopper’s cabin, vinyl cushions stiff in the chill, but familiar.

Dustin didn’t let go of her hand. And she didn’t let go either.

The porch swing creaked faintly beneath them as they sat, neither one saying anything at first. The cool morning air feathered around their shoulders, quiet except for the occasional chirp of birds and the low hum of the extension cords running power from the cabin.

Then Susie let out a shaky breath.

And started crying.

Not loud, not sudden. Just quiet at first. Silent tears slipping down her cheeks, caught in the corner of her glasses.

Dustin turned toward her immediately, brows drawn, voice low. “Hey… hey, what’s wrong?”

Susie’s hand trembled in his. “I’ve been trying to imagine it,” she whispered. “Trying to picture what it was like over there. What it looked like… smelled like. The place our daughter was trapped in—and the place I spent my future pregnancy in, apparently.” Her voice cracked, the weight of it all cracking through. “But I had no idea it was so scary. And nothing even happened today, Dusty. We didn’t even see any monsters.”

She sniffled, wiped under her eyes, and kept going. “And it still felt like I was gonna throw up. So I can’t stop thinking… how bad is it when the monsters are actually there?”

Dustin squeezed her hand tighter, grounding her. “Yeah,” he said plainly, because she deserved the truth. “It’s terrifying. And the monsters are way scary. Like… biblical horror movie scary. But Ursula—” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “She knows what she’s doing. She really does.”

But Susie shook her head. “That’s the problem.” Her voice caught again, but she didn’t stop. “That’s our baby, Dusty. That’s our little girl. And she was trapped there. And I…” she covered her mouth, voice muffled now. “I took the coward’s way out.”

Dustin stilled. The air between them froze.

Susie’s shoulders hunched in as if she could fold herself in half and disappear. “I hate myself for that.”

And Dustin, who had loved this girl since the moment she corrected his Morse code at Camp Know-Where, who had built a life with her in the original timeline and then apparently watched that life fracture into something unrecognizable—he knew exactly what she needed now.

Not platitudes. Not lies. But compartmentalization. The only way they’d made it this far. He didn’t let go. Didn’t interrupt her spiral. He just held on. And readied himself to help her come back.

“Susie,” Dustin said gently, his voice steady, “it is scary over there. No one’s pretending it’s not.”

She wiped at her cheeks, but the tears were still coming, soft and relentless.

“And you need to remember something important,” he continued. “Vecna targeted you. For two decades, Susie. He broke you down slowly. He twisted everything. That wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were locked on the edge of the porch, on some middle distance neither of them could see.

“But what if…” Her voice cracked, and she finally looked at him. “What if Ursula secretly hates me? For leaving her?”

Dustin didn’t flinch.

“She doesn’t,” he said. Instantly. No pause, no caveat. “That girl has never hated you.”

He leaned closer, the swing creaking faintly beneath them.

“She loves you, Susie. And if there’s anyone in this whole goddamn mess who could ever understand why you said goodbye… it’s her. She gets it. Because she knows what you went through. And if I had to guess? Saving you—that might’ve been the real reason she came back.”

He squeezed her hand again, harder this time, grounding them both.

“Because if I know anything about our extraordinary daughter,” Dustin said, voice thick now, “it’s that she doesn’t give a shit about saving the world. She cares about saving her world. Us. The people she loves.”

He let the silence settle for just a second, then finished, “I mean, Suze… those doctors said she wasn’t waking up. Said her brain was dying. And all it took—all it took—was the touch of your hand and the sound of your voice to bring her back.”

His voice broke, just a little.

“She doesn’t hate you. And neither does anyone else. You are the reason our daughter is such a miracle.”

That did it.

Susie broke.

The tears she’d been holding back came crashing down in full force—big, ragged, ugly sobs that shook her whole frame. She curled in, pressing her face into Dustin’s shoulder, and he wrapped both arms around her without hesitation, letting her cry it out.

She clung to him like she was drowning. And he held her like a lifeline.

Inside the cabin, Eden Bingham stood at the stovetop, flipping hashbrowns in the cast iron with military precision. Argyle was beside her, slicing cantaloupe with the dreamy calm of someone who’d already smoked the morning’s ration and was vibing his way through breakfast prep. But Eden wasn’t really focused on the potatoes.

She was watching the swing through the window.

Susie. Curled against Dustin like a storm breaking on its first safe shore. Crying in a way Eden hadn’t seen since they were kids. The kind of crying that gutted you.

And Dustin… Eden had always liked the guy. Weird little genius. Loudmouth. Good heart. But now? Watching him hold her sister like she was the most fragile, most precious thing in the universe? Eden saw it.

Saw him.

A brother. One of them. Not just by circumstance—but in the way that counted.

She didn’t need to say anything. Didn’t need to analyze it. Eden didn’t do words like that anyway. She did action. Presence. She was the one who filled the space when their mother died. The one who made lunches and packed backpacks and kept the lights on when their father sank too deep into grief and responsibility.

Susie had gone off to genius camp. Eden had stayed home and raised the rest of them.

That didn’t mean she’d ever resented Susie for it. Not really. But it had built something inside her—this iron-bound sense of duty. Of mine to protect. And right now, her baby sister needed arms around her.

So Eden wiped her hands on a dish towel, turned the burner down, and walked outside.

The swing creaked under her weight as she sat down beside them. Dustin looked up, eyes shining, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to explain.

He didn’t have to.

Eden just slid her arms around both of them—one around Susie’s trembling shoulders, one draped across Dustin’s back—and pulled them in.

Tight. Solid. Wordless.

The way only a sister-mother knows how.

From the kitchen window, Argyle watched the trio on the porch swing in silence.

The scene punched him right in the heart.

Eden—his girl, his ride-or-die, his dark angel with that permanent scowl and eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood—sat there like the embodiment of gravity. A quiet, immovable force pulling shattered pieces back into orbit. There was nothing performative about her. Nothing soft, either. Just raw, ruthless love. That kind of brutal loyalty most people never even understood, let alone earned.

And Argyle loved her for it. Desperately. Fiercely.

Ohana wasn’t just a word to him. It was gospel. His whole vida loca had been built around the belief that your people were everything. You showed up. You fed them. You held them when they cried and lifted them when they couldn’t stand. And Eden? Eden got that in a way that left Argyle breathless sometimes.

But it wasn’t just Eden pulling at him right now.

Susie—his future sister-in-law, this tiny brilliant powerhouse of intellect and intuition—was unraveling out there. Breaking for things she hadn’t even done yet. For choices she hadn’t made. For timelines she never asked to be part of.

And it wasn’t fair. Not even a little bit.

Argyle wished he could walk outside right now and wrap all three of them up. Just pile them into a burrito of warmth and say hey, we got this, everything’s gonna be chill. But not yet. Not while breakfast still had to happen. Not while all these little brochachos and brochachas needed to carb-load for arms training and portal patrols and God knew what else.

So he stayed at the stove. Kept flipping. Kept seasoning. Kept slicing fruit like it was sacred. If he couldn’t stop the pain, he could at least make sure nobody faced it on an empty stomach.

Before he could spiral too deep into his thoughts, the back door creaked open and Joyce stepped into the kitchen with a soft, “Morning.”

She crossed to the counter, paused mid-reach for a mug—eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced out the window. Saw the porch swing. Saw the three kids folded into each other like a grief sculpture in real time.

“You know what’s going on out there?” she asked, voice gentler than usual, the weight of a thousand-yard-mom-stare riding shotgun behind her words.

Argyle didn’t hesitate. He handed her a mug already half full and topped it off from the pot. “Yeah,” he said, tone quiet but warm. “Been comin’ for a while. I think they’re finally getting it out. All that heavy shit.” He shrugged one shoulder, flipping the pancake in the pan without looking. “Gonna feel a lot better after. Like when your gut hurts from not crying? This is the cry, you know?”

Joyce took a sip, her gaze lingering out the window for a second longer. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know.”

“Like pressure in a soda can. Needed to pop the tab.” He tapped the side of his own temple once. “That kinda hurt doesn’t go away till it’s outta your head and into the air. I think they’re getting there.”

Behind her, Hopper emerged from the bedroom hallway, still groggy, still not fully in his body yet—but when he saw the porch, he woke up fast.

The coffee mug in his hand stilled mid-air.

He saw them. Dustin holding Susie like a lifeline. Eden flanking them like a wolf with a cause. And he didn’t need to ask what happened. He knew.

He recognized that kind of grief. Not just in Susie—but in himself.

Because he knew now. Knew what Vecna had done to her in the other timeline. Knew that the girl crying on that swing had been broken so thoroughly—physically, psychologically, emotionally—that she’d made the call to take herself off the board. Not because she was weak. Not because she gave up. But maybe—just maybe—because she thought it was the only card left to play to protect her daughter.

And Hopper understood that kind of choice. He’d made it, too. He’d walked into the fire thinking it was salvation. Thinking maybe if he died, El would be safe. That death could somehow be a gift. A shield.

But it hadn’t worked. El had still suffered. Still carried scars. And maybe Susie’s decision hadn’t worked either. Maybe it had only left Ursula more alone. But Hopper didn’t judge her for it. He couldn’t. Because they were the same kind of broken. The same kind of desperate. People who’d gambled everything for the ones they loved, and lost more than they could’ve imagined.

His throat tightened. Jaw set.

Outside, Susie sobbed like her bones were breaking. Dustin held her like she was glass. Eden kept her anchored.

Hopper didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just made a vow. Vecna was going to pay. For every fucking second of this. For every shattered heart. For every kid who’d been forced to grow up too fast. And this time, there would be no half-measures. No running. No hiding.

Just reckoning.

Chapter Text

The road to the McKinney portal wound through the tangled backroads on the far side of town—quiet stretches of asphalt broken by pockets of dense forest and the occasional rust-bitten mailbox leaning drunkenly to one side. Morning light slanted through the canopy in pale ribbons as the truck rumbled past the last of the houses, the engine humming low, its sound swallowed by the trees.

They were headed for Curlew. For the woods.

No one spoke for a while. Not because they had nothing to say—but because the weight of what they were heading toward didn’t leave much room for chatter. The cab was heavy with it. With the memory of how clean the last op had gone, and the knowledge that luck like that doesn’t usually hold.

Ursula was the one to break the silence. She reached for the comms mic, then changed her mind, dropped her hand, and just spoke—her voice steady and sharp like a knife she’d honed for years. “All right. Listen up.”

Eddie straightened in the passenger seat. Steve and Nancy both leaned in from the back.

“I know Phase One and Two went off without a hitch,” Ursula said, eyes on the road but presence fully with them. “But I don’t want that getting into your heads. Smooth ops are rare. Quiet can flip to catastrophe in under a second, especially out here. So don’t let the calm fool you.”

The tires crunched over gravel, the trees thickening on both sides like jaws closing around a throat. Ahead, the woods waited—deep, still, and watching.

“Remember your positions,” she said. “Remember your counts. Nothing changes just because it feels easy. That’s when people die.”

No one argued. No one even nodded. They just listened. Let it settle into their bones. Because she was right. She was always right about that kind of thing.

Ursula didn’t turn around as she spoke. “This portal’s in the woods,” she said, keeping her voice even, eyes forward on the winding road. “So there’s a few other critters I want to tell you about that are sometimes around.”

From the back, Nancy leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed. “Like what?”

Ursula’s fingers brushed the mic clipped to her vest, but she didn’t need to press anything. The line was always open. “Hey Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird.”

The comms crackled to life, two voices answering at once.

Lucas came through first, calm and clipped, confirming, “Thunderbird, we copy.”

Max followed, warmer, looser, a smile clearly audible in her tone. “Hi Ursula. What do you need?”

Ursula smiled to herself and said, “In the file case to the right of the monitors, there’s a dark green binder labeled Specimen Register.”

A rustle of movement came through the channel. Then Mike’s voice piped up, wary and already bracing for something awful. “Ursula… the one that says?”

“That’s the one,” she said, still smiling faintly. “I’m gonna need you to read a couple of the entries in there.”

A low shuffle of pages came through the comms speaker, crackling with the sharp, impatient flicks of someone flipping faster than they meant to. Then a muttered voice, unmistakably Lucas, barely audible but crystal clear in intent: “What the fuck…”

Ursula glanced into the rearview mirror, catching both Nancy and Steve watching her with varying shades of concern. Steve looked tense. Nancy just looked curious. She turned slightly toward Eddie in the passenger seat. He was still quiet, but alert. Tracking.

“Okay, guys,” Ursula said, her tone dry but even, like she was trying to keep it casual while knowing damn well it wasn’t. “Before Mike scares the shit out of you with the monster manual, let me make something clear. We are not—let me repeat, not—going over to the inverted side if there’s any anomalies present. If we see anything weird, we lock this side down and get the hell out. Come back when it’s clear.”

She turned back to the road. Trees were getting thicker now, the sun through the canopy making everything flash in dappled gold and shadow.

“But this is the woods,” she said, her fingers shifting subtly on the wheel. “And there’s… well, there’s freaky stuff in the woods over there.”

Another branch flicked past the windshield. The shadows were growing.

“And there’s always a chance something freaky came through,” she continued, “and is hanging out on our side.”

She let that sit for a second, then added, “I doubt it though. Most of those things are scared shitless of portals. They usually won’t go near one.”

Another pause. She exhaled through her nose. “But better safe than sorry,” she finished. “Just like… don’t freak out, okay?”

No one answered. The tension hung thick in the truck cabin—quiet, but heavy, like the pressure change before a storm.

Ursula didn’t take her eyes off the winding backroad, but her voice cut through the silence like she’d been waiting for the right moment. “So. You know about Demogorgons. Demodogs. The bats. We don’t have to go through those guys—you know the deal. Shoot ’em in the fucking face, right?”

She glanced at Eddie in the passenger seat, then caught Steve and Nancy’s reflections in the rearview. A few half-smiles. A shrug from Steve. A quiet, “Right,” from Nancy.

“But,” Ursula continued, fingers adjusting slightly on the wheel, “there’s a few other things that hang around the woods over there. Stuff that’s not always that easy to deal with. And if we run into one of those? We fall back.”

She paused just long enough to let that land. The tires hissed over loose gravel. The trees thickened on either side. “But like I said—we’re not breaching that portal if there’s anything like these guys hanging around.”

She reached for the comms unit clipped to her vest. “Will’s going to make sure. Right, Will?”

From the back seat, Will’s voice was calm but distant. “Yeah. Zoso’s almost there. He’ll sweep it before you even park.”

“Cool.” Ursula nodded to herself. “Okay. So. On the off chance our super easy surveillance and recon mission goes totally fucking sideways—I want you to know the critter basics. Ready?”

Eddie gave a sarcastic thumbs-up. Steve made a vague sound of agreement. Nancy sighed and said, “Ready.”

Then, too casually, Ursula said, “Okay, Mike—can you read the visual ID section for Kruthik wasps?”

The pages turned again, slower now. Then a pause. Mike’s voice came through, part horrified, part incredulous. “Jesus, what the… really?”

Ursula didn’t miss a beat. “Just read it. Or hand it to Max. Let’s go.”

Mike cleared his throat over the comms, voice shifting from disbelief to flat recitation, as if trying to create distance between himself and the words on the page. “Kruthik wasp: Visual identification. Size: approximately… four inches from head to thorax; wingspan about four to six inches.”

In the truck, Nancy shifted in her seat, eyes narrowing slightly. Four inches didn’t sound huge, but the way Mike read it—measured, clipped—made it feel bigger. Steve glanced at her, then back to Ursula, unease passing over his face like a shadow.

Mike continued, voice growing more unsteady. “Body structure: Insectoid, with angular thorax, recurved abdomen, and barbed stinger.”

Eddie didn’t speak, didn’t move—just stared straight ahead, jaw tight, listening. He hated bugs. Everyone knew that. Even the word “barbed” made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

Mike continued, tone going flatter the deeper in he went. “Wings: Veined, translucent, high-frequency flutter; emits a distinct metallic whine.”

Steve exhaled softly through his nose and leaned forward a touch between the seats like he might need to hear this closer. That word—“metallic”—hung strangely in the air.

“Eyes, clustered compound—dull black or amber.”

Nancy rubbed the side of her neck. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

“Coloration, ochre, pale fungus-white, or veined charcoal. Natural camouflage in IR-01 underbrush and fungal groves.” There was a pause. Then Mike’s voice came back, not reading now—questioning. “Ursula… is this a real picture?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Stay focused though. We gotta get through this. We’re getting close, and this part’s important.”

Her voice didn’t waver, but her fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” Mike said, breath catching faintly. “What do you want next?”

“Threat features,” Ursula replied. Her tone was clipped, businesslike. “I’ll tell you what it means after. Just read it.”

There was a shuffle of pages. A muttered “shit” under his breath, barely off-mic. Then—“Threat features,” Mike said, and even through the radio, the shift in his voice was noticeable—disbelief, then slow-building horror.

“Stinger function, envenomation causes non-lethal neurochemical disruption, resulting in—” He paused. “—auditory hallucinations. Shifting voices. Distant screaming.”

In the back seat, Steve let out a low whistle between his teeth. “Nope,” he murmured. “Nope.”

Nancy didn’t say anything, just leaned forward a little more, eyes darting between Ursula and the trees rolling past outside the window.

Mike went on. “Visual distortions, blinking lights, motion trails… false figures.”

“Oh, hell no,” came Lucas’s voice faintly over the radio, undercut with tension. 

“Causes emotional distress,” Mike read. “Paranoia, euphoria, dread. Effects onset within fifteen to thirty seconds. Duration varies—five to fifteen minutes untreated.”

Eddie shifted stiffly in the passenger seat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Pheromone tagging,” Mike continued, more quickly now, like he wanted to get through it. “Victims are marked with a chemical identifier on contact. Triggers pursuit by additional Kruthik Wasp swarm. May provoke unrelated IR-01 fauna to aggression if threat scent is detected.”

Mike stopped, his breath coming in heavy and close to the microphone. “What the fuck does that mean?” he asked, voice cracking. “Aggressive fauna?”

Ursula didn’t even blink. “Just read, Wheeler.”

A beat passed. Then Mike’s voice came crackling over the open line, lower this time, the uncertainty riding shotgun in his throat. “Predators, routinely preyed upon by Spore Wraiths, which disrupt wing current with electric fields and consume airborne individuals.”

“Just skip that part,” Ursula ordered.

A tight pause. From the backseat, Nancy’s voice cut in, clipped. “What’s a Spore Wraith?”

“Don’t worry about those yet,” Ursula replied. “They don’t go into the woods.”

Up front, Eddie leaned forward slightly, frowning. “So wasps… giant wasps… and they? What? Sting you and you hallucinate?”

“Yes,” Ursula said plainly. “And it’s fucking terrible. Like a worst-case scenario bad acid trip.”

Steve shifted in the back. Nancy sat up straighter. 

Eddie turned to look at her more directly now, studying her face. “You’re saying that like you—”

“Yes,” she said again, already knowing what he was thinking. “And I lived to tell the tale. They sting and make you trip balls. The worst of it is only really bad for like twenty minutes, though.”

A brief pause, her voice tightening just slightly.

“But they also scent mark you,” she continued. “So the swarm can smell you. And they come fast once you’re threat stamped. Regular bees do that too, but these? These ones have a pheromone that some of the other critters can smell. I’ve got alcohol wipes in the truck though.”

Eddie still didn’t look convinced.

Ursula glanced at him. “Look, you get stung, we get you closed into the truck. I’ve got EpiPens and an antivenom and painkillers.”

“Great,” Eddie muttered, still staring at her.

“But the antivenom takes ten minutes to work,” Ursula added. “And if the trip’s almost over, it can actually make it worse. So it’s mostly for if you get stung multiple times.”

Nancy leaned forward slightly from the back seat. “What happens if you do get stung multiple times?”

“I give you the antivenom,” Ursula said without missing a beat. “And an EpiPen. And a Vicodin. You’ll be fine in ten minutes.”

Steve shifted, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, but what if we can’t get back to the truck?”

She tapped the steering wheel once with her thumb. “Then yeah, you could end up hallucinating for hours.”

There was a silence.

Eddie blinked. “What the fuck, Ursula.”

“They’re not that bad,” she said, almost flippantly. “They’re loud—like a super buzzy drone sound. If you’re quiet and listen, you’ll know they’re around before they know you’re there.”

She looked at all of them, voice calm but firm now.

“So just… don’t approach. We’re only trying to secure a twenty-meter perimeter. That’s it.”

A glance back in the mirror, first at Nancy, then Steve.

“These guys are the only thing I can think of that might be too stupid to be scared of the portal. I’ve never heard of any coming through, but you never know. So you gotta know what to do. Just in case.”

The truck was silent again, only the crunch of gravel beneath them and the low drone of the comms channel in the background.

Nancy spoke first, glancing at Ursula from the back seat. “Why didn’t we have this before?”

Ursula gave a faint shrug without taking her eyes off the road. “We were getting to that part of training when I got yeeted to the Upside Down.”

Steve blinked. “Yeeted?”

Ursula ignored him. “You can peruse it to your heart’s content when we get back. Okay, Mike—find chitterfangs in the binder.”

Static filtered faintly through the speakers as pages turned over the open line. Then came Mike’s voice, flat and disbelieving. “No. That’s not okay.”

Max jumped in almost immediately. “Gimme that if you’re not gonna—” There was a beat, then her voice pitched in horror. “Is that a lobster-faced cat? That’s real?!?”

In the cab, Eddie shifted uneasily in the passenger seat, glancing back at Ursula with the same look he gave Hellfire monsters just before they were revealed to be boss fights.

Ursula didn’t waver. “Come on, guys. I need you to focus here.”

There was a shuffling sound, some movement near the mic, and then Dustin’s voice slid back into the comms, a little winded but steady. “Thunderbird, this is Dustbuster. I’m back from break.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Here, Dustin. Read this.”

Another pause. Then Dustin cleared his throat. “Chitterfang.”

The cab of the truck went still.

He continued. “Size is comparable to a serval or ocelot. About twenty-four to thirty inches at the shoulder. Forty to fifty pounds. Built like a cat. Moves like one, too.”

Nancy leaned forward between the seats, brow tight.

“Except the face,” Dustin added. “The face looks like a shrimp. Long jaws. Mandible plates. Whiskers that aren’t really whiskers.”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered under his breath.

Dustin kept going. “It’s got a petal-like mane that retracts around its neck. Floral, but wrong. Like tissue or coral. Color shifts—dull red in most, bright coral in dominant males.”

Eddie exhaled through his nose. A low, sharp sound.

“Limbs are digitigrade,” Dustin went on, “with claws that retract. But they’re chitin, not keratin. Sharp. Like surgical.”

A long beat. “The skin is matte fur, but there’s this layer of filament, spore-threaded, that makes it shimmer in low light.”

Nancy leaned back slightly, expression unreadable.

“In motion,” Dustin said, “they’re fast. Like, blink-and-they’re-gone fast. Silent. They scale trees, ambush prey from above, and pounce.”

In the cab, no one said anything for a moment. Just the sound of the tires on gravel and the hum of the radio.

Steve broke the silence with a dry laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, a murder cat with a shrimp face and a tactical flower collar.”

Nancy didn’t laugh. She was still watching the woods slide by.

Eddie adjusted his grip on the handle above the glovebox and muttered, “I hate this already.”

Ursula kept her eyes on the road. “That’s why we brief.” Her voice was quiet. Unshaken. And deadly serious.

No one argued.

She gave it a second, then added, “So basically—what Dad said is, this thing’s like a big, bald cat with a flower collar and a shrimp face. Ugly as hell. They hunt from the trees.”

From the passenger seat, Eddie made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they? Sounds super normal.”

“That’s why your five-count, if we breach,” she continued, “is on the trees ahead, and the trees above. Copy that?”

Steve gave a low affirmative. “Yeah. Got it.”

Eddie nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the tree line ahead. “Yeah. Copy.”

Ursula didn’t look away from the road. “They can spit at you, by the way. And the spit goes through you like a bullet.”

That got a hard glance from Steve.

“But don’t worry,” she added, almost offhand, “they make this chittering sound before they do it. Kind of like a rattle warning.”

Steve’s voice was flat. “Yeah. Don’t worry.”

Ursula finally flicked her gaze to the rearview mirror, making brief eye contact with each of them. “So, if that happens—get something between you and it, and get to the truck. ‘Get to the truck’ is the fallback protocol if we get messed with. We stick to our same shield formation, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve said.

“Yeah. Okay,” Eddie echoed, a little quieter.

The trees thickened outside, branches twisting tighter above the narrow trail of gravel. The woods were watching, and the team knew better than to stop paying attention now.

Ursula didn’t slow the truck. Just flicked her blinker on and let the tires crunch into the shoulder off Curlew.

“Okay, Dad. One left,” she said, scanning the treeline. “Look up the Deathroot Eye.”

There was a rustle over the comms. Dustin’s voice came through a second later, thick with disbelief. “Who the hell names these things?”

“You did,” Ursula replied without even a hint of irony. “You named that one.”

A beat passed as Dustin skimmed the entry. “No… fuck no.”

From somewhere behind the mic, a familiar voice cut in—sharp and reflexive. “Dusty! Language!”

Then Susie’s voice came closer, more shaken. “Wait… no. That’s… that can’t be real. Ursula, that—”

“It’s real,” Ursula said, her tone flat but firm. “It’s fucking terrifying for sure, but I need to get the team briefed. So come on and read already.”

Dustin’s voice returned, a little smaller now. “Deathroot Eye… what is this, a plant?”

“Yup. A sentient one,” Ursula answered. “Read it. Or pass it to someone who will.”

Lucas’s voice picked up without missing a beat. “Gimme that.”

There was the sound of him clearing his throat, then—“Thunderbird, this is Eagle, uh, Hammer Panther—”

Ursula let out the smallest laugh under her breath.

Lucas plowed ahead, determined. “Deathroot Eye. Category: Immobile Psionic Flora. Apex trap organism.”

“Thank you, Eagle Hammer Panther,” Ursula said dryly, easing the truck around a bend. The trail ahead was narrowing, trees pressing tighter around them. “Okay. Give us the description.”

Lucas cleared his throat on the comm line. The rustle of paper came through first, followed by his voice—steady at first, but fraying the further he went.

“Okay, uh… Deathroot Eye. Believed to be a singular organism per grove. Central stalk equals control node.”

The others in the truck didn’t speak, but Ursula felt the change. Steve shifted subtly, like the words were creeping under his skin. Nancy sat perfectly still, her brow furrowed just slightly. Eddie leaned forward between the seats, breath held.

“Unit structure,” Lucas continued, his voice a little tighter now. “All visible eye stalks in a cluster are connected parts of a single subterranean organism. It’s like… this massive plant-based neural network.”

Even over the faint crackle of the line, the disbelief in his tone was obvious.

“Cluster size is usually ten to fifteen stalks per grove. They’re spaced eight to fifteen feet apart in, uh, a radial perimeter. Center stalk’s bigger—more protected. That one’s the control eye.”

Max let out a low breath in the background, something between a scoff and a shudder.

“They stand between five and eight meters tall. That’s like… sixteen to twenty-six feet. The eye itself is three to four meters wide. That’s over ten feet, just the eye. The pupil alone is big enough to swallow an adult.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered in the truck.

Lucas kept going. “When they’re dormant, the eyes stay closed. But when they’re open… that means they’re locked on something. Actively broadcasting.”

For a second, the silence on both ends was deafening. The only sound in the truck was the grind of gravel under the tires and the faint static hum of the open channel. The horror of it was starting to bloom—slow and cold.

A massive, intelligent root system. Dozens of twenty-foot eyeballs in the woods. And they were still driving toward it.

Nancy finally turned her head, her eyes narrowing toward Ursula. “Tell me we’re not going in if one of those is out there.”

“We’re not,” Ursula said, quiet. Steady. “But you still need to know what to do if we ever come across one.”

From the speaker, Lucas’s voice cracked just a little. “This thing’s real? Like, this isn’t some DnD joke, right?”

Eddie didn’t laugh. No one did.

Nancy’s voice broke the tense hush. “Wait—twelve giant eyeball stalks?”

She wasn’t being sarcastic. Not even close. Her voice was thin with disbelief, one hand gripping the back of Steve’s seat like it might steady her.

“Yup,” Ursula replied without pause. Her hands hadn’t moved on the wheel. “If we run into one of these, don’t look at the eye if you can help it. We stay together.”

Steve shifted in his seat, frowning. “What happens if you do look at it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced toward the comm mic and said, “Lucas?”

Lucas’s voice crackled through the line, a little too loud in the stillness of the truck. “Uh—right. Okay. Um, hang on.”

Paper rustled.

“Okay,” Lucas said, steadier now, reading. “Functional behavior. Non-mobile. Anchored. Root system spans full grove radius—estimated twenty to thirty meters underground.”

He paused for just a breath. Then: “Ok, here it is… Kill pattern.”

The phrase alone dropped the temperature a degree. “One. Central eye or perimeter stalk initiates gaze lock. Victim is paralyzed via psionic freeze. Duration… variable. Usually less than fifteen seconds before constriction begins.”

Eddie’s hand flexed on the edge of his seat. Steve muttered something under his breath that ended in “Jesus.”

Lucas swallowed, but kept going. “Two. Feeder roots emerge from surrounding soil. They, uh, crush and suffocate the prey.”

From the back seat, Nancy sat rigid, her expression unreadable—but her eyes were fixed out the window now, watching the thickening trees.

“Three,” Lucas continued, “body is absorbed into root matrix.”

A beat of silence.

“And four,” he added, voice low now, as if saying it any louder would summon the thing. “Network effect. Multiple stalks can share prey engagement. They’re linked—like psychically. So once one of them sees you… the rest follow.”

In the truck, no one spoke.

Ursula spoke before anyone could what-the-fuck again.

“Okay,” she said, “so eyes the size of a Buick, but like, attached to the ground like a plant.” Her hands tightened slightly on the wheel as she added, “If they look at you and you look back, they gaze lock you and you can’t move.”

Eddie let out a low whistle under his breath, and Steve muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“Then their roots come up,” Ursula continued, tone level, “crush you like a boa constrictor and suck you down into the ground.”

She glanced at the rearview mirror, catching Nancy’s unreadable expression. “But the gaze lock doesn’t work through my shield,” she said. “So like I said—super scary, but we’ve got this.”

They didn’t got this.

Nancy was still processing the idea of a giant psychic eyeball jungle trap. Eddie had sunk back into his seat, arms folded tight, brows drawn. Even Steve—who had once stood between a kid and a rampaging demodog with nothing but a bat and a prayer—was looking distinctly pale.

Ursula let the silence breathe for a second, then asked, “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, voice tight, eyes fixed out the windshield like he expected something to come bursting out of the trees. “How fast does it paralyze you again?”

“Usually within fifteen seconds,” Ursula replied, calm as ever. “But that’s if you look it in the eye. So don’t do that.”

“Hypothetically,” Nancy cut in, her voice measured but edged, “what happens if you’re already locked before you know it? What if it ambushes us?”

Ursula nodded slowly. “Fair question. That’s why we stay in formation. You go stiff, I’ll shield you and pull you back. The gaze lock doesn’t cut through psionic shielding.”

Ursula smirked at that, eyes never leaving the road. “Then we get the hell out. Don’t worry—the odds of running into these dudes is low. I promise. If there’s any danger, I’ll give the order to pull out. No one’s going down today.”

None of them looked particularly reassured. But they also didn’t argue.

The trees thickened, growing denser with every passing second, and then, just ahead, the familiar break in the guardrail. A hard-packed shoulder off Curlew—the one where Jason Carver had once stood, drunk on righteous venom, and called her a whore.

Ursula didn’t flinch. She clicked the transfer case into 4WD and steered off the pavement.

The truck lurched forward, tires grinding against underbrush and dry leaves as it plunged past the tree line and into the gloom.

Inside the cab, everything was shadows and tension. Tree limbs scraped along the side of the vehicle, and roots jutted up from the earth like bones trying to claw their way out. It was slow going. The path wasn’t really a path at all—just memory and instinct stitched together with grit.

Ursula’s eyes tracked the dense forest ahead, but her voice stayed steady. “Alright, I know the direction, more or less,” she said. “But I haven’t driven this approach yet. You guys have. I’m gonna need a guide.”

“I got it,” Eddie said from the passenger seat, already leaning forward, eyes scanning the terrain like a sniper. “Keep straight for twenty more feet, then veer right—real tight.”

Ursula nodded and adjusted the wheel. The tires dipped and bumped through uneven earth as the truck crept deeper, swallowed by trees and shadows.

Bahamutt’s low growl vibrated against the truck floor before anyone spoke.

Nancy was the first to say it. “He’s tense.”

“Yeah,” Ursula replied quietly. Her hand drifted to her thigh, where the leather strap of her holster wrapped around fatigues. The click of the safety on her Colt being flipped echoed loud in the silence. “You guys should go hot.”

Nancy checked her sidearm. Steve did the same. Eddie had already unlatched his rifle and rested it across his knees.

The forest opened suddenly into a clearing—a glen with uneven footing and knotted ground. Mossy roots clawed through the dirt like something ancient had tried to rise, then thought better of it and curled back down to sleep. A massive tree lay half-fallen at the clearing’s center, trunk cracked in two like a snapped spine. Its roots had refused to release the earth, upending a mound of soil that spread like a gnarled hand across the clearing.

The portal shimmered faintly in the glen’s center—its red pulse just barely visible through the morning mist.

Bahamutt let out a warning snarl.

Nancy’s breath caught. “What is it?”

Ursula’s eyes narrowed. She followed Bahamutt’s posture—his nose held perfectly steady, muscles locked. She scanned the glen, her gaze tracing every shadow. One in particular, nestled deep in the roots of the fallen tree, didn’t shift with the breeze.

She leaned slightly forward, keeping her voice calm. “Dad, can you full screen the truck’s dash cam?”

There was a pause on the channel, a soft clack of controls being adjusted back at base.

“Roger,” came Dustin’s voice. Then, a beat later, “I think there’s something at one o’clock. Just left of the root knuckle.”

Ursula exhaled through her nose. “Yeah. I see that too.”

Lucas crackled in over the line, voice sharp with focus. “Can you zoom it in?”

“Click the magnifying glass with the plus sign on it,” Ursula said, eyes never leaving the glen.

In the silence that followed, the portal’s pulse blinked again—soft, steady, indifferent.

Something in the roots wasn’t blinking at all.

Then, a soft click came over the radio—Dustin’s mouse—and a beat later, a chorus of hushed reactions filtered through the open line.

“Is that…” Max’s voice trailed off, thin with uncertainty.

“I think it’s dead,” Lucas offered, his tone low, unsure.

Dustin’s voice cut in a moment later, steady but not without edge. “Thunderbird, I think we’ve got a dead Demodog at one o’clock.”

Ursula’s jaw locked. “Shit.”

She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel, just for a second, eyes squeezed shut as if she could will away the implication of those words. Then she sat up, spine stiffening as she popped the door open.

“Okay,” she said sharply, voice slicing through the stillness. “We need to go see what the fuck this is all about. Shield formation. Guns up. Don’t you fucking shoot or make a sound until I give the command. Got it?”

The truck doors opened in sync, leaf litter crunching under boots as they filed out, weapons in hand. Bahamutt stayed low at Ursula’s heel, still growling—but not barking. Controlled. Focused.

“Soft steps,” Ursula continued. “Nancy—keep your weapon trained on the portal. You have clearance to shoot anything that comes out at will.”

“Copy,” Nancy said, without hesitation. She swung her rifle into position and took the rear arc, her eyes locked on the pulsating red gate.

Ursula clipped the comms mic at her collar with two fingers. “Dad, full screen my body cam. Keep a tight zoom on the target.”

“Copy,” came Dustin’s voice, crisp now with focus.

There was a moment of static, then Susie’s softer voice layered in, quiet and full of tension. “Be careful, Ursula.”

Ursula didn’t look back, didn’t soften. “Affirmative.”

They moved. Shield formation held tight—Eddie forward left, Steve right, Nancy pivoted back, Bahamutt just behind Ursula’s leg. They advanced through the mossy glen, boots barely brushing the ground, every sense wired for impact.

The thing in the roots wasn’t dead.

It was breathing.

Not the steady rise-and-fall of health, but the shallow, labored rhythm of something clinging to the threshold. The demodog’s ribs moved, uneven and faint, one hind leg twitching in the dirt.

“Don’t shoot,” Ursula reminded them, low and hard. “Not unless I give the signal.”

Her eyes never left the thing.

The clearing was quiet save for the shallow breath of the creature and the high static hum from the open channel. Every branch above seemed to press in closer, watching.

Then the demodog lifted its head.

Its motion was slow, dragging. Sinew pulled awkwardly beneath stretched skin as it looked at them.

“Ursula,” Eddie said beside her, quiet and shaken.

She raised one hand without turning. “Shhh.”

The demodog lowered its head again, slow and heavy, the gesture almost human in its exhaustion. Not predatory. Not poised to strike. It looked… defeated.

Ursula’s voice was low but clear. “Dad, you have eyes on this guy?”

“Yeah,” Dustin’s voice came in over the comms. “I see him.”

She started moving slowly, circling wide to get a look at the back of the creature’s head. Bahamutt stayed pressed to her heel, still rumbling with low growls, but not advancing. The demodog didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to follow her movements. It was injured. Badly.

Then she saw it—three mottled spots, faint beneath the grime and dried blood, arranged unmistakably like a cartoon mouse’s ears.

Ursula narrowed her eyes. “Dad… is that—?”

“I’m zooming now,” Dustin replied, the subtle click of the mouse echoing faintly across the comms.

Silence stretched for half a second, then Dustin said, “I think… I think that’s Dart.”

Ursula went still. “Are you sure, Dad?”

“I think so.” Dustin said. “You see the three spots there on the back of his head that look like Mickey Mouse ears?”

She exhaled, the sound barely audible. “Sure looks like it.”

She reached to her collar and pressed the transmit. “Quick. Get on the walkie. He knows your voice.”

A few of them jumped when Dustin’s voice came suddenly through Ursula’s walkie, close-range and tinny. “Hey, Dart… it’s me. Dustin.”

The demodog’s head snapped up. Not violently—just alert, like the sound had cut through fog. Its eye locked on the source of the voice. There was no mistaking it now.

Ursula’s voice dropped to a command. “Hey Steve, go back to the truck real quick. The little candy bars from last night are in my bag. Go get them. Quick.”

“What are you—” Eddie started.

“Eddie, be quiet,” she commanded.

He shut his mouth instantly.

Steve hesitated for half a breath, then turned and jogged back toward the truck, his footfalls thudding lightly against the mossy floor.

Ursula lowered herself to one knee. Bahamutt stayed tense at her side but didn’t move. She extended one hand, palm open, fingers low.

“Hi, Dart,” she said softly. “I’m Ursula. It’s okay. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

The demodog’s flanks heaved. It didn’t move. But it didn’t retreat either.

Steve returned, a handful of foil-wrapped candies in his grip. “Got them.”

“Start unwrapping 3 Musketeers bars. Quick,” Ursula said, not taking her eyes off the demodog.

Steve handed her the first one. She broke it open slowly, carefully—no sudden motions. The nougat scent released into the air, sweet and familiar.

Ursula held the halved bar in her open palm and extended it toward Dart.

The creature hesitated. Sniffed. Edged forward with a stuttering crawl, its nose twitching.

“Urs—” Eddie started again, nervous.

“Eddie,” Ursula said, her voice calm but absolute, “stop talking.”

He did.

The demodog crept closer, the scent of chocolate thick in the air. Then, gently, she tossed the halved candy toward it.

Dart sniffed once, twice, then scooped it into his jaws. The bar vanished with a soft, wet crunch.

A low growl rippled out beside her. Bahamutt’s throat vibrated, his teeth bared now, and his whole body coiled with warning.

Dart’s head jerked toward him.

“B,” Ursula said quietly. “Stand down.”

The growl stopped, cut short like a severed wire. But the ridge of fur along Bahamutt’s spine stayed up, high and stiff, his body still tight with instinctive tension.

“Give me another one, Steve,” Ursula murmured, her hand extending without looking.

Steve passed it to her, his movements slow, almost reverent. She broke the chocolate open and split the bar in her palm. She held it out.

This time Dart leaned in and took it directly from her hand. No lunge, no snap—just a slow, tired mouth accepting a gift.

Silence reigned in the glen.

Steve blinked. “Holy shit.”

Eddie’s mouth was slightly open, eyes flicking between Dart and Ursula like he was watching a miracle unfold.

Even through the radio, the comms team was silent. Max. Lucas. Susie. Mike. Not a sound from any of them.

Ursula glanced at Steve and made a small gesture—her fingers flicked twice. Another.

He handed her a third bar.

She didn’t break it open it right away. Instead, she held it out—unwrapped—just far enough that Dart had to stretch to reach it.

And there it was.

A jagged wound along his front flank, crusted with half-dried blood and raw tissue. Torn open, like something had raked into him deep. The kind of wound that didn’t clot without help. The kind of wound that killed slow.

A crackle came through the radio. Dustin’s voice, shaken. “He’s hurt.”

Ursula nodded once, still staring at the demodog as he took the third bar. He didn’t eat it immediately. He just curled his body tighter, protectively over his injured side, and laid his head back down against the forest floor. His breath wheezed from him now, shallow and uneven.

The wind whispered through the leaves above them, too soft to break the weight of it.

Dart lay still, chewing slowly now, each breath visibly harder than the last.

Ursula didn’t move right away. She just stood there, eyes fixed on the wounded creature in front of her.

Then, slowly, she turned her head—to Steve, to Eddie—each of them locked in place, not sure whether they were witnessing something tragic or something sacred.

Behind them, Nancy hadn’t moved. Her back remained steady. Her rifle, steady. Her gaze trained on the portal pulsing fifteen feet away like a heartbeat in the woods.

Ursula didn’t take her eyes off Dart.

“I’m gonna try something,” she said softly.

The radio hissed, and two voices came to her at once—Eddie from her left and Susie from Camp Hellfire, overlapping in a chorus of worry.

“Be careful, Ursula.”

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she reached out with one hand, palm up. Steve was already ready. He pressed another Three Musketeers into her fingers.

She crouched lower and whispered, “Come here, Dart.”

Then the wind shifted.

It wasn’t the leaves or the trees—it was something deeper. The air changed. The sharp crackle of ozone snapped into their lungs, stinging and cold. Bahamutt let out a whimper, ears twitching.

A light sparked to life on Ursula’s palm.

It wasn’t firelight. Not flashlight. It was something else entirely. Electric, sharp, ethereal—lines of brilliant blue threading across her skin like veins turned to lightning, snaking along the lifelines and crescents of her open hand.

Electric palmistry.

Dart didn’t flinch.

Ursula’s fingers flexed slightly, and the candy bar slipped from her palm to the ground with a soft rustle. Forgotten.

Eddie was tensed beside her, shoulders high, breath held, his entire body coiled like a viper on edge. But he didn’t speak again. He didn’t dare.

Dart’s head stretched out, flowered mandibles twitching.

And then her hand made contact—fingers pressing against the slick, fleshy petals of his strange, alien face. She stroked him. Slow. Gentle. Like he was nothing more than a scared mutt that had gotten lost in the woods.

As soon as her palm lay flat against him, the blue light leeched from her skin into his.

It didn’t hurt him. There was no scream, no recoil, no defensive lunge. Only stillness—then a tremble. The glow began to spread through his body like ink in water. Lines of light coursed under his translucent skin, highlighting bone and sinew, catching in the blackened patches of rot and corruption… and purifying it. There was no other word for it. 

The fungal bloom on his flank receded. The patches of necrotic decay that had crept like vines along his limbs shriveled and vanished into clean, healthy tissue.

It’s breath, which had been ragged and wet, deepened. Stabilized.

“Oh my God,” Steve whispered, voice stunned and reverent. “Holy shit.”

Still holding her position by the portal, Nancy didn’t turn around. “What is she doing?” Her voice was level, like she couldn’t afford to let emotion in until she knew if it was good news or very, very bad.

Eddie, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him, barely breathed the answer. “She’s purifying it.”

And it was happening. Right in front of them.

The wound on Dart’s flank—the raw, torn gouge that had been leaking sick rot and spore—knitted shut with unnatural grace. Muscle reformed. Tendons slipped back into alignment like puzzle pieces finding their place. His gaunt, starved body began to fill out, the grotesque slack of corrupted flesh vanishing as new strength returned to his limbs.

The dark, mottled sheen of his skin changed. The muddy, slimy black gave way to a rich hunter green, the surface subtly catching light with the faintest glow. Iridescent threads of bioluminescence crawled beneath the surface in pulsing veins of soft blue and green, like something half-plant, half-starlight.

Dart shuddered. Then his facial petals unfolded.

Ursula didn’t move. Her hand stayed gently cupped on his flank, fingertips brushing along the ridge of bone at the shoulder blade.

The electric light in her palm traveled outward, split down the center of his face, and spiraled into the unfolding petals. As they extended fully, the light reached their ends—and something astonishing happened.

The meaty, veined flesh they’d once known—the horror-bloom of teeth and meat—was gone. In its place, a bloom of luminous purple and pink glowed like a tropical flower in full exotic bloom. Soft and alien, still monstrous in the way only the mouth of a sentient extradimensional creature could be… but now… beautiful.

Bioluminescent veins shimmered like starlight along the edges. The petals pulsed, breathing with him. This was no longer just a demodog.

This was D’Artagnan.

And he was alive.

Eddie exhaled, the breath shaky in his throat. “Holy shit, Ursula… you did it.”

D’Artagnan had opened like a bloom, wide and bioluminescent, glowing softly at the petal edges with a surreal wash of violet and pink. The inner folds pulsed faintly with light, hypnotic and alive, like a flower that had learned to breathe.

Ursula wiped the blood from under her nose with the back of her sleeve, her breath catching only slightly. She kept her gaze on Dart as he watched her with that alien, unreadable face. There was no sound but the whisper of leaves overhead.

Then Will’s voice came through the comms—quiet, stunned. “Uh, guys? Dart says… thanks.”

Steve’s head jerked toward Ursula’s shoulder mic. “What do you mean he says thanks?”

Will’s voice came again, clearer this time. “He’s connected to Zoso’s hivemind. Holy shit. Go ahead, Ursula. You can touch him.”

Ursula hesitated just for a second. Then she reached out, her palm steady despite the blood drying along her knuckles. Her fingers found the edge of Dart’s face—those strange, delicate, petal-like limbs—and brushed them gently. They didn’t feel like flesh anymore. They didn’t feel like monster. They felt like velvet. Like a bloom too perfect for this world.

Dart didn’t pull away. He leaned in.

His body was still slick beneath his new skin, but it no longer felt like decay. It felt like something reborn from the deepest part of the earth. Ursula ran her hand down his neck slowly.

Dart rose, standing on all fours. The moss shifted under him.

Beside her, Bahamutt stood too, his stance alert but no longer aggressive.

“Be nice, B,” Ursula murmured.

The two creatures stepped toward each other. Dart’s petals rustled faintly, open and glowing. Bahamutt leaned in and sniffed. Dart did the same. They circled once, twice.

Then both sat.

Ursula let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Will, can you ask him what happened?”

A short pause.

“Dart says… he was kicked out of his pack,” Will said softly. “So he came here to die.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

“But now he says he can go back,” Will continued. “He’s asking if you can heal the others.”

Ursula kept petting him. Dart made a low, layered hum that vibrated through his chest—an almost purr, strange and wet and real.

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Will they let me?”

“They will,” Will said. “And if you do… they’ll fight for you.”

Ursula turned, her eyes finding Eddie first, then Steve. Both of them were still frozen, stunned, their expressions caught between awe and disbelief.

Her voice was low, steady, a half-smile curving her mouth. “Side quest?”

Chapter Text

For a long moment, no one said a word. The comms line crackled softly, open and breathless with awe. On every monitor at Camp Hellfire, the same image bloomed across the screens: D’Artagnan, reborn. Sleek hunter green, skin no longer slime-slick and graying but luminous—veins of glowing blue and green curling down his sides like vines strung with light. His petal-face shimmered with soft purples and tropic pinks, bioluminescent filigree turning him into something equal parts grotesque and divine.

It wasn’t science. It wasn’t logic. It was Ursula.

“Is that really him?” came Max’s voice, low and stunned. “Is that Dart?”

“It’s Dart,” Max whispered, and the sound of her wonder over the line was barely audible, almost like a prayer. Then, louder, more certain—“Could he help? With the sweep, I mean. For scouting?”

There was a delay before Will answered. When he did, his voice came not from the cabin but the mindspace—flat and distant, like sound traveling through water. “Yes. He can clear the area.”

Even in the truck, Steve gave a small noise of disbelief. “Seriously?” he murmured, not taking his eyes off the glowing creature.

Ursula blinked once, slowly, then shifted her weight and leaned slightly toward the open mic clipped to her vest. “Will—can you tell him once we’re through, he can’t follow. If he tries to come back after us, he’ll die. It’s not safe on our side.”

Another silence. Then Will, again from wherever his mind drifted through the psionic tear, spoke: “He understands.”

D’Artagnan turned, not with fear or hesitation, but with purpose. He didn’t vanish into the portal. He moved through it—like a tide drawn back out to sea.

“Goddamn,” Eddie muttered, watching until Dart’s glow disappeared into the inverted dark.

“Dad,” Ursula said without looking back, “mark it. Dart’s our forward scout. Log the movement and let me know the second anything hits his signal.”

“You got it,” came Dustin’s voice, already typing.

Ursula’s hands settled back on her rifle. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

And just like that, the second roll-out began.

The tension didn’t vanish—but it dulled. The way a knife, even when sheathed, still hums with threat. They moved with purpose, muscle memory and training snapping into place. Surveillance deployment followed the same rhythm as it had before: efficient, tight, methodical.

Steve and Eddie took the front and rear flanks. Nancy stayed at Ursula’s shoulder, sharp-eyed and quiet, her rifle swinging lightly with every pivot. Bahamutt worked the perimeter, his gait quick and low, ears flicking, the faintest growl always rumbling just under the surface. Every fifteen seconds, one of the boys—first Eddie, then Steve—called “clear” into the open line, their voices steady, ritualized.

No one was slacking. But there was a subtle shift in the air. A softness to the tension, like a taut wire allowed to slacken just a few inches. With Dart on the other side now—an extra presence, a set of limbs on the ground in the place they couldn’t yet see—and Zoso still anchored to Will in the psionic field, it was hard not to feel… bolstered.

Not safe. Never that. But buffered. Covered.

Even Ursula, who typically moved like every shadow might have teeth, was settling into something that almost resembled ease. Not trust—Ursula Henderson didn’t do trust when it came to the Inverted Realm. But she was letting herself believe they might actually get through this without the usual bloodshed.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took.

The scaffolding went up clean. Camera mounted, motion detectors blinked to life one after another, a row of glowing green reassurance. The Dinomist sprayer was secured to its magnetic anchor with a hiss of compressed air and a final twist of the locking mount.

Phase One: secure the primary side.

Done.

“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she said cheerfully. The words had barely left Ursula’s mouth before the comms crackled.

“Ursula, this is Will,” his voice came through, flat and distant in that particular way it got when he was deep in the mindfield. “The woods on the other side are clear. Dart says there’s no motion, no heat signatures, no spore scent. You’re good to breach.”

Ursula didn’t answer right away. She checked the sky, then the treeline. Nothing. No shift in pressure. No sound but wind and the faint hum of their equipment.

She finally nodded once, sharp. “Copy that,” she said. “Let’s move.”

They didn’t need further instruction. The formation was second nature now.

Ursula moved first, stepping to the portal’s shimmering edge like it was nothing more than a door left ajar. She didn’t hesitate—just lifted her shield arm and walked through.

A full minute passed in silence. Nothing but the low buzz of static and the distant chirr of insects filtering through the open channel. Then, finally—

Ursula’s voice came across the comms—calm, measured, and unmistakably certain. “Clear.”

The single word cracked the tension like glass. The team moved.

Nancy followed, her boots quiet in the moss, rifle up, lips tight. The weight of the weapon looked lighter in her hands than it should have.

Eddie came third, muttering something about “round two, baby” under his breath, his fingers flexing around the grip of his shotgun like it was an old friend.

Bahamutt padded beside him, lean and alert, his hackles lowered but his body still coiled with instinct. His nose twitched once, then again, testing the portal’s edges.

And finally, Steve. He adjusted the strap of the gear box, pulled his collar up, and gave the trees one last glance before stepping in after them.

The portal swallowed them whole.

The second they were gone, the woods were quiet again.

Just the wind, whispering through leaves like it hadn’t seen what just passed through.

The moment they breached the other side, the world seemed to tilt—not in danger, but in surreality. Waiting for them in the upside-down’s mossy twilight was D’Artagnan, no longer the crumpled, bleeding creature they’d found. He was standing tall—or at least as tall as a demodog ever stood—his bioluminescent veining pulsing gently with hues of blue and green, like someone had dipped a monster in a lava lamp and given it puppy energy. His petals glowed soft pink at the edges, curling back like a bloom leaning into sunlight, even though the sky above was wrong and sourceless.

And Dart was happy.

If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging. Instead, he padded up to Ursula with a little snort, head low in a wiggly not-quite-bow, then skittered sideways like an over-caffeinated toddler pretending not to want attention.

A second later, Bahamutt stepped through the portal behind them—and the instant Dart saw him, everything shifted.

They locked eyes, then sniffed. Circling slowly smelling each other's butts like dogs at the dog park. Tentatively. Then, like someone flipped a switch, Dart dropped into a deep, unmistakable play bow—his shoulders low, petals perked, whole body vibrating like a tuning fork of chaotic affection.

Bahamutt responded in kind, tail swaying as he pounced.

It was chaos. A tumbling tangle of brown fur and glowing floral limbs, growling and snarling and rolling like a pair of badly-behaved cousins at recess. Dart made an absolutely unholy noise that could only be described as a purring bark, and Bahamutt barrel-rolled over him, kicking up inverted dust and moss spores.

Eddie and Steve raised their rifles instantly, weapons swinging up like a reflex. Nancy did the same, tight-lipped, eyes narrowed.

“Whoa, whoa—stand down,” Ursula called, a breathless laugh bubbling up from somewhere low in her chest. “They’re fine. They’re just…” She gestured helplessly to the horror dog pit fight in front of her. “Let them get it out of their systems.”

Steve didn’t lower his gun right away, his eyes darting between the glowing petals and the flashes of sharp teeth.

“They’re playing,” Ursula said again, with more amusement than reassurance.

A beat passed. Then Eddie grunted and eased off the trigger. “Christ,” he muttered, lowering his gun. “That’s a new one.”

After about a minute of spirited roly-poly chaos, Dart and Bahamutt finally slowed, panting and stretching in mirror-image arcs. And then, just like that, they padded back to Ursula’s side and sat.

Perfectly still. Perfectly obedient.

Waiting for orders.

“What the hell even is this?,” Steve asked quietly, eyes still wide.

Ursula didn’t answer. Just reached down and scratched behind Bahamutt’s ear, as Dart tilted his head expectantly beside him.

Then, with a gentleness that felt absolutely surreal coming from someone currently strapped with weapons and commanding a nightmare dog army, she reached out and patted one of Dart’s softly glowing facial petals.

The demodog let out a strange sound—half chitter, half burble, the kind of noise that seemed like it shouldn’t exist in nature. But there was no mistaking the intent. It was… contentment. Gratitude, maybe. Something close to joy, run through an alien filter.

Over the comms, Dustin’s voice cracked through with awe.

“That’s so weird. That’s the same sound he made when he was a pollywog…”

Ursula blinked slowly, her hand dropping. “This is weird even for us,” she said, and then glanced out toward the warped trees beyond. “Will, tell Dart to keep an eye out for anything coming.”

A moment of stillness. Then Dart made another low chuff and scampered off, disappearing into the crooked woods with surprising grace, bioluminescence flickering through the gloom like a warped lantern in motion.

They fell back into the plan like they’d never strayed from it. One breath, then the next. One task, then the next. The rhythm returned.

Ursula clicked her comms once and gestured to Bahamutt, sending him out in a wide arc ahead. Nancy fell in beside her, boots silent on the soft, fungal undergrowth, rifle always up, always ready. Steve and Eddie took their usual positions—Eddie on point, Steve covering the rear, their clear calls coming in on fifteen-second intervals with practiced precision.

But even with the routine sliding back into place, the ease they’d felt on the primary side didn’t fully return. There was something about this place—the smell of ozone baked into the air, the way the trees twisted like they’d grown wrong, like they’d been listening to the wrong song their whole lives. The upside-down side of the McKinney gate felt designed by something that had read fairy tales and thought, “Nah, that’s not scary enough.”

Still, they moved. They worked.

Ursula pounded the base of the scaffolding into the moss-choked soil with that absurd two-handed mallet she swung like it weighed nothing. The metal thudded deep into the ground with every strike, vibrating up her arms. Then the arch was clicked together, frame snapping into place with a hiss and clunk of aluminum on treated polymer.

Cameras. Motion sensors. Dinomist dispersal nozzles. All magnet-locked into their positions with quick, sure hands. The arch slotted cleanly into its base and stood there like some ominous doorway-within-a-doorway, and Ursula crouched to attach the two pale green PAG-7 canisters to the sprayer lines.

From comms, Dustin’s voice crackled in: “Thunderbird, Camp Hellfire has green lights across the board. We’re receiving telemetry. Motion sensors are pinging normal baseline drift. Cameras are clean.”

Mike’s voice chimed in a beat after. “Looks good from here too, Ursula. You’re a machine.”

It was going off without a hitch.

Again.

It was crazy.

It was time.

Ursula slung the now-empty case over one shoulder and gave a sharp whistle. Bahamutt padded to her side immediately, head high, body alert. She turned toward the edge of the glen, where Dart waited half-crouched in the fungal brush, those bioluminescent petals glowing faintly with each breath.

“Alright, Dart,” she said, crouching to meet him eye-level. Her tone softened, just slightly. “We’re heading out. You be a good little petal puppy while I’m gone.”

Dart chittered, low and warm, and leaned into the scratch she gave beneath one twitching petal.

Behind her, Eddie blinked. “Petal puppy? Is that canon now?”

Ursula didn’t miss a beat. “Obviously.”

There was a brief laugh—just a breath’s worth—and then the team began moving. Final sweep. Formation relaxed. They’d done it again. Another successful breach, another setup secured, another portal fortified. Easy. Too easy.

The crunch of boots and soft tread of paws moved toward the inverted edge of the portal, the familiar shimmer just ahead. Nancy was shifting her rifle to her back, Steve had lowered his guard, and Eddie was already cracking a joke about who had dibs on the leftover sandwiches when they got back.

Then Ursula stopped.

Dead still.

One hand shot up, and Bahamutt froze beside her and began growling.

A sound. Faint. But unmistakable. Like dry leaves fluttering under a low voltage hum—like static wrapped in wingbeat.

Her eyes went wide.

“Fuck! Kruthik Wasps,” she barked, pivoting hard. “Ten o’clock! Get to the portal. NOW!”

They ran.

Chapter Text

The trees blurred past, portal dead ahead and glowing, a strange and urgent beacon in the gloom. Boots pounded over root and moss, comms buzzing with panicked chatter from Camp Hellfire.

“Thunderbird! We’ve got swarm signatures, south vector—what the hell did you stir up?!” Dustin’s voice was sharp, clipped.

“Pag-7s on standby!” Susie called out, breathless.

Ursula didn’t answer. She was too busy running.

Bahamut veered right with her, low and fast, ears flat, growling. Nancy brought up the rear just behind Steve, rifle clutched tight.

Then the whine hit the air—thin, metallic, rising like a scream.

Nancy twisted in place just in time. The wasp came in fast from the left, just above the ground. She bared her teeth, pivoted her weight, and slammed the butt of her rifle down in a single fluid strike.

It hit the dirt and crunched wetly.

A sick yellow mist burst up in a puff—and Steve was right behind her, too close to dodge. He inhaled mid-step.

“Shit!” Nancy yelled. “It scent-marked him!”

“Just get to the portal!” Ursula barked over her shoulder. “Now!”

They bolted, no time to assess. The world narrowed to movement and light, the glowing tear of the portal now twenty feet ahead. Eddie sprinted through first. Nancy followed.

Just as Steve passed the threshold—

A blur. A flicker of motion behind his shoulder. The soft thunk of something sharp hitting flesh.

But no one noticed.

Then Steve was through, and Ursula came last, twisting just enough to see the shimmer collapse behind them like a curtain in the wind.

“Go! Pag-7, now!” she barked, already pivoting.

“Copy!” Dustin called. “Firing!”

The trap ignited with a series of low thumps. Compressed pyrochemical surges triggered in sequence, and on the Upside Down side, fire roared in reply.

The wasps shrieked and burned in midair. One flamed through the breach, screaming silently, and crashed in a smoldering pile before twitching into stillness.

But two more had slipped through—just ahead of the blast zone.

They were still alive.

And they were hunting.

The truck came into view like a beacon, its armored sides catching fractured light through the canopy. They hit the clearing at a sprint, boots sliding on the churned moss and scattered gravel.

Steve got there first.

He reached for the door, hand slamming against the steel—then froze.

His head jerked. Eyes wide.

His rifle came up.

Nancy saw it happen before anyone else. “Steve?” she said, breath hitching. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

But he wasn’t looking at her. Not really.

He staggered backward a half-step, eyes flicking wild around the tree line. His lips moved, whispering something she couldn’t make out. His breath started coming fast. Then his grip shifted—rifle tight to his shoulder, finger ghosting the trigger.

“Shit,” Ursula breathed, sliding to a stop beside him. “He’s stung.”

And then Steve bolted.

No hesitation. No aim. No sense.

He turned and sprinted for the trees, disappearing into the dark, fully armed, and hallucinating like hell.

“STEVE!” Nancy screamed and went after him without waiting. Her boots hit the dirt fast, rifle slung back, one hand stretched as if she could pull him back with just that.

“Nancy, no!” Ursula shouted—but she was gone.

“Goddamn it,” Ursula hissed, B, with me!”

Bahamut was already running.

Eddie didn’t ask. He was in motion the second Ursula was, shotgun up, jaw clenched, teeth bared like a wolf.

Behind them, comms exploded with voices—panic, protocol, shouting.

“Where the fuck are they going?!” Max was yelling. “Did Steve just run? Is Nancy with him?!”

“Guys, what’s happening?! We’ve got trackers lighting up—oh my God—” Susie’s voice cracked.

Ursula raised her wrist mic as she ran. “Hellfire, I need you back on mission. NOW. This isn’t a drill.”

“But—”

“Click back in, all of you. No time for panic. Track our signals. Guide us in. Now!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dustin came on, voice tight, focused. “Copy. Three targets moving northwest, fast. Diverging paths, but we’ve got pings. We’re on it.”

“Keep us updated,” Ursula snapped. “We’re not losing anyone today.”

They followed the comms like lifelines—Lucas feeding direction, Max chiming in sharp corrections, Susie re-centering coordinates every few seconds as the team plunged through thorns and over deadfall.

“He’s stationary now,” Lucas’s voice came through the headset. “Thirty meters. Bearing left—Ursula, you’re almost there.”

Bahamutt growled low as they crested a slope, a patch of tangled brush giving way to a hollow scattered with shredded leaves and crushed moss. Ursula raised her fist and they halted, ducking low behind a twisted log half-choked in ivy.

And there he was.

Steve stood in the center of the clearing, swaying slightly. His shirt was torn at the collar, soaked in sweat and dirt. Eight—maybe nine—angry red stings welled across his neck and arms, the flesh already swelling. The rifle in his hands trembled, trained on Nancy.

Nancy stood frozen six feet away, arms raised. Her voice was cracking, but she didn’t lower her hands.

“Steve, it’s me,” she said. “It’s Nancy. Steve, please, listen to me.”

But his eyes were wild. Glazed over. His mouth opened, teeth clenched like he was barely holding back a scream. “No,” he whispered. “No—you’re lying.”

“Steve—”

“You’re not Nancy,” he snarled, voice jagged like glass. “You’re him. You’re Billy.”

Nancy froze.

“Oh shit,” Eddie whispered.

In Steve’s mind, everything warped.

Nancy wasn’t standing in front of him anymore.

She had blonde curls now. Bright lipstick. A one-piece bathing suit in pink and blue stripes that clung to her hips like a second skin. Behind her, a flickering pool shimmered, and somewhere off to the side, the echo of sprinklers buzzed like mosquitoes.

And Billy Hargrove—shirtless, grinning, cruel—stood behind her, hand curled tight around Karen Wheeler’s wrist.

“She’s mine now,” Billy drawled, dragging Karen closer. “You really think your little princess is gonna stop this? Come on, Harrington. We both know how this ends.”

In the hallucination, Billy stepped closer.

Steve screamed.

Back in the clearing, the scream tore out of him and he shoved Nancy back, finger twitching dangerously on the trigger.

“Steve, stop!” Nancy cried. “I’m not him! It’s me—please, you have to see me!”

Max’s voice crackled on comms, tense and unsure. “Wait—did he just say Billy?”

Ursula’s face went hard.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” she muttered. “He’s tripping balls.” Her voice was taut. “Weapons hot. But don’t shoot unless I say.”

Bahamutt growled low beside her.

Steve turned toward the sound.

And aimed.

Steve turned toward the sound.

And aimed.

The gun tracked, trembling slightly—then steadied. Directly at Bahamutt.

“No,” Ursula breathed.

“Shit,” Eddie said behind her, his voice taut with panic. “He’s aiming at the dog.”

“We need to take him down,” Ursula hissed, her fingers already flexing on the grip of her shield. “Now.”

Eddie was already edging around to flank him, trying to stay low. “Without getting shot or breaking him—cool. Easy.”

But then the gun went off.

The bullet cracked past Bahamutt’s flank, close enough to part fur.

Ursula snapped.

She launched forward like a thunderbolt, her shield slamming into Steve’s chest, driving him backward and to the ground. The two of them hit the dirt in a blur of limbs and impact. She punched once—twice—her fists landing hard, each strike fueled by white-hot rage.

Steve grunted, caught one of her arms, rolled. They tangled—his strength still too much, even out of his mind. He bucked, throwing her halfway off, and tried to swing back.

Eddie dove in, grabbing Steve’s arm and trying to pull him back. “Steve, man! It’s us! It’s us!”

Steve snarled—his eyes still locked on some vision only he could see—and drove his elbow into Eddie’s ribs. Eddie yelped and went sprawling, landing hard on his back and gasping.

“Steve!” Nancy’s voice cracked like a whip. “Steve, stop it!” She was on them, grabbing at his jacket, trying to pull him off.

But Ursula wasn’t letting go. She was all fury and heat, slamming him back down, shield pinning his torso as she reared up, ready to bring her elbow down next.

“Steve, look at me!” Nancy screamed.

No recognition.

“Enough!” she roared—and drove the stun gun into Steve’s ribs. Contact.

The crack of voltage sizzled loud and close. Steve convulsed violently, body jerking under Ursula’s weight.

Then he sagged. Dead weight. Still breathing, but no fight left.

Ursula was panting, eyes wild, still crouched over him. For a second it looked like she might not stop.

But then her gaze flicked to Bahamutt—who hadn’t moved, tail tucked and body low—and she let out a sharp breath. Sat back. Closed her eyes.

Eddie coughed from the ground. “Well. That… worked.”

Nancy dropped to her knees, staring at Steve’s unconscious face. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered. Her hands were shaking.

Ursula didn’t say a word. But her jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

The moment broke like a snapped branch.

Ursula’s breath hitched. Then she moved—fast and clinical. She pivoted off Steve’s body and went straight to Bahamutt.

“B,” she murmured, running her hands over his ribs, legs, behind his ears. “You good? You good, baby?”

The dog trembled beneath her touch but wasn’t hurt—just scared out of his mind. His eyes didn’t leave Steve, his massive head nudging against Ursula once, then shuffling sideways to press into Eddie’s leg. Eddie, still catching his breath, automatically put a hand on the dog’s side.

“We’re okay,” he said, more to Bahamutt than anyone else.

Ursula was already stripping Steve of his weapons. She moved with mechanical precision—rifle unlatched and tossed aside, backup pistol yanked from its holster, blades from his boot and belt. When she got to his hands, she froze.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Steve’s hands and neck were blotched with angry red welts, each swelling fast. There were too many.

“Jesus,” Eddie breathed behind her. “How many times did he get hit?”

Ursula didn’t answer. Her eyes swept the forest floor, hunting. There—ten feet out. Two Kruthik wasp corpses lay curled in death, their wings crumpled, their abdomens torn open. The stingers had ripped free, still embedded in Steve somewhere.

“Goddamn it.” Her head jerked toward the trees. “We’ve gotta get the meds. No time for this.”

Nancy stood off to the side, rifle slack in her grip, her eyes blank and unfocused.

Ursula didn’t look at her. “We need to fall back to the truck. Now. Get that scent mark off him before more show up.”

Nancy didn’t move.

Eddie gently pulled her back by the elbow. “Come on, Wheeler. Let’s go.”

Steve’s weight was dead and awkward between them, half-stumbling, half-dragged. Ursula had one of his arms slung over her shoulders, her other hand still clenched around the grip of his vest. Eddie took the other side, his grip iron, jaw tight.

Nancy moved behind them, rifle cradled but unfocused, the barrel tilted vaguely downward. Her steps were automatic, one foot in front of the other. But she wasn’t really there. Not with them. Not now.

All she could see was the gun—Steve’s hand, trembling, finger on the trigger. His face twisted with fear and something worse. And her own voice, thin and desperate: Steve, please. It’s me.

She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t frozen. But now, walking behind his half-conscious body, her chest felt like something was cracking open.

Bahamut didn’t break stride once, but for the first time, he wasn’t shadowing Ursula. He was tucked in tight at Eddie’s other side, head low, growling soft and constant, hackles still raised like the danger hadn’t passed.

Branches scraped them, leaves whipped at their arms and faces, but no one slowed. The truck came into view through the brush, shining like salvation in the dying light. They didn’t stop moving.

Not until they reached it. Not until the world narrowed to triage and breath and time running out.

They got him down just outside the truck—Ursula and Eddie lowering him together, easing his limp body into the dirt like he was made of glass and full of fire at once.

“Get the med kit,” Ursula ordered, already shifting her weight back onto her heels.

Eddie was gone in a blink. Around the side of the truck, door open, gear up. He grabbed the heavy green trauma pack from beneath the rear seat and sprinted back.

Ursula didn’t wait there. She rounded the tailgate in a half-stumble, nearly falling as she dropped to her knees beside Bahamutt. The dog was standing just off the rear wheel well, rigid and trembling, ears pinned, eyes locked on the spot where Steve had stood with the gun raised.

“You okay, B?” Her voice was breaking apart. “You okay?”

She pulled him into her arms. Hugged him so tight her knuckles went white in his fur. Pressed frantic kisses to the side of his head, down his ears, into the scruff of his neck.

“Fuck, puppers. He almost got you. He almost—” Her voice cracked out completely.

Across the forest floor, Eddie was silent and precise. He unzipped the kit, pulled out the antivenom vial and preloaded syringe, swabbed the injection site. He laid the injector against Steve’s neck. “Antivenom in three,” he muttered, mostly for himself. “Two. One.”

The hiss was subtle. The welt beneath it—bloated and ugly—didn’t flinch.

Next came the Epi. “This’ll kick you harder, buddy,” Eddie murmured, pressing it into the thigh through the rip in Steve’s jeans. The plunger clicked.

Steve jolted once. Gasped. But didn’t wake.

Eddie sat back on his heels, the back of his glove pressed to his forehead, just breathing.

Steve didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. His arms lay dead weight at his sides, fingers twitching only from the residual nerve shocks. His face was waxy pale and coated in sweat. The angry red welts from the wasp stings stood out in patches all along his neck and hands.

“He’s dosed Urs,” Eddie said to her. “He’s stable. For now.”

Bahamutt had returned, but not to Ursula’s side. He pressed up close to Eddie instead, trembling still, but leaning in like Eddie was the only safe ground left.

Ursula finally stood, wiping the blood off her face with the back of her wrist. “We’ve got to get him back to base,” she said, voice hoarse. “Help me get him in the truck.”

Eddie nodded, and together they lifted Steve’s limp weight—one arm over each of their shoulders, careful and fast. It was awkward and heavy, but they managed, maneuvering him into the backseat with practiced coordination and no time to spare.

Nancy was already in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched. Her eyes were vacant, glassy. Tears streamed quietly down her face, her rifle clutched across her lap like it was the only thing anchoring her to this plane of reality.

Ursula turned back toward the others. Her voice, when it came, was strained but steady. “You drive,” she told Eddie. “I’ll stay with him. Make sure he doesn’t crash again.”

He nodded once. “You riding up front?”

“No.” She opened the back door. “I’m staying back here with him. Make sure he stays down.”

She climbed in beside Steve, already checking his pulse, his pupils, her hand steady now.

Eddie slid behind the wheel, and spoke into the radio on his collar, “this is Hellfire Ground—Team One is inbound,” he said clearly. “Repeat, we are inbound.”

Chapter Text

The mission was on hold. Not over—just rerouted. That distinction mattered.

Black Betty tore down the forest trail, her reinforced tires chewing through gravel and wet moss. The roar of the engine was a steady, grounding thunder in the silence that filled the cab.

Eddie drove with both hands locked on the wheel, jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth. His eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror every few seconds, knuckles white. Behind him, the forest blurred—an endless stream of green and gray shadows that refused to stay still.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Nancy sat like a statue broken in half.

Her forehead was pressed against the cold window, cheekbone tucked into the curve of the glass. Her eyes were open, but unfocused, and tears rolled down her cheeks without pause or sound. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled around the rifle she hadn’t let go of since they’d pulled Steve out of the woods.

Bahamutt lay curled in the footwell beneath her, his flank pressed tightly against her boots. He wasn’t growling anymore, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His breathing came quick and shallow, his massive head low, every muscle in his body tight. Every few seconds, he made a soft whining sound deep in his throat—like he didn’t know how else to check if things were okay.

Nancy didn’t move.

She didn’t look at him.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just cried quietly, head against the glass, like maybe if she stayed still long enough the window would let her fall through.

Steve didn’t stir.

He lay sprawled awkwardly across the backseat, limp and pale, his skin gleaming with the after-sweat of fever and venom. The stun gun had dropped him hard and deep, and now there was only the shallow rise and fall of his chest to prove he was still in there somewhere.

Ursula sat beside him, one knee braced against the seat, working quickly and gently. Zip ties clicked into place—ankles first, then wrists—fastened just tight enough to restrain, not enough to bruise. She winced with each cinch. Her fingers moved with a medic’s precision but trembled anyway. It felt wrong. All of it. But necessary.

He’d pulled a weapon. On them. On her. On the dog.

She hadn’t had a choice.

Her hands faltered as she tightened the final loop, and for just a moment, she let herself pause. Her breath hitched. One tear slipped loose, then another, trailing hot and bitter down her cheek. She didn’t wipe them away. Just stared at Steve’s unconscious face and tried to remember the last time she’d seen him laugh.

From the front, Eddie’s eyes flicked up to the rearview.

He saw her.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. “You alright?”

Her spine straightened instantly. “I’m fine,” she replied, flat and automatic.

The kind of “fine” that meant she absolutely wasn’t.

Eddie didn’t push it.

Ursula exhaled slowly, then tapped her comms mic. “Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird. We’ve got Harrington secure. 10-17 to base. ETA twenty minutes. Get the med kit out. He’s gonna need triage the second we pull in.”

Susie’s voice crackled back a second later, hesitant. “Copy that. How bad is it?”

Ursula glanced down at Steve’s neck. The welts were worse now—angry and purpled, like blisters raised by boiling air. She counted quickly, mouth tight. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “He’s got at least ten stings.”

There was a beat of silence.

“But he’s breathing is normal. Heart rate’s not scary fast, but that’s the Epi. Eddie got the antivenom in. He’s stable—just… he’s gonna be rough for a bit. Probably down for a day or two, maybe more. We’re gonna need to pick up his slack. Make sure everyone knows.”

Dustin’s voice came in, sad but clear: “Roger that.”

Ursula didn’t release the mic. “This is just a reroute,” she said, voice steady, like this wasn’t the second time she’d nearly lost a teammate in under an hour. “I need someone to get Pop and Murray geared up. We’re swapping out Nancy and Steve. Eddie and I are pushing forward to the Creel house to drop off the payload.”

From the front seat, Eddie turned sharply, eyes flicking to the mirror. “Wait—what? We’re just dropping them off and heading right back in?”

Before Ursula could answer, two voices hit the comm at once.

“Wait, no way!” Dustin’s voice cracked.

“You guys need to regroup!” Susie added. “Steve’s hurt—Ursula, you need backup and recovery time—”

“Negative,” Ursula snapped, cool and clipped. “This is a mission. When there’s a problem, we reroute. And then we finish the mission. Do you copy?”

Silence stretched thin and taut.

Then, one by one:

“Copy,” Mike said.

“…Copy,” Susie followed.

A long pause.

“…Copy,” Dustin added last, quieter this time.

Ursula lowered her hand from the mic and looked up, meeting Eddie’s eyes in the rearview.

“You still got my six?”

Eddie didn’t even blink. “You always do.”

And then the truck fell quiet again.

Just the hum of tires, the rhythmic thunk of suspension over roots, and the slow, even sound of Steve’s breathing behind them.

Ursula watched him the whole time. One eye on the swell of his chest, the rise and fall slow and steady—like if she stared hard enough, she could will it to stay that way. The welts on his neck had darkened, angry patches against his skin, but he wasn’t seizing. He wasn’t fading. Just unconscious and quiet, for now.

Her hand hovered near the pulse point on his wrist, not quite touching, but always ready.

In the front seat, Bahamutt was curled tight in the footwell, his body wedged into the space between the gear console and Nancy’s boots. He hadn’t made a sound since they left the woods, but the way he was pressed against her—quivering, breath shallow—said enough. His tail didn’t twitch. His ears didn’t perk. He just leaned, like he couldn’t bear being more than a few inches from someone solid.

Nancy didn’t move.

Her head was still tilted toward the window, cheek against the glass, but the tears had dried in salt-streaked lines down her face. Her rifle remained slack in her lap, untouched, her shoulders hunched like she was holding herself together with nothing but gravity.

Eddie kept one hand on the wheel, but glanced over at her—once, then again.

“You alright, Wheeler?” he asked, voice soft.

Nancy didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

She only curled closer to the door, like the window might open and let her slip out into the air if she just leaned hard enough.

Eddie looked back toward the road, jaw tight.

“She’s not alright,” Ursula said from the back, low and firm. “Give her space.”

And that was it.

No one spoke after that.

The forest rolled by in silence, the branches overhead catching gold light like a closing curtain.

Black Betty carried them forward.

To safety.

To regrouping.

To whatever the hell came next.

Chapter Text

By the time Black Betty crunched up the gravel drive toward the cabin, the morning sun was high enough to turn the mist gold. The forest was awake now—light spearing through the trees in sharp angles, the air bright but edged with a lingering cool.

Steve hadn’t stirred in over twenty minutes. Whatever storm the venom had brewed in his brain, it had broken. Now, his body was slack with the weight of recovery, the crash coming in slow, shallow breaths.

Ursula reached for her knife, flipped it once in her palm, and slid the edge cleanly under the zip ties. One by one—ankles first, then wrists—they snapped with quiet precision. The plastic dropped to the floorboards without ceremony. Her hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

The front door opened before the truck’s engine finished ticking. Jonathan stepped out, looking like he hadn’t blinked in ten minutes. Argyle followed, brows knit tight for once, eyes tracking Steve’s unmoving form with dawning alarm.

Ursula climbed out and met them at the truck bed. “Give me a hand.”

They didn’t ask questions. Just moved. Between the three of them, they hauled Steve gently from the seat—his weight awkward and uneven, head lolling sideways—and carried him inside.

Joyce met them at the doorway, breath catching. “Oh my god.”

They eased Steve down onto the couch, where he slumped bonelessly against the cushions, face pale and glistening with sweat. Joyce was on him in an instant—tucking a folded blanket beneath his head, pulling another across his chest, brushing his damp hair off his forehead with trembling fingers.

The kids were already crowding the room.

Max. El. Lucas. Eden. Robyn.

Voices overlapping. Robyn halfway through a sentence that didn’t have an ending. El’s hands fluttering uncertainly between reaching out and staying still. 

Robyn already scanning Steve’s face like he could psionically read his vitals. “Is he—?” “Oh my god, is that venom?” “He’s not gonna—right?” “Did he freak out on you?”

Ursula didn’t answer. She barely even looked at them.

Her eyes tracked Nancy.

Still in the doorway.

Still not speaking.

Still staring—like her brain had paused on a single frame and refused to hit play again.

Her shoulders were tight. Her rifle was still slung across her back. And her face was a blank wall, smeared with dried salt and the faint bloom of a bruise just starting to rise near her temple.

Ursula looked to Robyn. Just a glance. A nod. A small flick of her chin.

Handle it.

Robyn was already moving.

She crossed the room without a word, steering Nancy gently by the elbow toward the kitchen. Nancy didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just moved like someone underwater, legs stiff, eyes unseeing. Robyn settled her at the table, sat down beside her, and pulled her in without asking. One arm wrapped across Nancy’s shoulders. Nancy folded into it like a broken tent collapsing inward. The first sob was silent. The second cracked her open.

By the time Ursula stepped past them, Nancy was whispering broken pieces of the story—how Steve had looked at her, how he hadn’t seen her, how close the trigger had come to pulling.

Ursula didn’t stop.

She knelt beside the couch and handed Joyce a small orange pill bottle. “Give him two of these when he starts to come to,” she said quietly. “Three, if he’s panicked. They’ll slow the crash long enough to get his vitals steady.”

Joyce’s eyes dropped to the label. “Valium?”

“Yeah,” Ursula replied, rising to her feet. “And you’ll want a barf bucket too. Once the antivenom finishes chewing through that wasp cocktail in his blood, it’s gonna get real gnarly real fast.”

Joyce’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

Ursula turned back to the room. The kids were still clustered—hushed now, but still wide-eyed and twitchy. Lucas kept glancing between Steve and Nancy like he couldn’t decide which one needed him more.

“Alright,” Ursula said. “Everyone back to boot camp. That means now. Go run drills or get some food.”

They hesitated. Even Max. But then Joyce gave them a look—a mom look—and one by one, they peeled off and shuffled outside.

At the door, Ursula paused, looking at Joyce and tapped her comm mic. “If anything changes, you call it in. Immediately.”

Joyce nodded, gaze flicking back to Steve. “We will. You two be safe out there.”

Ursula glanced to Eddie, already halfway to the gear tent. She gave Joyce a sheepish nod. “We’ll try.”

They crossed the yard together, slipping through the flap of the gear tent just as the morning sun cut sharper shadows across the treeline. Inside, Hopper and Murray were already waiting—both suited up in IR camo, sleeves rolled and tac boots planted firm on the canvas floor. Hopper’s vest was half-zipped, hands resting on his hips. Murray stood beside him, posture casual, but his eyes were tight behind his glasses.

“You said he was stable,” Hopper said the second Ursula ducked inside. “Is he actually stable?”

“He’s down but breathing normal,” Ursula answered, moving straight to the stack of weapons crates at the back of the tent. “Antivenom and Epi did their jobs. Just don’t expect him on his feet for at least a day.”

Murray’s expression twitched. “Jesus. Wasps?”

“Kruthik,” Eddie said grimly, lifting the first crate and setting it down with a thud. “Big fuckers. Like four inches from antennae to stinger. Harrington got scent-marked and stung. And then the hallucinations hit.”

Hopper muttered something under his breath and shook his head.

“No time to dally,” Ursula said, kneeling to pop open the case. “You’re the replacements. We’re pushing to Creel in twenty. Strap in.”

The first weapons case opened with a click and hiss. She tossed utility belts to each of them—fully rigged, black nylon, dense with pouches and quick-release mag holsters.

“Belts first,” she said. “Weapons next.”

She dragged two more cases forward. They were hard-sided and reinforced.

When the lids opened, even Hopper blinked.

Murray let out a breathy, “Ohhhh mama,” and immediately crouched low to inspect the gear. “Is that a Kel-Tec? Jesus, I’ve never even seen one in person. And—what kind of Benelli is that? That’s not in any catalog I’ve seen.” He looked up at her like she’d handed him the Ark of the Covenant. “Where the hell did you even get these?”

“Off the books. Forward requisition from ’24,” Ursula said with a shrug. “All of them cleaned, zeroed, and ready to blast Upsidedown critters into the next multiverse. Pick your main and sidearm. Ammo’s in the next case.”

Hopper arched a brow. “Remind me never to ask what kind of girl scout troop you were in.”

She smirked. “The kind that earns their badges with a 10mm.”

Murray didn’t wait for permission. He hovered over the spread like a raccoon in a treasure chest, fingers twitching with curiosity. “Alright, give me the rundown, Terminator. I need the greatest hits.”

Ursula crouched beside the cases and pointed with two fingers like a field instructor mid-demo. “Benelli M4—semi-auto, gas-operated, 12-gauge. Marine Corps standard after 2020. Telescoping stock, ghost-ring sights, eats recoil like candy, and it doesn’t jam in mud or blood.”

Hopper grunted, already reaching for it. “Looks like my kind of ugly.”

“For the record,” she added, “it’ll kick harder than your ex-wife and doesn’t apologize.”

He snorted. “Perfect.”

Murray tapped the folded carbine. “This guy’s the Kel-Tec, right?”

“SUB2000 Gen 2,” Ursula confirmed. “9mm, Glock-compatible mags, folds down to fit in a backpack. Low profile, accurate to about 150 yards if you’re decent on trigger discipline. Great for mobility and clean exfil.”

“Oh, I’m decent,” Murray said, flipping the barrel open with a click and cradling it like it was made of gold. “And this sidearm?”

“Beretta 92X RDO,” she said, pulling it from the foam. “Optics-ready, tuned trigger, zero drift, and she stays cool under pressure. It’s the best parts of the M9, but without the 1980s baggage.”

“I’m in love.” Murray snatched it up like it might disappear.

Ursula nodded, then turned to Hopper. “If you’re taking the Benelli, pair it with the Glock 20.” She tapped the matte pistol in its fitted holster. “10mm Auto. Bigger payload, deeper penetration. It’s not subtle, but it won’t quit on you.”

He tested the weight, gave a small nod. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Feels like a real gun.”

“Holsters are modular,” she added, standing. “You’ve got extra mag clips in the utility belts, plus two speed loaders each. I packed the belts myself—everything’s strapped down. Safety toggles are ambi. This isn’t range day, boys. These are meant to end something fast.”

Hopper gave her a sidelong look. “You’ve done this before.”

Ursula didn’t blink. “I don’t bring toys to apocalypse camp.”

They loaded up.

Ursula climbed behind the wheel of Black Betty like she was settling into a throne. Eddie took shotgun without hesitation, already buckling in with the casual reverence of someone who knew exactly what this truck could do. 

Hopper and Murray paused for a moment before into the back, eyes already scanning every inch of the vehicle.

This was their first real look at her.

Black Betty—Ursula’s ’79 Chevy K10 pickup—sat high and wide like a black metal beast. The matte paint drank in the morning sun, giving her the kind of presence that didn’t need to growl to be menacing. The rhinestone-studded ram’s skull gleamed on the grille like a crown jewel of chaos, while a tattered pirate flag fluttered lazily from the antenna like it had seen a thousand battles. The tailgate was a shrine to Ursula’s taste in music: plastered edge-to-edge with bumper stickers—Slayer, Metallica, GWAR, Epica, Wench, Battlecross, Nekrogoblikon—a time traveler’s mixtape of righteous violence.

Hopper, seeing it all for the first time, gave a long, low whistle.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, unable to hide the note of awe in his voice. He wasn’t the kind of man to be intimidated by machines—but even he had to admit, this one? This one had presence.

Murray, meanwhile, looked like a kid who’d just discovered Santa was real and armed to the teeth.

“Christ on a cracker,” he muttered, circling the tailgate. “This thing looks like a Doomsday rig designed by Evel Knievel and driven by Burt Reynolds.”

Ursula smirked but didn’t look away from the dash. “You drool on my seats, Mur, I’m feeding you to the bats.”

He didn’t even blink. “Worth it,” and the two climbed inside.

Then she turned the key.

Black Betty came alive with a throaty, feral growl that made the windows rattle and Hopper’s eyebrows jump. The engine wasn’t just loud—it announced itself, like thunder with teeth.

Hopper let out a satisfied grunt, nodding his approval. “Jesus kid, this sounds like a beast. What’s it got under the hood?”

“That there’s a turbocharged V8 6.2 liter Hellcat Hemi, Pop,” Ursula said, tapping the dash with affection. “Seven hundred and ninety-seven horsepower in this bitch. She can fucking fly when you open her up.”

“Yeah, it sounds like it,” Hopper muttered, clearly impressed.

From the passenger seat, Eddie grinned, throwing a thumb over his shoulder toward the back. “Black Betty has as much power as a tank. If you’re nice to her, Urs’ll probably take you for a ride after all this is over. Right, babe?”

Ursula shot him a quick glance and a sharp smirk. “You know it.”

As if on cue, the dash came alive—the screen blooming to life with soft LED glow, dials and diagnostics flickering in real time. The interface looked like something from another planet: touchscreens, sensors, diagnostics pulsing beneath glass.

Murray made a noise halfway between a gasp and a moan. “Okay. Okay. What is this? Where did you get—Is that a HUD? Is this real?”

Ursula just laughed.

“Reign it in, Mur. We gotta brief.”

She shifted into drive, and Black Betty rolled forward like a panther waking up hungry.

Eddie glanced over, still gripping the oh-shit handle, but looser now. “Okay, so what’s the play, General?”

Ursula kept her eyes on the road. “This is going to be the easy part of the mission.”

Murray scoffed softly from the backseat. “They always say that right before the flamethrowers come out.”

Ursula ignored him. “We tape off the perimeter with the CIA caution line. Eddie, you and Pop have me covered while I open the portals. Mur, you’re on payload detail—peel the tape off the thermite charges and hand them to me when I call for them.”

Murray scratched at his beard. “So I’m the assistant in your little demolition ballet. Fantastic.”

Hopper grunted. “You can handle tape and walking at the same time, can’t you?”

Murray deadpanned. “I’ll try not to sprain anything heroic.”

Ursula rolled her eyes and pressed on. “After each placement, we check in with Will on comms. Make sure nothing across the veil noticed our little breach. Then we move to the next spot. Five payloads total, all going on the backside of the house. Then we skedaddle.”

She glanced in the mirror at them. “Easy, right?”

Eddie let out a slow breath. “Easy like surviving a demonic infestation.”

“Easy like Sunday morning,” Murray added with a dry grin.

Hopper crossed his arms. “Easy like shutting up and doing your job.”

Ursula smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

Black Betty picked up speed as they slipped deeper into the woods, the trees parting like curtains around them.

Showtime.

The house emerged like something dredged from a nightmare.

Boarded windows, every one—some nailed in haphazard X’s, others smothered beneath layers of rot and time. The roofline jutted like jagged teeth, shingles curled back like flaking skin. Vines strangled the porch columns, and dead brush clawed up from the foundation like the house itself had tried to bury what lived inside. The dark paint had long since surrendered to weather and decay, streaked in mildew and time, its edges feathering into the gray bones beneath.

It didn’t look abandoned.

It looked patient.

Eddie gave a low whistle. “Okay. That’s… aggressively haunted.”

Static popped on the comms.

Will’s voice crackled through. “Creel’s still isn’t moving on the upsidedown side. No monsters around anywhere. Just those bats in the east treetop cluster and a handful of black seagull-things circling.”

There was a pause.

Then Susie chimed in, her voice matter-of-fact and way too chipper for the setting: “Those aren’t seagulls, Will. They’re Howlspire Gulls. They showed up in Encounter Codex 3 after the Rift Bloom event.”

A second of silence.

“Also… I think… that’s gotta be another one Dustybuns named in the future.”

Ursula’s mouth twitched. “Affirmative.”

Eddie snorted. “I don’t know what’s worse—that he named ‘em, or that she memorized it.”

Ursula cut the engine and stepped out, her boots hitting the ground like a starting gun.

“Alright,” she said, cracking her neck. “Let’s get to work.”

The crew spilled out of Black Betty like they’d done this a hundred times before. Ursula moved quick, popping the tailgate and yanking free a bundle of marked wooden stakes, a sledge mallet, and a spool of yellow CIA-issue caution tape—thicker, tougher, and about ten times more menacing than the hardware store kind.

Hopper grabbed the mallet without a word and followed her to the edge of the brush line. Ursula set the first stake. “Right here. Top of the perimeter.”

He raised the mallet and drove it in with two solid strikes.

Ursula didn’t flinch—just unraveled a length of the tape and started wrapping it around the stake with a practiced flick of her wrist. Eddie followed behind, unspooling the reel with one hand, his shotgun cradled in the other.

Murray jogged to catch up, already muttering. “So we’re fencing off the house like it’s some kind of biohazard crime scene. That feel comforting to anyone else?”

Eddie arched a brow. “Honestly? Kinda.”

“Least it’s not rats this time,” Hopper grunted, lining up the second stake. “Last perimeter I had to run was ‘Nam-adjacent, and full of snakes.”

“I would take snakes over psychic murder bats,” Murray deadpanned.

Ursula jabbed a third stake into the soil and glanced back. “You guys wanna keep griping, or maybe finish setting the perimeter before the bats get curious?”

Hopper hammered. Eddie reeled.

Murray held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. No complaints. Just saying—when the CIA puts up tape like this, somebody’s usually already dead.”

Ursula smirked faintly. “Well, let’s make sure we don’t give them a reason to add us to the pile.”

They moved methodically, circling the warped front of the house, the yellow tape cutting a precise border around the deathtrap.

By the time they planted the last stake, the Creel House looked less like a house and more like a crime scene waiting for a headline.

“Perimeter’s clean,” Eddie called. “Ready when you are, boss lady.”

Ursula turned toward the back of the house. “Let’s plant some thermite.”

She slung the duffel over one shoulder and started walking, boots crunching softly over brittle ivy and mulch. The air back here felt heavier somehow—older. Like the house itself was watching.

She stopped a few yards from the bulkhead and crouched, pulling out her phone from the armored thigh strap. The screen stayed black until she tapped it—then came to life, glowing sharp and clean with a locked interface. She thumbed through a security prompt, unlocked the payload planner app, and up came the digital blueprint of the Creel house. Five red rings marked along the back foundation blinked into place.

Murray squinted. “What the hell is that?”

Ursula didn’t even look up. She gave the phone a little shake to recenter the image and started zooming in with two fingers. “Cellphone,” she said, tapping the first marker with precision. “And like… a million other things. I’ve got one for both of you back at the house.”

Murray edged closer, eyes narrowed. “A phone that has… maps?”

“Yup,” she said, flipping her wrist toward him so he could see the screen. “This one designed by MIT-educated CIA engineers. Payload drop schematic—built for structural failure and maximum carnage.”

She stood, her expression all business.

The fire was back in her eyes now—that wild gleam, sharp and dangerous, the one Eddie knew too well. The one that drove him feral every time he saw it.

Hopper grunted, gaze flicking between the glowing screen and the creepy mansion ahead. “You sure that thing doesn’t spy on you while you sleep?”

“Oh, it definitely does,” Ursula said, deadpan. “But it also lets me blow up cursed houses with surgical precision, so I think we’re square.”

They reached the first marker. Ursula dropped to one knee by the moss-streaked bulkhead doors and keyed her mic.

“Camp Hellfire, eyes on. If you wanna see the portal trick—now’s the time.”

The comms line lit up in a heartbeat.

“YES,” Dustin’s voice broke across the line like a thunderclap. “Do it! Do the thing!”

“Been waiting since last night,” Max said. “This better be as cool as you made it sound.”

“Ursula, please,” Susie begged. “Initiate the transdimensional glitter doorway.”

Mike groaned. “Would you nerds shut up and let her open it?”

Ursula smirked as she unzipped the duffel and pulled the first thermite charge free, the pack matte black with a bright red adhesive strip folded over the top, and handed it to Murray. “Showtime.”

She stepped forward, crouching low near the cracked cement foundation beside the bulkhead doors. One hand hovered palm-out just inches from the stone.

Her eyes drifted shut. Her face went slack, all tension draining away.

Murray leaned in close to Eddie and whispered, “What is she doing?”

Eddie opened his mouth to answer—but Ursula cracked an eye, sharp and warning, and hissed a quiet, surgical “Shhh.”

Her features smoothed again as her eye closed.

Then—everything changed.

The air thickened, sharp with ozone. The kind of scent that came before lightning struck. The barometric pressure dropped in an instant, like the sky above them had inhaled and was holding its breath. They felt it in their sinuses, in the way the world seemed to hush.

Ursula’s hand began to glow.

A dim gold at first—then brighter, warmer, casting soft reflections against the concrete. Her brow pinched. Her forehead furrowed. And then—

She bore down.

Physically.

Shoulders rigid, neck taut, jaw clenched as her whole body leaned forward into the act like she was lifting something invisible and heavy from inside herself.

A low, muffled mmmf escaped her chest.

The glow from her hand flared—hot, golden, rippling faint heat—and the scent of ozone intensified to the edge of metallic.

A thick vein swelled high on her temple.

And then it bloomed.

Right against the wall, nestled against the foundation, a portal irised open—not torn, not ripped, but formed, as clean and smooth as a dial being turned. Circular. Precise. The size of a dinner plate. Its edges shimmered gold, quiet and deliberate.

Murray, eyes wide, peeled the red strip from the thermite pack and handed it to her without a word.

Ursula leaned forward, still crouched, and slapped the charge into the opening—one quick, practiced motion.

Then she pulled back.

The portal closed—not with a noise, but with a motion like a pupil shrinking, gold folding inward into a pinpoint.

A split second later came the pop—not heard, but felt in the chest, the sudden snap of pressure resetting around them.

Ursula rocked back onto her heels and opened her eyes.

The silence lingered.

Murray stood frozen, expression slack with awe.

Hopper’s brows had climbed halfway up his forehead.

Eddie, who had seen it once before, still felt that same gut-punch of reverence. Like witnessing a magic trick too good to explain.

No one said anything.

They just stared at the girl who could fold space like paper.

Eddie pulled the red bandanna from his back pocket and handed it to her silently, his eyes soft with something heavier than awe.

“Thanks,” she muttered, dabbing at the blood running from her nostrils. 

Ursula glanced straight into the body cam strapped to Eddie’s chest and grinned talking directly to the comms team. “Cool, huh?”

The headsets crackled.

“Ursula,” came Susie’s voice, breathless with excitement. “That was incredible!”

Mike’s voice followed, an echo of disbelief: “How the hell—?”

“Thanks,” Ursula said again, this time into her comms, swiping at her upper lip. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

Eddie held out a hand. She took it without hesitation, and he pulled her to her feet in one clean motion.

“Will,” she said, flipping the bandanna over to a clean edge, “check with Zoso. Make sure nothing on the other side noticed the pulse.”

A few seconds of silence, then Will’s voice returned through the comms. “Zoso says it’s all clear. Nothing stirred.”

Ursula gave a curt nod, already reaching for the next charge.

“Alright boys,” she said, blood streaked and smiling with fire in her eyes, “let’s fuckin’ go.”

Hopper and Murray exchanged a look behind her, twin expressions of disbelief and begrudging respect. They shook their heads in sync, like they couldn’t quite believe what they’d signed up for.

But Eddie?

Eddie just smiled.

Wide and wild.

Like the sun punching through thunderclouds.

Like she’d just lit a fuse in his chest.

Ursula moved to the next mark, boots silent over damp earth. The foundation loomed to her left, rough concrete mottled with moss. She stopped four feet down from the first thermite placement, crouched low, and held out her hand.

The golden shimmer in her palm returned—sluggish this time. Dimmer.

Murray stepped in beside her, lifting another thermite charge out of the case and peeling the red adhesive strip with quiet precision. He didn’t speak, just passed it down like it was a relic.

Ursula slapped the charge into the heart of the bloom. The portal shivered shut with that same invisible golden pop.

She exhaled hard and stood—unsteady.

“You good?” Hopper asked, scanning the trees behind her, his hand resting casually near the grip of his sidearm.

“I’m totally hunky-dory,” Ursula muttered. She turned, spat a crimson-threaded loogie into the weeds, then blew her nose hard into Eddie’s bandanna. The sound was… grim.

“Lovely,” Murray deadpanned.

They moved.

At the third mark, she went down slower. The scent of ozone hit stronger this time, sharper. Both nostrils were bleeding now—her pale skin streaked and shiny under the creeping sunlight.

Murray peeled the next strip and handed her the charge silently, brow furrowed.

Another bloom. Another slap. Another silent pop as the portal vanished.

She rocked back on her heels.

Then swayed.

Eddie’s hand was on her shoulder instantly, grounding her. “You okay, babe?” His voice was quiet, urgent. Not pushing—just present.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Just pressed the bandanna back to her nose and gave a faint nod.

“Urs…”

“I’m fine,” she said, muffled, the edge creeping into her voice. “Just gotta get these done, then I can chill.”

Charge four.

She crouched again—too fast this time—and her balance gave for a split second. She caught herself on her palms, breath catching in her throat.

Murray hesitated with the next charge in hand.

“Okay,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I might not be psychic, but even I can tell your needle’s bouncing on empty here.”

Ursula didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at anyone.

The glow lit again in her hand, weak but still there.

And still—she kept going.

Eddie didn’t say anything at first. He just hovered near her flank, his eyes locked on the color draining from her face.

When she moved toward the last mark, he stepped in. “Urs,” he said softly. “That’s four. You’ve done enough. Let’s call it.”

She didn’t stop walking.

“Babe—look at you. You’re bleeding like hell and you’re barely on your feet.”

Ursula turned, eyes glassy but burning. “I know what I’m doing,” she said through gritted teeth. “There’s not enough time to do this the slow way. It’s just one more.”

Eddie clenched his jaw and looked to Hopper, expecting backup.

But Hopper just adjusted the strap on his shoulder and shrugged. “If she says she knows her limits…”

“Seriously?” Eddie snapped, but Ursula was already lowering to one knee.

Her hand lifted, trembling. The glow flickered again—faint, sputtering. Her brow furrowed, jaw locking tight as she drew in a breath and bore down.

The pressure dropped like a hammer. That golden scent of ozone rolled over them one last time. The portal bloomed open—sluggish, but there.

Then her shoulders sagged. Her spine curled. She made a sound—barely a breath—and crumpled.

Eddie caught her before she hit the dirt. He’d already moved, already ready.

“Shit—Urs? Hey—hey.” His voice cracked as he dropped to his knees, cradling her gently, brushing her hair back from her face. Blood was smeared across her lips and chin, soaking into the bandanna. Her breath was shallow, but there.

Behind him, Murray didn’t waste a beat. He reached into the case, peeled the last strip, and stuck the charge into the portal just before it collapsed with a soft pulse.

“Done,” he said, voice low and shaken.

They lifted her together—Eddie carrying most of her weight, Hopper steadying from the other side.

Eddie held her like she was made of glass and fury, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t snap. But his eyes were wild.

She was bleeding. And not just from her nose anymore.

And Eddie was barely keeping it together.

Hopper took the wheel.

Black Betty rumbled through the trees, tires chewing up the gravel track like it owed them something. The morning sun filtered through the branches in broken stripes of gold, but the mood inside the truck was anything but bright.

In the backseat, Eddie held Ursula close.

His arm was around her shoulders, his other hand bracing her thigh where her body had folded sideways in the collapse. Her face was pale—too pale—and streaked with drying blood. She hadn’t opened her eyes. Her breathing was shallow. Every few seconds, she twitched like her muscles were firing on fumes.

Eddie didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink.

Just held her.

Murray twisted in his seat to glance back. His voice was quiet, but edged. “She always like this after a trick like that?”

Eddie shook his head, slow. “No. I didn’t even know she could do that until yesterday.”

That landed.

Murray frowned, eyebrows climbing. “Wait—yesterday? You didn’t know about the portal thing?”

“Not until she showed me,” Eddie said flatly

Murray turned all the way around, eyes flicking between Eddie’s tight jaw and Ursula’s limp form. “Well… fuck.”

Hopper’s hands were steady on the wheel, but his voice was gruff. “That kind of drain? I’ve seen it before.”

Eddie looked up, waiting.

“El,” Hopper said, eyes still on the road. “When she pushed too hard. Tapped herself all the way out. This? This is the same look. And any time she looked like that—it meant we’d gone too far.”

Murray exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what, this girl’s just grinding herself into the dirt because no one’s stopping her?”

“She doesn’t stop,” Eddie said quietly.

That made both men go silent.

The road straightened ahead.

The trees thinned.

And Eddie just kept holding her, feeling the blood on her skin, the heat leaching out of her limbs, the way her body curled toward his without ever waking.

Helpless.

And hating every second of it.

By the time Black Betty rolled up the gravel lot, Dustin and Susie already had eyes on them.

The second the engine cut, the zippered door burst open—Susie and Dustin barreling out like they’d both launched from cannons. They reached the truck in under five seconds, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Is she okay?!” Susie gasped.

Dustin’s eyes were locked on Ursula, slumped against Eddie’s chest. “What happened? Is she breathing? Jesus, she looks—”

Mike appeared slower—just to the doorway. He didn’t step down. Just hovered there, one hand on the frame, eyes wary. “Is she alright?”

Eddie didn’t answer him.

He looked straight at Susie and Dustin. “Before you sprinted out here—did either of you leave someone in the comms tent?”

They froze.

“…No,” Susie admitted.

Eddie’s voice was sharp. Controlled. “Then get back there. Now.”

Dustin’s mouth opened to argue, but Eddie cut him off.

“She’s asleep. That doesn’t mean the mission’s paused. Protocol’s still protocol.”

That landed.

Susie spun on her heel without another word and ran. Dustin hesitated for a beat longer—then stepped up to the side of the truck. “I’ll help you carry her in.”

Eddie didn’t stop him.

Between them, they moved careful and fast—through the main section of the tent, past the quiet murmur of base camp still humming along, and into the room he and Ursula had been sharing since they landed.

The second her boots cleared the threshold, Dustin turned right back around.

No complaint. No hesitation.

Back to comms.

Eddie lowered her onto the cot gently, one arm still cradling beneath her shoulders as he eased her down. Her body was deadweight—sweat-slick and bloodstreaked, the edge of her fatigue jacket clinging at the wrists. She didn’t stir.

He moved with precision. Quiet.

Boots first—laces yanked, heels slid free. Then her socks, peeled and tossed toward the footlocker. He rubbed both feet quickly between his palms—warmth, grounding, maybe something to keep her tethered while she slept.

He set her headset aside.

Then came the utility vest. The quick-release buckles came loose with practiced fingers. He eased it off, belt next. Her fatigue jacket was unbuttoned slowly—deliberate. Her Kevlar vest unzipped and slipped free.

She didn’t flinch once.

Eddie crossed the small space to the corner dresser—her pop-up, and dug through the folded stacks of clothes.

Tank top. Pajama pants. He held them for a beat in one hand.

Then turned back to dress her.

There was a soft knock at the tent flap—just once—before it unzipped halfway and Susie leaned in. “Robyn’s got comms,” she said quietly. “I figured I should come check in… and see her.”

Eddie nodded once, the lines around his eyes tight. “Yeah. Come in.”

Ursula hadn’t moved. If anything, she looked worse. Her brow was damp with fever sweat, and just as Susie stepped in, a fresh stream of blood rolled from her left nostril, carving a dark trail down toward her upper lip.

Susie gasped, already reaching. “Toss me something.”

Eddie snatched the folded red bandanna from the gear shelf and lobbed it to her. She caught it one-handed, crouched beside the cot, and applied pressure just beneath the bridge of Ursula’s nose with the instinct of someone who’d done this for scraped knees and bloody noses a hundred times.

Ursula didn’t stir. Her body was slack. Her face pale.

“She’s out,” Susie said softly, voice brittle.

Eddie crouched opposite her, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

They stayed there like that for a moment—Susie pressing the bandanna gently to her daughter’s face, Eddie watching like he was willing her chest to keep rising. The silence was broken only by the distant murmur of weapons drills outside and the steady beep of the temp readout clipped to the wall.

Finally, he looked at Susie again. “Can you help me get her changed?”

“Of course,” she said immediately, already slipping off her jacket and rolling her sleeves. Her eyes never left Ursula’s face. “Is she alright?” she asked, voice quieter this time. Scared.

Eddie just stared at her for a second. Then, flatly: “Does she look alright to you?”

Susie’s mouth tightened. “No,” she said softly.

Eddie slid an arm behind Ursula’s shoulders and gently eased her upright. She slumped forward into him, limp as a ragdoll, her cheek brushing his collarbone. Susie moved in close, fingers quick but careful as she peeled off the layered gear—Kevlar vest, fatigue jacket, utility belt—pulling the whole mass off in one controlled motion and setting it aside. Then she pulled the sweat-stained shirt over Ursula’s head, bare shoulders slumping forward with the motion.

Eddie was already reaching for the clean tank top from the dresser. He threaded her arms through, pulled it gently down over her torso.

Then, quietly, he reached behind her and flicked the clasp of her bra open. Slid the straps down her arms without ever lifting the tank. Drew the bra out in one smooth motion.

Susie didn’t say anything—but her eyes lingered for a second. Just one.

Respectful, she thought. Not surprised. But noticing it again.

Eddie’s hand lingered briefly at Ursula’s back, steadying her. Her breathing had evened out a little. Still shallow, but steadier. Her chest rose and fell with slow, heavy rhythm.

He let out a long, quiet breath. “Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “That’s better.”

“Yeah,” Susie said softly. “She seems more comfortable now.”

Eddie didn’t take his eyes off Ursula’s face. “I tried to make her stop before that last drop,” he said, voice low and threaded with guilt. “Told her she was pushing too hard.”

“I know,” Susie replied, reaching gently for Ursula’s arm to steady her. “I heard you through comms.” She gave a faint, broken smile. “She’s stubborn. Gets that from me, I think.”

Eddie huffed a breath, dry and without humor. “Yeah. She’s got this habit of pushing herself too far, and god help you if you try to stop her.”

“Yeah,” Susie said again, her voice even smaller. “That sounds like me. Sorry.”

They worked in silence for a second, hands moving gently. Susie reached for the waistband of Ursula’s pants and started to unfasten the button, fingers deft and careful.

“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly, his tone soft but sharp. “Don’t touch her thighs.”

Susie paused, looking up.

“She might freak out,” he added.

He didn’t explain further.

He didn’t have to.

Susie’s eyes flicked down, then back to his. Her expression didn’t change—but something in her shoulders folded inward. She gave a small nod and adjusted her grip, sliding the pants down gently from the hips without brushing her skin any more than necessary.

She didn’t ask.

But Eddie saw the understanding in her face.

And the hurt.

A soft pair of black cotton pajama pants—printed all over with tiny, pale deaths head moths—was slipped carefully up her legs and settled at her hips. Then the blanket was drawn over her, tucked with gentle hands.

They both stood there for a moment, quiet.

Eddie reached over to the plastic nightstand beside the cot and pulled out the box of baby wipes. He took two, unfolded them slowly, then crouched down beside her again. One wipe moved gently across her cheek, picking up streaks of blood and dirt. The second cleaned under her nose and along her jaw.

Susie watched him.

She didn’t say anything, not at first. Just noticed the way he moved—like every stroke of his hand was trying to undo the damage he hadn’t been able to stop. The way he looked at her, brow furrowed, mouth pressed in a tight line. There was something quiet and aching in him, in the way he tucked a strand of turquoise hair back from Ursula’s face like he was afraid even that might wake her.

“She’s trying to open too many portals too close together,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “She can’t keep this up. And there’s nothing I can do to make her slow down.”

Susie’s voice was soft. “Well… maybe it was the blue light that wiped her out. We won’t know until we see how she does on the next round.”

Eddie didn’t look up. Just nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“But I’m worried.” His voice dropped lower. “I hate this plan.”

Chapter Text

The alarm went off like a taser to the skull.

A sharp electric chime, vibrating low against the plastic nightstand, pulsing through her skull like a migraine made digital. Ursula groaned, face buried in the pillow, and slapped at the buzzing until it stopped.

She didn’t remember setting it.

Didn’t remember much of anything after that last portal—just a smear of blood, Eddie’s voice somewhere too close, too far. The world had folded in on itself. She was pretty sure she’d blacked out.

Her body felt like it had been hit by a truck and then steamrolled by regret. Muscles heavy with lactic sludge. Skull thick with static. Every breath rasped dry through her throat like it had to claw its way out.

She opened one eye. Sunlight bled through the seams of the tent, slanting across the cot like a spotlight on a corpse. She was alone.

Still alive.

Goddamn it.

With a groan, she pushed herself upright, limbs protesting every inch. The cotton of her pajama pants clung weird at the waist, unfamiliar. Death’s head moths glared up at her from the soft black fabric.

She blinked down at them, then sighed. “Eddie.”

Of course it had been him. She didn’t remember even making it back from the Creel house. Let alone climbing out of Black Betty. But the pants were soft, clean, and—most importantly—still on.

She gritted her teeth and shoved herself upright.

Time to buck the fuck up.

Dragging her sore limbs across the room, she yanked open the top drawer of the plastic dresser. Black socks. Gray digital camo fatigue pants. She didn’t even bother folding the pajamas—just shoved them off her hips and let them puddle to the floor. The pants went on with effort and a hiss of breath when her spine pulled too tight.

She bent to grab a sock—and the world tilted.

Like the air thinned, then thickened around her. Like gravity surged suddenly sideways.

Her hands hit the bedframe before her knees did.

“Fuck,” she hissed, head sagging. Sweat prickled her temples, cold and premature. Her heart was thudding way too hard for this little effort.

If she didn’t get some energy—real energy—she was going to drop.

And if she dropped now, there wouldn’t be a second act.

All the old fears crept up, slick and mean: Aneurysm. Stroke. Seizure. Just… seizing up mid-mission and never rebooting. It was a quiet contract psionics signed, whether they knew it or not. Not if, just when.

So even though Ursula wasn’t stoked about resorting to it—she really didn’t have a choice.

Not if she wanted to finish what she started.

She moved to the gear case, flipping the lid with more force than necessary, then yanked the small red medkit off the top. The zipper stuck for half a second before giving way in a rasp of synthetic teeth. Inside, bottles rattled against gauze, pill packs, spare gloves.

She found the one she was looking for.

The orange prescription label was half ripped off, the cap loose like it had been opened a hundred times. Adderall 30mg – XR – Take 1 daily. She didn’t even pause. Popped the lid. Counted fast.

Then shook four into her palm.

She glanced at the zipper door. Still shut. The room—quiet.

Alone.

She dropped to her knees beside the low metal crate, used the corner to crush the pills with the butt of her multitool. They cracked like brittle chalk. The powder fine, clean, medical.

Her heartbeat was already picking up.

She grabbed the old cut straw from her toiletry kit, bent low, and snorted the first two lines in quick succession. The burn hit sharp and fast, eyes stinging, throat flaring with chemical bitterness.

It was ugly. But it was effective.

She finished the last two rails in seconds, snorted hard, then rocked back on her heels with a grimace.

From outside, someone paused.

Max stood still in the grass just beyond the tent flap, her steps stilled mid-shuffle. Through the mesh of the window, she caught a glimpse—Ursula, crouched on the floor, head tilted, hand pressed to one nostril. The flash of a orange bottle. The quick movements. The straw.

She didn’t know for sure what it was.

But she knew what it looked like.

And her stomach turned.

Max stepped back from the mesh slowly, sneakers silent in the damp grass. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t say anything. Not yet.

But her brow furrowed.

And her gut twisted.

Something wasn’t right.

Ursula zipped the flap open and stepped into the tent’s main hub—comms central. Fluorescent lamps buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow on rows of monitors, coiled wires, and folding chairs pulled up to repurposed card tables. The hum of chatter from radios and relays layered with soft static.

Dustin looked up first. “Hey! You’re—”

“—Awake!” Susie finished, half rising from her seat.

Mike gave her a glance and a slow nod, not unfriendly, just wary. He didn’t smile.

“Hey, nerds,” Ursula said, voice rough but steady. “Y’all holdin’ it down?”

Susie tilted her head, eyes scanning Ursula’s pale face. “How are you feeling?”

Ursula shrugged. “Still kinda shitty. But I got a remedy. One for Uncle Steve, too.”

She gave them a half-smile—more muscle memory than mirth—and crossed the room toward the cooler in the far corner. It was marked with a faded red cross and had been hauled in from the trailer sometime the day before.

The kids tracked her movements.

She popped the lid.

Inside—ice packs, coiled tubes, sealed fluid bags with sterile caps. Lactated Ringer’s. Labeled clearly. Medical. Tucked beneath them, nested in a dense foam crate, were the vials. Each one capped and marked in coded shorthand, not exactly FDA-sanctioned. This was next-gen field-grade cocktail stuff—formulated for high-burn operatives, people who went too hard and needed to bounce back fast.

Hydration. Neurochemistry. Muscle repair. Nausea reduction. A full-body system reset in a drip.

Ursula sorted quickly, moving with the efficiency of someone who’d done it dozens of times. Her hands shook just a little. Not enough to stop her—but enough to notice.

Mike exchanged a glance with Dustin. Neither spoke.

She secured two full bags and slotted the vials she needed into a separate pouch, zipping the cooler shut with a muted scrape. Then slung the supplies under one arm and turned back toward the flap.

“Radio me if any comms flare up,” she said. “I’ll be in the cabin gettin’ me and Steve set up with our miracle juice.”

Dustin nodded slowly. “You… need help with anything?”

“Nah,” she said, already stepping through. “Just need a vein and some peace.”

And she was gone.

Inside the cabin, the light had shifted warmer, slanting through the west-facing windows with that late-afternoon haze that made everything feel slower than it should. Ursula moved through it like muscle memory—straight toward the table where Joyce and Murray were still talking in low tones, heads bent over a crude paper map and half-drunk coffee mugs.

She gave a little wave. “Where’s Steve?”

Joyce looked up immediately. “Bathroom. Still sick.”

Murray leaned back in his chair with a grimace. “Might wanna put on a raincoat before you go in there.”

“Ugggh. That bad, huh?” Ursula asked, already walking.

Murray opened his mouth, looked like he was about to describe it, then faltered. He pressed two fingers to his lips, swallowed hard, and shook his head. “It ain’t pretty.”

That was enough of a warning.

She padded down the short hall and stopped at the cracked door to the bathroom.

Inside: chaos.

The sharp, acrid sting of bile and sweat punched her first—too real, too human. Steve was hunched over the toilet, one hand gripping the rim, the other useless at his side. His whole body jolted with each heave, the kind that came from deep in the gut, nothing left but nerves and bile. Eddie was crouched beside him, exhausted and filthy, a towel in one hand, the other gently holding Steve’s hair out of his face.

Nancy sat on the edge of the tub, eyes locked on the floor like she’d forgotten how to blink. Still. Shell-shocked. The rifle she hadn’t put down since yesterday leaned against the wall near her knee.

Ursula took it all in and her eyes fell on Eddie—and for the first time that day, her expression softened. All the grit and sharp edges that’d braced her spine melted for a heartbeat.

“Hey babe,” she said gently, voice low and almost surprised by its own warmth.

Eddie looked up, face grimy and pale, eyes ringed in shadows. But when he saw her standing there—alive, vertical, coherent—his shoulders dropped half an inch. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Ursula saw it.

“Hey, love,” he said. And even covered in blood, and sweat, and Steve fucking Harrington’s vomit, that one hey babe from her had him feeling more relief than he’d felt in the last twenty-four hours.

Ursula’s eyes drifted from Eddie to the figure sitting motionless on the edge of the tub.

Nancy.

Still hunched, still staring at the floor, her hands limp in her lap like they didn’t belong to her.

Ursula frowned and turned back to Eddie, then ticked her head slightly toward Nancy, questioning. The look she shot him said it all: Is she okay?

Eddie just gave a helpless shrug and mouthed, not really, as Steve buckled into another round of violent heaving.

The sound was awful—wet and raw, like his insides were trying to claw their way out.

Eddie barely flinched. He tightened his grip on Steve’s hair, keeping it clear, and used the same towel to brace Steve’s shoulder, rubbing in slow, solid circles.

“There you go, dude,” he murmured. “Get it all out.”

No dramatics. No disgust. Just calm, steady care.

And God, Ursula loved him.

Even like this.

Especially like this.

There was vomit in the air and copper in her sinuses and Steve was making noises that shouldn’t come out of humans—but Eddie? Eddie was still here. Still grounded. Still gentle.

The way he moved. The way he was—no hesitation, no asking. Just doing. Taking care of Steve the same way he’d taken care of her before, when she was bloodied and shaking, whispering you’re okay, I got you like he meant it with every cell in his body.

Eddie Munson was the filthiest, softest man she had ever met.

And in this horrible, awful moment, watching him hold Steve together with just one hand and a towel—he was fucking beautiful.

The worst of it passed. At least for the moment.

Steve sagged against the toilet like his bones had turned to soup, his forehead resting on the cool porcelain rim. When he finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, rimmed in red and pooled with shame. His nose was running. His black eye had bloomed dark and angry, and the split in his lip looked like it had been bitten open from the inside. With all the blood still flushing his face from the effort, he looked like he’d been dragged backward through a war.

Eddie gave him a small, crooked smile. “Still got your hair, dude. That’s something.”

Steve huffed, but it wasn’t a laugh. Not really.

Ursula stepped in closer and crouched beside them. Her voice came quiet, soft around the edges. “Hey, Uncle Steve.”

She reached out, brushing a hand across his back in something that was half-greeting, half-check-in.

Steve flinched.

Not big—but enough.

Ursula froze.

Steve didn’t look at her. He just stared at the floor again, jaw twitching like he was holding in more than just bile.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked suddenly. His voice cracked halfway through. “For almost killing your dog. I didn’t— I couldn’t see. I didn’t know what was real. I thought he was—”

“Hey,” Ursula interrupted gently. She leaned in and wrapped both arms around his hunched shoulders, holding him tight enough to make the bones creak. “B’s fine dude. I’m sorry I kicked your ass.”

It should’ve been a joke.

But Steve didn’t laugh. Didn’t even move.

His head just hung lower.

He’d tried to kill Nancy.

And now she wouldn’t leave his side.

He’d almost taken out Mister B.

And now Ursula was here, trying to comfort him like he was the one who needed saving.

He couldn’t take it.

He didn’t want to be here, in this room, surrounded by people he didn’t deserve. He just wanted to puke in peace and vanish into the tile.

Eddie saw it—something in the slump of Steve’s shoulders, the glassed-over look that wasn’t just sickness.

He glanced up at Ursula, then toward Nancy. “Hey,” he said gently. “Give him a minute.”

Ursula didn’t argue. She pulled back, gave Steve one last squeeze, and stood. She touched Eddie’s shoulder as she passed, and he reached up, just for a second, to squeeze her hand.

Nancy didn’t move until Ursula nudged her lightly.

“Hey, Nance?” she said, voice soft.

Nancy looked up—and Christ, she was wrecked. Her eyes were swollen, red and watery, her expression blank but trembling at the edges. She met Ursula’s gaze for half a second, then looked back down.

Ursula crouched beside her, resting a hand gently on her knee. “Nancy. Babe. Come on, girl. Let’s get some fresh air, okay?”

Nancy hesitated, then finally gave a slow, watery nod.

Ursula stood and reached out, slipping an arm around her shoulders as she helped her to her feet. Nancy leaned into her like she didn’t even realize she was doing it, like her spine had given up for the day.

As they moved toward the hallway, Ursula glanced back at Eddie and gave him a small head tick—Come on.

Steve started heaving again.

Eddie lifted a finger with a grimace. One sec.

Ursula rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She guided Nancy out of the bathroom and down the hall, stopping once they reached the cabin’s main room. She turned and pulled Nancy in for a full hug this time, both arms wrapping her up, firm and real.

Nancy clung tight.

And Ursula could feel it—the way she breathed in hard, like she’d been holding her lungs hostage. One gulp of air. Then two. Then three.

And then a sob cracked out of her. Just one.

She bit the rest back down like it had betrayed her.

Ursula pulled back just enough to look her in the face, her own expression calm and steady. “Hey. It’s going to be okay, Nance. I promise. Uncle Steve’s gonna be alright. No one died. He’s gonna be back to his usual charming self, playing grab-ass with you when he thinks we’re not looking—probably in like, what? A day? Two tops.”

Nancy’s bottom lip quivered. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart, dude. Steve’s a tough motherfucker. He’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

Nancy nodded—slow, but real.

Ursula gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Now go drink a glass of water, Aunt Nancy. You look like shit.”

That one nearly landed.

Nancy sniffled, almost smiled, and shuffled off toward the kitchen.

Ursula stayed by the wall, arms crossed loosely, listening.

The sound of retching had finally stopped. Then came the faucet—water running, then shutting off. Low voices followed—muffled, too soft to make out, but not tense. Not anymore.

When Eddie stepped out, his sleeves were wet to the elbows and his curls were damp with sweat and steam. He looked wiped.

“How’s he doing?” Ursula asked.

Eddie gave a tired shrug. “There’s not much coming up anymore. Think he’s down to dry heaves and regrets.”

“That’s something, at least,” she said with a faint smile. “He’s gonna be dehydrated as shit, though. I know I am.”

She reached into the small red cross-marked cooler at her feet and pulled out one of the fluid bags. The lines were already prepped, the attached vial taped clean and snug. She held it up slightly. “I’ve got an IV bag with a pretty nice cocktail of feel-better in it for him.”

Eddie eyed the thing warily, already knowing what came next.

Ursula stepped closer, her voice quiet. “Will you tell him it’s okay? That nobody’s mad?”

Eddie rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Urs… he really just wants to be left alone for a little while.”

She didn’t back off. “Please do it. He’s gonna feel like absolute shit if we don’t get some fluids and replacement vitamins into him.”

Eddie sighed. “Can I just… get him hooked up in there? I really don’t think he’s ready to face you yet.”

“Face me yet?” she echoed, frowning. “That’s stupid.”

Her voice softened, lost none of its weight. “I love him. He doesn’t have to be in there alone, sick and beating himself up for something that wasn’t his fault.”

Her eyes met his. Serious. Soft.

“Please, Eddie. Help him get cleaned up. Bring him to the couch. We can set him up with everything he needs to feel human again.”

She reached into her pocket and pressed a few small tablets into his palm. “Dramamine. This’ll help with the nausea. Settle his stomach, maybe get him to stop cramping.”

Eddie looked down at the pills. Then up at her again. He nodded, no hesitation. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I got it.”

And he slipped back inside.

From within, Steve’s shaky voice carried just faintly: “Is it bad?”

“No, dude,” Eddie murmured, already crouching beside him again. “It’s fixable.”

Ursula leaned against the wall just outside the bathroom, arms crossed tight, her head bowed like it might help hold the guilt in place.

She felt horrible.

She’d hurt Steve as bad as the wasps did. That split lip? The black eye? The bruise blooming just beneath his temple? Those weren’t from stingers. Those were from her fists.

She didn’t even remember making the decision. Didn’t recall the moment it went from threat to strike. Just—pure instinct. No thought. No filter. Just that flash of red-hot rage and the wild, white-noise need to protect.

No one had ever threatened her dog before.

And holy fuck… the rage had hit like a grenade in her chest. The second Steve turned on Mister B, it was like something ancient snapped loose inside her. Not rage. Not hate. Just that feral, bottomless, momma bear fury.

Because Bahamutt wasn’t just a dog. He was her baby boy. Her heart.

She loved that creature more than anyone. More than her mom. More than her dad. More than Eddie, if she was being honest with herself.

But she wasn’t mad at Steve.

She knew what Kruthik venom did. Knew too well the way it warped reality and buried you alive in your worst fears. She’d seen it. She’d felt it. And she’d never taken as many stings as Steve had. Not even close.

She couldn’t imagine how bad it must’ve been for him. What his brain had been doing in that moment. What horrors it had fed him.

And Nancy. Poor fucking Nancy.

Just sitting there in the bathroom like her soul had been scooped out and left somewhere cold.

The idea of both Harringtons down for the count—this close to zero hour—had Ursula’s stomach curling hard.

They needed Steve.

They really fucking needed Nancy.

They needed all of them.

And she was scared they might’ve already lost too much.

Out in the kitchen, Nancy drained the last of her water with trembling hands. She didn’t say anything to Joyce. Nothing to Murray either. Just set the glass down gently in the sink like the clink might shatter her.

Then she left.

No explanation. No eye contact.

She stepped out of the cabin and walked to her bunk like a ghost—silent, stiff, shoulders drawn up like she could physically keep the memory from clawing out of her spine.

She didn’t talk to anyone.

She couldn’t.

Every time she tried—every time she so much as glanced toward someone—she saw it again.

Steve’s face. Steve’s eyes.

And the muzzle of his shotgun staring her down like the mouth of hell.

Back in the cabin, Ursula was crashing hard. Her limbs felt waterlogged, her head packed with sand. The Adderall had done jack—barely cut through the haze—and now her body felt like it was running on frayed wires and spit. She needed the IV. Bad.

The cocktail she’d prepped wasn’t subtle—CIA-tier replenishment, high-octane and mean—but it would have her jacked up and operational in no time. She just had to get it into her bloodstream before she collapsed trying.

Joyce appeared beside her like clockwork, sharp-eyed and steady. “What can I do to help?” she asked, already scanning the room.

“I need to rig up a stand for these IV bags,” Ursula said, pulling the cooler open and grabbing the two fluid packs—one for herself, one for Steve. They sloshed lightly in her hands, still cold, still ready.

Joyce’s eyes landed on a tall wooden coat rack by the front door. It was draped in hats and jackets, swaying slightly every time someone passed too close. She strode over and started yanking things off. “Will this work?”

Ursula gave it a once-over. “Oh hell yeah. We just need a crossbar with some hooks to hang the bags. There’s some wire hangers in the closet—I’ll grab ’em.”

Joyce nodded. “Broom handle and some tape should work for the crossbar.”

They moved in sync. Joyce fetched the broom from behind the kitchen bench while Ursula rummaged in the utility closet. Within a minute, they were both on the floor like a pair of field medics in a sitcom nightmare.

Joyce duct-taped the broom handle horizontally across the top of the coat rack, cinching the joint tight with a precision that screamed Midwestern mom engineering. Ursula bent two wire hangers into crude S-hooks and taped them to either end of the handle. She hung the fluid bags with practiced care, watching them sway lightly, IV tubing already primed and coiled.

The whole structure wobbled immediately.

As soon as the bags were fully suspended, the narrow base of the coat rack gave a pitiful creak and started to tip.

“Shit!” Ursula lunged forward and caught it just before the thing could go down. One bag bounced against her arm, dangerously close to rupturing.

Joyce didn’t blink. “Hold it steady.”

She hauled over one of the heavy kitchen chairs and planted it behind the base like a barricade. She looped the duct tape around the legs and the coat rack stem, pulling strip after strip while holding the roll in her teeth, one foot braced on the seat for leverage.

Ursula steadied the top while Joyce reinforced the hell out of the base. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t straight. But when they both finally stepped back, the Frankenstein contraption stood.

Drip bags swaying from coat hanger hooks, the broom handle duct-taped to the rack, the whole thing lashed to a chair like it had survived a storm and lived to tell the tale.

Joyce slapped the side of it like it was the fender on a beat-up pickup truck. “Solid.”

Ursula grinned faintly. “It’s an ugly baby,” she said, breathless. “But it’ll live.”

And so would she.

That’s when Eddie brought Steve out.

The door creaked, and Ursula turned to look just in time to see them emerge from the hallway—Eddie steady and quiet, one arm slung around Steve’s shoulders like a lifeline. Steve’s head hung low, hair in his face, and he moved like something was broken in him that hadn’t quite found the right shape again.

He didn’t look at anyone.

Not her. Not Joyce. Not the IV rig waiting quietly like a wooden tree in the center of the room.

Eddie took one look at it—the broom handle duct-taped to the coat rack, wire hangers curling at each end with fluid bags swaying like fruit—and arched a brow. “Uh. What is all this?”

Ursula reached for one of the bags and held it up gently. “It’s a high-concentration nutrient cocktail,” she said, tone clinical but soft. “IV hydration, vitamins, aminos, electrolytes, antiemetics… the works. Think military-grade recovery drip, plus a little bonus magic. There’s one for me, and one for Steve.”

Eddie looked at her—really looked—and a thread of tension in his shoulders finally unspooled. At least she was taking her own recovery seriously. That was something.

Steve didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up as Eddie guided him into the couch beside Ursula. He just sat there, head down, hands limp in his lap like his strings had been cut.

Wrecked didn’t even begin to cover it.

Ursula grabbed the sterile wipe and sat down on the couch next to Steve. She rolled up her sleeve, exposing the soft pale underside of her forearm. She wiped the skin clean, unwrapped the cannula kit—and then hesitated.

Her hands were shaking too hard.

The needle trembled in her grip, twitching just slightly above the skin. She tried to steady it. Failed. Let out a quiet, frustrated breath through her nose.

Eddie was already moving.

“Here,” he said gently, kneeling beside her.

She handed the kit over without argument. Didn’t need to. He was already swabbing the vein, his fingers warm and steady on her skin. Then—swift, clean—the cannula slid into place.

The drip began.

Ursula exhaled.

She looked down at the line, then back at him.

Didn’t speak.

But her eyes found his, and stayed there—tired, grateful, soft in a way she hadn’t let herself be all day. The look said everything she couldn’t.

And Eddie didn’t need words either. He just gave a small nod. Acknowledged. Received. Understood.

Eddie worked quietly, almost reverently, as he hooked up Steve’s line—looping the tubing, adjusting the clamp, getting the catheter seated. The drip bags hung steady now, a soft plastic sway with every breath of wind through the cracked window. The drip chamber filled slowly and began to tick—tick—tick, the sound quiet but constant. Life, in IV rhythm.

Ursula held out a handful of small glass ampoules and a syringe in her palm. “Here,” she murmured. “Cocktail mix-ins. Transfer into the injection port—these four for me, these three for Steve.”

Eddie took them, frowning slightly as he looked over the vials. “What’s in these?”

She leaned her head back against the chair, voice low. “B-complex, zinc, magnesium, a hit of NAD. Mine’s got arginine and a little ALA to kick up cellular repair, and some glutamine. His has pyridoxine, an antiemetic, and enough B12 to make his brain remember what day it is. Plus something to help him sleep.”

Eddie arched a brow but nodded. “Alright,” he said, breaking the seal on the first vial.

The ingredients sounded harmless enough. Mostly vitamins. Mostly.

But when he glanced sideways at Steve, still silent and pale with bruises blooming along his jaw and temples, Eddie was damn glad something in that bag was meant to knock him out for a while. He needed rest. He needed peace.

And Eddie needed a minute not to worry about someone bleeding out or breaking down right in front of him.

Once both IVs were dripping clean and steady, Ursula let her head loll to the side, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. Then she reached out, catching Eddie’s hand in hers with a warm, grounded squeeze. “Thanks, Eddie.”

He looked over, a little surprised by the softness in her voice. “Yeah. Of course.”

“No, dude,” she said, forcing her eyes open. “I mean it. You were fucking perfect today. I’m pretty sure we would’ve been burying someone tonight if it wasn’t for you.”

His brows pulled together, faint color rising in his cheeks. “Eh,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “you’d do the same for me.”

“Damn right I would.” She smirked, then wrinkled her nose. “Now go clean up, Munson. You smell like hot garbage and dead babies.”

He barked a laugh and shook his head. “Gross, Ursula.”

She grinned faintly and leaned back again, eyes already starting to glaze with exhaustion.

Eddie pushed off the back of the chair with a sigh and headed for the bathroom. A splash of cold water hit his face first, just enough to chase off the edge of exhaustion and settle his nerves. He took a quick, blessedly uneventful shit—finally, one small moment of peace—and then decided, screw it. The bathroom was free. Might as well grab clean clothes and take a real shower before someone else locked it down again.

Outside, the steady pops of small arms fire cracked through the trees—dull and distant, like thunder swallowed by the forest. The kids were out there with Hopper and Murray, running live-fire drills. The rhythm of it was so constant now that Eddie barely even registered it as he made his way across the clearing toward the tent.

He was halfway there when Max peeled off from the firing line and intercepted him. Her expression was tight, serious in that way that said she’d been holding something in and couldn’t anymore.

“Hey Munson,” she said, stepping into his path. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Eddie blinked and nodded. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Max shifted her weight, looking toward the tent, then back at him. “I, uh… I saw Ursula earlier. Through the mesh, in the tent. She was… snorting something.”

That stopped him cold. “She what?”

“I don’t know what it was,” Max said quickly. “It was like a white powder? She crushed up a bunch of pills. She didn’t see me, but she looked around first, like—like she didn’t want anyone to know. It looked… sketchy.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, heart already climbing up into his throat. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, maybe it’s like… some weird future vitamin? She’s hooked up to a drip right now with Steve, giving him this whole super soldier IV cocktail, so maybe she knows what she’s doing. She’s practically a doctor.”

Max shrugged, not quite convinced. “Yeah, maybe. But dude, if I’m like, the little sister now, I gotta look out for her too, you know? And I just—if it was normal for her, why hide it? Why do it like that?”

Eddie exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re right, Red. That does sound sketchy. I’ll poke around, see what I can figure out. And if I can’t? I’ll just ask her.”

“Good,” Max said, her voice softening with relief. “She’s always looking out for all of us. Somebody’s gotta look out for her, too. And dude… she’s a lot. It’s gonna take a village.”

That made Eddie chuckle, even as the knot in his chest tightened. “You’re a very wise woman, Max Mayfield. Don’t worry—I’ll find out what that was all about.”

“Thanks, Eddie. And can you, like… not tell her I was the one who told you?”

He shot her a crooked grin. “Obviously, Red. I live by the same trailer park code you do.”

Max smirked, held up her fist, and Eddie bumped it with his own. A silent pact.

Then she turned and jogged back to boot camp, already calling out to Argyle to stop pointing his gun like a dipshit.

Eddie watched her go, the weight of what she’d said pressing heavier by the second.

He ducked into the tent, brushing past the heavy canvas flap into the quiet dim of his and Ursula’s shared room. The filtered light caught the pop-up dresser in the corner—and sitting right there on top, plain as day, was the bottle.

Not hidden. Not buried. Just sitting there like it had every right to be.

That’s a good sign, right? If she wasn’t hiding it… maybe it wasn’t a big deal?

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he picked up the bottle and read the label.

Adderall.

He frowned. The name didn’t ring any bells. He knew the word, sort of, but not well. Not the way he knew, say, Valium. Or Percs. Or the alphabet soup of party drugs that floated around trailer parks and shitty venues.

He flipped the bottle over. Prescribed to Ursula J. Henderson. December 19, 2024.

So… it was legit. A real prescription. But it said “take one tablet by mouth daily.” And he was pretty damn sure snorting four crushed ones wasn’t what her future-doctor had in mind.

He sat on the edge of the cot for a second, bottle still in his hand.

They’d smoked an ungodly amount of pot together. Passed beers back and forth. Shared wine out of a crystal goblet. Swapped shots of liquor. But they’d never talked about drugs—like, drug drugs. Not really.

And yeah, plenty of people probably assumed Ursula partied hard. The hair. The tattoos. The boots. She looked like she’d just stepped off Bon Jovi’s tour jet.

But Eddie knew better.

He knew how sheltered her life had actually been. How weird and careful and clinical her upbringing was. How strange and out-of-place she felt even in her own time.

So… no. He didn’t know if this was normal for her.

And that not-knowing was gnawing at him.

He set the bottle back down exactly where it had been and grabbed some clean clothes from the footlocker. A soft, worn Judas Priest tee. His favorite black jeans. Comfortable, broken-in, like armor that didn’t look like armor.

Then he slipped out of the tent, crossed the deck, and headed for the back door of the cabin—shirt clutched in one hand, thoughts buzzing like angry bees.

Eddie stepped through the back door of the cabin, letting it swing shut behind him with a soft click. Joyce and Murray sat at the kitchen table, heads close together, voices low. They glanced up at his entrance—Joyce offering a small, tired smile, Murray tipping his chin in greeting. Eddie gave them both a nod and kept moving.

In the living room, Steve sat hunched on the couch, IV still dripping beside him. Ursula sat next to him, their heads close in quiet conversation. Whatever they were saying, it looked serious.

Ursula looked up just as he passed and met his eyes for half a second—just enough to register the subtle shift in her expression. A flicker of something unreadable. But she didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

He headed straight to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and locked it.

The fatigue jacket came off first, followed by the heavy Kevlar vest. Both hit the tile floor with a solid thunk. Then the sweat-stiff shirt, the grime-caked pants, every layer soaked in blood, vomit, smoke, and stress. His skin prickled as it hit the air—clammy and raw.

He turned on the water.

Scalding.

Steam filled the space in seconds as he stepped under the punishing spray and let it hammer against his shoulders, rinsing away the dirt and dried fear. He stood there, eyes closed, hands braced against the tile, chest heaving like he was still halfway through the run from the woods.

And his thoughts?

They went right back to her.

To Ursula.

To what Max had said.

Snorting pills. Hiding it—sort of. Or not. And what was worse—why did it even bother him this much?

Eddie leaned his forehead against the tile, eyes shut against the burn of the water and the mess of his thoughts. He felt… upset. Not just surprised, not just thrown—but upset. And he didn’t really know why.

Because who the hell was he to judge?

He got fucked up all the time.

Especially these past two years. Ever since the Paige situation detonated everything—his trust, his momentum, his goddamn peace—he’d spiraled. Slowly at first, then all at once. Booze had been a nightly companion for longer than he cared to admit. Weed too. Pills sometimes. Maybe a bag of blow here and there. A hit of something harder if someone handed it over backstage or in the bathroom at a bar.

But he’d always kept a line.

He thought.

The drinking had gotten dicey once or twice. Bad nights he didn’t fully remember. Mornings that tasted like regret. But he wasn’t a junkie. Not like the people he’d grown up around. Not like the ones in the park, clutching at their skin and dying in trailers no one bothered to check.

So no, he wasn’t judging her.

He was just… worried.

And he hated that it felt like it wasn’t his place to talk to her about it. Because goddammit, he cared.

But the thought of Ursula taking hard drugs?

It bothered him. A lot.

And yeah, maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe it made him a hypocrite. But it didn’t change the way his stomach dropped when Max told him what she saw.

Because Ursula wasn’t just casually self-destructive.

She was the real kind—the quiet, relentless kind. The kind that didn’t burn out in a blaze of glory, but ground herself down to nothing inch by inch, convinced it was all necessary. For the mission. For the team. For everyone else but her.

Eddie had watched enough junkies in the trailer park trying to chase their way out of hangovers with amphetamines. Dope-sick one minute, tweaking the next. And if that Adderall shit was anything like the speed they used to balance out their crashes, then this wasn’t just dangerous—it was a slow-motion collapse waiting to happen.

Even with her med school background. Even if she knew the dosage, the pharmacology, the half-life.

She snorted it.

That was what got him. That was what made his gut twist and his fists clench.

And he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

She wasn’t exactly approachable right now. She was locked in, focused, bristling. The thought of casually asking her about it felt like poking a bear that might just bite his hand off.

But goddammit, he was worried.

And he fucking hated this.

Eddie stood beneath the scalding water, unmoving, letting it pour down over his back in thick, punishing streams.

And with the whole world balanced on the edge of disaster, he couldn’t stop thinking about one person.

One girl.

With her head full of fire and her fists full of ghosts.

And his own head hung low.

Chapter Text

Steve sat hunched over on the couch like gravity was stronger for him than anyone else in the room. Shoulders curled in. Hands clasped between his knees, fingers flexing like he was trying to wring the guilt out of them. His hair hung low over his eyes, still damp from the shower, and he hadn’t said a word since he sank into the cushions.

Ursula sat next to him, curled sideways, one arm resting on the back of the couch, knee tucked under herself. The IV bag still swayed gently above her from the coat rack IV stand—half duct tape, half divine intervention. Her fingers twitched in her lap, itching to reach for him but holding back. For now.

Steve finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry. I just—if that had been worse—if I had actually—” He couldn’t finish. He shook his head, jaw clenched. “I don’t know what I would’ve done. If I’d hurt him. If I’d—”

“Steve,” Ursula cut in gently.

He kept going. “I mean it. I—I had a shotgun pointed at Nancy’s face. I thought your dog was a monster. I pulled the trigger. I don’t even—what if I had—?”

“Dude,” she said again, sharper this time. “But you didn’t. It wasn’t worse. Okay?”

She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee and looking at him head-on. “Everyone came home. B’s safe. You’re safe. Nancy’s safe. Eddie’s safe. I’m safe. That freaky demon-venom trip didn’t take any of us out.”

Steve still wouldn’t look at her. “B was scared,” he murmured. “I scared him. I saw it in his face.”

“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “He was scared. But himbs a good boy. He’s got a memory bank stacked with Unca Schteeve walks and Schteeve snacks and Schteeve belly rubs and tug-o-war victories.”

A small, dry huff of breath escaped Steve, not quite a laugh.

“He’s gonna be a little jumpy for a while,” she went on, “but trust me, he’s way more likely to think that whole thing was just a bad thunderstorm in his brain than anything you did to him. You’ve got years of good karma with him. This one freaky moment? It won’t undo that.”

Steve still looked like he was dragging a shame elephant around by the tusks.

Ursula sighed and leaned back again. “But I get it,” she said. “Doesn’t matter what the facts are, right? When the guilt kicks in, logic doesn’t do shit.”

Steve nodded, barely. A twitch, not a motion. He rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs like he could wear the guilt away if he just kept grinding it into denim.

He knew what Ursula was saying was true. Every word of it lined up. No one was dead. B was okay. The world hadn’t ended—again. But knowing wasn’t the same as feeling. And right now, all he could feel was that crushing weight pressing into his ribs. The fucking shame elephant, massive and unmoving, parked right on top of his chest.

His voice came thin, like it had to squeeze past that invisible weight. “It just doesn’t feel forgivable.”

Ursula didn’t answer right away. She studied him for a beat, eyes calm but clear. “I wanna tell you a story.”

Steve glanced up, brows drawn.

“It’s from my timeline,” she added. “You don’t remember it. But I do.”

That got his attention. He turned his head a little, just enough to actually look at her for the first time since they’d sat down.

She smiled faintly—small, tired, but real. “I think you need to hear it.”

Steve watched her, curiosity rising behind the shame. Ursula leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her IV line swaying gently from her arm as she spoke.

“I was ten,” she started. “Back in the original timeline. You were already in your fifties—still hot, still weirdly good at basketball, still wearing your stupid sunglasses even after sunset.”

A ghost of a grin touched Steve’s mouth. She caught it, didn’t call it out.

“It was one of those huge Harrington summer pool parties. Like… full-blown backyard circus mode. You guys always threw the best parties. Everyone came. Friends, family, our whole crew. Nancy had the snack tables looking like a Pinterest ad. There were kids everywhere. Jonno was thirteen. And me? I was just trying to survive.”

She paused, glancing toward the window like she could see the memory out there in the haze.

“This was maybe a month after there was a breach at Hawkins Lab,” she said, voice quieter now. “Project Neptune had been rolling for like seven years by then, and they still had me going in for weekly testing.”

She looked back at him.

“There was a containment failure. A Chitterfang got through. Thing moved like a jungle cat and hit like a tank. Bullet-spit—just like a pistol shrimp. Before the alarms even went off, three handlers were dead. One of ’em right in front of me. I mean like—disemboweled.” 

Her hand made an involuntary gesture, like slicing paper. “Blood on the walls. Gunfire. Screaming. I just froze. Put my hands over my ears while bullets buzzed past my ears. I couldn’t run. Couldn’t scream. I remember the smell. The noise. How it all got weirdly quiet in my head.”

Steve didn’t say anything. His brows were pinched tight now. Listening.

“That's when my night terrors started, and a bunch of other PTSD bullshit. I started dissociating. Loud noises made me flinch. I couldn’t explain what was happening. I didn’t even understand what was happening. And no one really asked. My dad was too wrapped up taking care of my mom after some fucked up shit with Vecna.”

“Damn, Urs. What about the doctors at the lab? You said you worked with that same doctor that was treating Will… didn’t they put you in with a head shrinker?”

She shrugged—one of those slow, dry, can-you-fucking-believe-it shrugs. “I was ten years old and nobody gave a shit if I was okay. They just wanted to know if the golden Thunderbird shield still activated under stress.” 

Her mouth curled bitter at the edge. But her eyes? Still soft. Focused.

And Steve could already feel the turn coming.

He just didn’t know what it meant yet.

“A month later, it was that big summer pool party, like I said. The whole family was there—Hellfire circle of trust only. No randos. Everyone there knew who I really was. Who we were.”

She gave a small smile, faint and far away. “I was ten. Rocking this ridiculous glittery Minnie Mouse two-piece and a pair of Aviator sunglasses like a fucking BAMF. Standing at the edge of the pool, all ‘look at me, look what I can do!’ geared up to cannonball into the deep end. Try to feel normal for five damn seconds.”

Steve blinked. “What’s a BAMF?”

She snorted, just a little, and gave him a half-smile. “Bad. Ass. Motherfucker.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched on one side. His eyes smiled, just for a second—soft and involuntary.

Her voice thinned slightly. “Then your youngest kid Jonathan—my lifetime best dude friend, and the world’s cockiest little shit—sneaks up beside me with one of those big super soaker water guns. The kind that made fake machine gun noises? He blasted me right in the back.”

She didn’t need to describe the sound. The way her brain seized.

“The second I heard that crackle, I was gone. My whole system just snapped. Next thing I know, I’m throwing up a shield at him—full reflex override. Just instant panic reaction.”

She swallowed. “The shield hit Jonno square in the chest. Knocked him back. He tripped on the edge of the pool, and went down hard. Cracked his chin wide open on the concrete. There was blood everywhere. He needed like fourteen stitches.”

She looked at Steve. “And dude… It could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve split his skull. And I thought—right then—I thought I’d killed him. Thought I killed my best fucking friend.”

Ursula looked down at her hands sadly.

“Some of the adults panicked,” she said. “People shouted. I was in shock—locked down, barely breathing, just staring at the blood like it was proof that I really was dangerous.”

She looked back up at him, eyes tired but unwavering. “But you didn’t yell,” she said. “Didn’t accuse. Didn’t even flinch.”

He blinked, brow furrowed. “What did I do?”

“You took care of Jonathan first,” she said. “Got him patched up, held that towel against his chin while the ambulance came. Kept everyone calm, even the ones who were ready to lose it.”

He gave a quiet snort, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Guess I’ve always been kinda cool under pressure.”

Ursula rolled her eyes, but the smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her. “No, you’ve always just been cool. Like—it hurts to admit that out loud. But yeah. You are.”

Steve’s eyes softened, that familiar spark flickering back—small, but there.

“So, then after Nancy left with Jon in the back of the ambulance—you came and found me.” Her hands slid slowly down to her knees, fingers curling tight around them. “I was sitting behind the house, behind the hedges, knees in the dirt, crying so hard I was almost sick.”

She shook her head slowly, the memory dark behind her eyes, then looked up at Steve—really looked at him—like he meant the world to her, like he had meant the world for a long, long time.

“And you didn’t say ‘What were you thinking?’ You didn’t say ‘Why would you do that?’ You just sat down next to me, real quiet, and said: ‘You were scared. It’s not your fault.’

She lay back against the couch, shoulders sinking into the cushions as she turned her head toward him, cheek pressed against the fabric like she was settling into a safer time. 

Steve leaned back slowly, unconsciously mirroring her posture—head turned, cheek to cushion, body angled toward her. The weight in his chest didn’t lift, not quite, but something in his expression softened. It was a kind of tenderness he rarely let show—something deep, familial. He realized, maybe for the first time, that there was a whole other kind of love that lived outside romance. The kind he’d really only ever known with Robin Buckley. Until now.

Ursula kept going, her voice steady and low.

“You said, ‘Ursie, sometimes, when people go through really scary stuff, their brains get stuck in protection mode. And even when the danger’s gone, the brain can’t tell.’”

She blinked slowly, like she could still hear his voice from all those years ahead. “Then you said, ‘It’s like… your body forgets how to feel safe. So it reacts like it’s still in danger—even if it’s just a noise, or a squirt gun, or a shadow.’”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted just a bit, his mouth parting like he might say something—but didn’t. His face held that dumbfounded Did I really say that? expression, caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant pride.

Ursula saw it and, for the first time that day, smiled for real—soft and unguarded. “And I remember looking at you, snot-faced and shaking, and saying, ‘I think I’m a monster Uncle Steve. You should hate me for hurting Jonno.’”

Steve’s frown deepened, the kind that came from some buried place—like hearing echoes of a life he hadn’t lived but still felt in his bones.

But Ursula kept going. “And you looked at me Steve—really looked at me—and said, ‘Ursula, you didn’t mean to hurt him. You were scared. And you were trying to protect yourself. That doesn’t make you a monster.’”

Steve’s eyes flickered, jaw tightening just slightly—like the memory, though not his, had landed somewhere deep.

“And I said, ‘But everyone was scared of me, Uncle Steve.’ And you shook your head. Real soft. And told me, ‘They weren’t scared of you, Ursula.’

Ursula gave a breathy little laugh, not quite amused, not quite sad. “But I didn’t believe it. I said—all dramatic, because I was ten— ‘But everyone was yelling!’”

That made Steve let out a quiet, rueful laugh—just a puff of breath through his nose—but it was real.

“And that’s when you told me the thing that actually made me first want to go into psych,” she said with full sincerity.”

Steve looked at her, eyebrows drawn together like the memory was just out of reach. “What did I say?”

“You said that when someone has an accident and gets hurt—like, really hurt—sometimes people around them react the same way I did when I got startled by the water gun. They panic. They lash out. They cry, or scream, or shut down completely. Because in that moment, their brain isn’t letting them tell the difference between big danger and little danger.”

Steve blinked, surprised by his own wisdom. “Wow. I’m pretty smart.”

Ursula nodded, not even teasing this time. “Yeah. You are.” Her voice was low, steady. “You really are.”

“That’s when you said, ‘What happened to you today doesn’t make you a monster. It just makes you human. It makes you like everybody else.’

She looked at him then—really looked at him—with a depth of appreciation and quiet love that hit Steve like a punch to the ribs. He didn’t know what to do with the weight of it, so he just held her gaze, jaw clenched tight.

“And Steve… that shit stuck with me. Changed my entire outlook on people. And on myself.”

She pulled her free arm in close, wrapping it around herself like a shield.

“Then you gave me a hug,” she said. “Like a real one. A dad hug. The kind that squeezes the fear right out of your ribs—and you told me you loved me a whole bunch. And you made me promise not to carry that weight for the rest of my life.”

She paused then, searching his face. Her voice went softer. “And Steve… I’m telling you this story now because you might not remember it—but I do. It’s core to how I see you.”

Her hand found his, and when she laced their fingers together, his grip came fast and tight—like a lifeline he didn’t realize he needed until it was already there.

“You never held it against me,” she said. “Not once. You understood. And now it’s my turn to understand you.”

“Jesus, Urs…” Steve’s voice was rough, scraped down to the bone. Like the words didn’t want to leave his throat, but had nowhere else to go.

She didn’t let go of his hand. “What happened out there—that wasn’t you. It was fear, Steve. Chemicals. Distortion. You weren’t in control.”

“But I still pulled a gun on Nancy,” he said, eyes darting away like he couldn’t bear to see her face when he said it. “I looked her in the eye and I was going to—if you hadn’t—”

“You didn’t,” she said. “And she’s okay. B’s okay. You’re okay. And we forgive you.”

His breath caught. “How can you forgive me for that?”

“I just do,” Ursula said, quiet but certain. “I fuckin love you, Uncle Steve.”

He was quiet again.

Breathing deep. Eyes wet but no longer breaking. Letting the moment settle between them like dust in a shaft of sunlight—heavy, but not unbearable.

And then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he huffed a tired breath and said, “I didn’t know I was your godfather.”

It wasn’t a joke exactly, but it cracked the air just enough to make the weight of the last few minutes feel survivable.

Ursula snorted. “Well duh, dingus. You were my dad’s brutha from another mother—his best homie for, like, forty years. Of course you’re my godfather. Who else would he have picked? Trash Mouth?”

Steve gave a weak, almost-smile. The corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s not just that, Urs…”

His eyes fell again. The humor drained as fast as it came.

“I held a gun to her face,” he said quietly. “To Nancy. I looked her in the eye, and I was ready to pull the trigger. And I know it wasn’t me—I know it was the venom and the hallucinations and all that—but it doesn’t matter. That’s burned into her head now. Forever.”

Ursula didn’t speak right away. Just listened. Let the silence stretch enough to mean something.

When she did speak, her voice was steady, certain. “Yeah,” she said. “I get that.”

Because she did.

She’d seen too much, done too much. There were moments locked in her head that she knew she might never fully crawl back from. And she knew the look Steve had now—the kind of look you got when you realized there was no un-doing some things.

“I know how that feels,” Ursula said softly. “Like, really know.” She pulled her knees up a little closer to her chest. “I’ve hurt people, Steve. Bad. Especially when I was younger—dealing with all the night terrors, the flashbacks. My reflexes kicked in before my brain did, just like with Jonno.”

She exhaled through her nose. “I punched one of my dad’s teeth out once.”

Steve winced. “Aw, man. But it took him so long to grow those.”

Ursula scrunched her nose, equal parts guilt and reluctant amusement. “I know.”

They sat in the quiet again. But it was gentler this time. Less jagged.

“And for what it’s worth…” she said, turning to look at him. “I love you, Uncle Steve. Not just the you from my timeline—the older one who was always there. I mean you. This version. The you that’s my age. You’ve been… a really fucking solid goddamn friend. Like, brother-level solid if I’m being honest.”

Steve blinked, like that hit him harder than he expected. His mouth quirked a little. “That’s funny. I never really thought about it like that. But… yeah. I guess that makes me your god brother, huh?”

Ursula nodded. “Hell yeah it does.”

And Steve smiled. Real, this time. “Well… I’m glad to have you for a god sister, Urs.”

Ursula’s smile faded into something steadier, more grounded. She reached across the couch, her fingers brushing his arm. “I can’t really make you feel better,” she said. “I can’t fix this. What happened, it’s heavy, and I’m not gonna pretend like it didn’t suck.”

Steve looked at her, open, raw.

“But I’m here. Like forever, dude.” She gave his arm a small squeeze. “I love the fucking shit out of you, homie. And… I’m sorry I kicked your ass.”

That cracked something in him—just a little. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You didn’t get me that bad.”

Ursula tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Oh really?”

Steve held her look for a beat, then let out a long breath. “Okay, fine. I take it back.” He rubbed at his ribs absently. “You were actually the most terrifying person I’ve ever witnessed at that moment. Like one of those moms who goes full Hulk mode and lifts a car off her kid.”

Ursula grinned, satisfied. “Makes sense. I did give birth to Bahamutt, after all.”

Steve winced, mock sympathy in his eyes. “That sounds painful.”

Ursula leaned in and patted him gently on the shoulder, a gleam in her eye. “Not as painful as that fucking shiner’s gonna be tomorrow.”

He huffed a breath—half a laugh, half a groan—and slouched back against the cushions.

Nothing was really better.

But it was a little more okay.

Chapter Text

The last of the saline cleared the line with a hollow tap of the drip chamber, the plastic bag now slack and empty. Eddie rose from where he’d been sitting nearby, rubbing at his gritty eyes before moving to disconnect the lines. 

First Steve—slumped sideways on the couch, completely out cold from the Valium. His chest rose and fell slow and steady, hands limp at his sides, the worst of the shakes finally behind him.

Eddie worked gently, muttering something half hearted under his breath about Harrington being a “lucky bastard” to get knocked out mid-crash. Then he turned to Ursula.

She was more alert, but barely. Her eyes had that wired-glass shimmer of chemical clarity just barely holding back the exhaustion. He reached for the cannula on her arm. “You good?”

She nodded and extended her arm without a word. His hands were competent, smooth, quiet in their precision. The line came free, the bandage went on, and the moment passed like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

“How’s he doing?” Eddie asked, glancing toward Steve.

Ursula looked over too, her gaze softening—but only a little. “He’ll be alright,” she said. “Needs rest. And a few years in therapy. But he’s alright.”

Joyce padded in barefoot a few seconds later, carrying a blanket. She didn’t say much—just smiled faintly and draped it over Steve with the kind of touch only a mother could manage. She brushed the hair back from his face, fingers pausing just a little over the bruise along his temple.

Then she turned to Ursula. “You going back to bed for a bit, sweetheart?”

Ursula stood. “Nope,” she said, her voice already shifting gears. “We need to leave in an hour. Next payload drop’s not gonna deliver itself.”

Eddie straightened up, frowning. “No way, Urs. It’s only been four hours since we got back. You need a little more rest before you start opening up goddamn portals again.”

“I know,” she said, not missing a beat. “But there’s no choice.”

The words dropped flat—no drama, no fight, just grim reality.

He looked at her, jaw tight, frustration in his eyes. But he didn’t push. Because he knew her. Knew that tone. And knew, deep down, she wasn’t wrong.

So he just sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and said nothing.

They stepped out into the bright sprawl of Hopper’s backyard, where the air cracked with the distant pop of practice rounds. Beyond the tree line, set against makeshift targets and hay bales, the kids were mid-drill—rifles shouldered, stances squared, Hopper barking corrections with Murray pacing nearby like a wartime schoolmaster.

The acrid tang of gunpowder hung in the warm breeze. It didn’t faze Ursula. It never did.

“Hey, Eden!” Ursula called out, shielding her eyes against the afternoon glare.

Eden raised one black-polished finger without turning. Her eyes stayed locked on the target. She exhaled slowly and squeezed off a final shot. The bullet struck the outer edge of the bullseye—clean, fast, no hesitation.

Then she turned, expression cool, that signature smirk already in place.

Ursula gaped, hands on her hips. “What the fuck, Auntie? You’re like—a fucking crack shot! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Eden twirled the barrel of the airsoft rifle once around her finger and slung it down casually. “Why didn’t you already know?” she said, flicking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I thought you knew everything, sister spawn.”

Ursula blinked. “Know what?”

“I’m a card-carrying Utah Mormon Youth Gun Club member,” Eden said, tone flat and proud.

Ursula recoiled like she’d just been slapped with a wet towel. “And you’ve just been keeping that little detail a secret because…?”

“I figured you already knew,” Eden said with a shrug, casually swapping out her magazine.

Ursula rolled her eyes. “I don’t know everything.”

Eden grinned, sharp and unbothered. “Good. I’m glad there still gets to be a little mystery.”

Ursula grinned back—genuine, broad, impressed. Eden, holy shit, she thought. She’s a mercenary. Almost as good as Nancy. Her eyes darted to Murray across the yard, then to Eddie standing nearby. And Murray? He’s got grit. Between her, Eddie, Eden, and Murray, this one should go off without a hitch. Hell—this right here? This is the core fun group. This one might actually be fun.

“Hey,” Ursula said, stepping closer, “you down to take Nancy’s spot on the next payload delivery?”

Eden raised a brow. “Does that mean I have to go… over there?”

Ursula shook her head. “Nope. Closest you’ll get is the mini-portals I’ll open against the Creel House. We’re not breaching. We’re just chucking payloads through from here. You most likely won’t even see any action.”

Eden sighed dramatically and dropped her shoulders. “Well that’s lame,” she muttered. “But I’m still in.”

Eddie, halfway through loading a new clip, snorted. “Lame that you can’t go visit an evil hell dimension full of monsters and an actual flesh wizard that wants to eat all of us?”

“Duh,” Eden said, turning to him like he’d just suggested skipping dessert. “Why wouldn’t I, a creature of the dark, not want to go check out an evil hell dimension? I’ve been prepping for this shit my whole life. Ugh. Nobody gets me.”

Eddie stared at her—half horrified, half wildly impressed. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

But Ursula got it. Oh did she get it. She’d always thought her Auntie was a badass. But now… hot damn.

“Alright, Auntie,” she said, slapping her hands together. “Let’s go take you from goth prom Barbie to full-on tactical ops witch.”

Eden lit up like a Christmas tree made of raven feathers. “Hell yes.”

Argyle, who’d been hovering nearby like a lovestruck puppy, looked less thrilled. But he didn’t say anything. Eden was the boss. And he knew better.

The tent flap rustled as Ursula held it open with one hand. “C’mon, Auntie. Let’s suit you up,” she said.

Eden strutted through with a purposeful sway, glancing around like she was casing the joint. “God, it smells like metal and boot sweat in here,” she said, inhaling with approval. “I love it.”

Ursula dropped to a knee in front of two hard cases along the canvas floor, flipping open the latches. The lids creaked back to reveal one case filled with sleek, unfamiliar shotguns, the other with polished pistols that looked like they’d stepped straight out of a sci-fi flick.

Eden blinked at the contents, then crouched low, eyes gleaming. “What… the actual hell are these?” she asked.

“Pick your poison,” Ursula said. “Shotguns left. Sidearms right. Welcome to twenty-fucking-twenty-four.”

Eden whistled low, reaching out but holding off on touching anything yet. “Damn. These things make my dad’s old Winchester look like a flintlock,” she said.

She hovered a hand over the Mossberg 940 Pro Tactical, squinting like she was solving a math problem. “That’s a semi-auto, yeah? Looks gas-driven, but smoother than anything I’ve seen. Action’s probably faster than my uncle’s duck gun,” she said.

“Very fast,” Ursula confirmed. “Low recoil, easy to cycle. Eats twelve-gauge like candy.”

Eden gave a satisfied nod. “I can work with that,” she said.

She glanced at the others. “This one here—” she pointed to the Benelli “—looks Italian. Like some kinda Ferrari of shotguns. Pretty, but she looks like she jams if you breathe on her wrong,” she said.

Ursula chuckled. “Pretty much,” she replied.

Eden turned to the pistols next, her hand pausing over a Glock. “Alright, this one looks familiar. Squared slide, polymer frame. That’s Glock-ish, right?” she asked.

“Yep. Updated model,” Ursula said.

Eden tapped the Walther PDP Compact, frowning thoughtfully. “Never seen one like this,” she muttered. “Rear serrations are deep, grip texture looks aggressive, but balanced. Trigger’s got short travel, I bet?”

“Give it a try,” Ursula encouraged.

Eden picked it up and immediately pulled back the slide to check the chamber—clear. She let it forward again with practiced ease, weight testing the gun in her palm. Then, with the muzzle pointed safely at the ground, she dry-fired it.

Click.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Clean break. Reset’s damn near immediate. I like it,” she said.

“You sure?” Ursula asked.

“Positive,” Eden replied, holstering it with the air of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Then she slung the Mossberg over one shoulder and added, “These aren’t just upgrades. These are from a whole new world.”

Ursula stood, already halfway to the back of the tent. “Be right back,” she said. “Don’t shoot your boyfriend.”

“No promises,” Eden called, already chamber-checking the shotgun with a satisfied grin.

Ursula stepped into her room alone, the canvas flap falling shut behind her. She crossed to the dresser and grabbed a second pair of camo pants—army green, already broken in and soft at the seams—folding them over one arm.

Her hand hovered just briefly over the bottle on the dresser. The Adderall sat exactly where she’d left it. She didn’t hesitate this time. Just palmed it, twisted the cap to double-check the contents, and slipped it deep into her cargo pocket without a sound.

Eddie, Murray, and Ursula stood by the tailgate of the truck, the midday sun catching off the aluminum lip of the loading ramp. The crates of thermite sat stacked in two neat rows on the grass, dull gray with bright red stenciling that screamed volatile even in silence.

Murray was adjusting the strap on his tactical vest, muttering something under his breath about center of gravity and disc integrity. Eddie leaned back against the bumper, arms crossed, one foot braced behind him. He looked like someone who’d already lost three arguments today and wasn’t eager to start a fourth.

Ursula didn’t say anything. Her fingers drummed against the edge of one of the thermite crates, tapping out a restless rhythm. Her eyes flicked toward the tent.

A moment later, Eden stepped out—changed into the army green camo pants, combat boots laced tight. The black tank top was tucked in clean beneath her Kevlar, and her tactical harness was strapped on with an unsettling amount of familiarity for someone who had no business looking that comfortable in body armor. She walked like a girl who’d been waiting for someone to give her permission to play war.

“Okay,” she said, clapping once. “Let’s load some bombs.”

Ursula cracked a grin despite herself. Then without a word, she popped the latch on one of the thermite crates and knelt beside it, fingers working fast. One by one, she stacked the ten-pound charges—five of them, snug and balanced, like she’d already done the math in her head a dozen times.

Eddie saw it coming before she even stood up. “Urs—no, that’s too many,” he said, already bracing for the fight.

She didn’t stop. “This is the plan,” she said coolly. “Five per drop, six drops total. That’s how we stay ahead of the burn.”

Eddie threw up a hand. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you do that again. You lost consciousness last time. You were bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“That was because I healed Dart,” Ursula snapped. “Which I’m not doing again, so relax. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine if you fucking die, Ursula!” Eddie’s voice sharpened, cutting across the yard.

From a few feet away, Eden stopped her loading and glanced over, a frown pulling at her mouth. “She really almost bled out?” she asked.

“She did,” Murray confirmed, dragging a gloved hand down his face. “Went down like a felled tree. Wasn’t great.”

Ursula turned, frustration leaking through every gesture. “You’re all overreacting—”

“We’re not,” Eddie cut in. “We’re reacting perfectly appropriately to the idea of you passing out mid-portal with fifty pounds of high-heat payload in tow.”

“We don’t have time for this!” she barked. “If we fall behind, we don’t finish the payloads. If we don’t finish the payloads, we don’t prep the blast radius. No blast radius means no firewall. No firewall means we all fucking die.”

“And if you die before we finish?” Eddie shot back, eyes narrowed. “Same fucking result.”

There was a beat of silence. Just the sound of wind against the treeline.

“I say we cut it to four,” Murray offered, calm and firm. “Still better than nothing. Won’t push her too hard.”

Eden nodded. “I’m with them,” she said, slinging her shotgun back over her shoulder. “You might be a magical portal witch, but you’re still just a squishy mortal in meat armor, sister spawn.”

Ursula scowled, jaw flexing, but she didn’t argue. Not out loud. She just turned back to the crate and quietly removed one of the charges.

Eddie moved to help her but she brushed past him, eyes fixed ahead. She didn’t say a word.

He felt it anyway—that cold draft of guilt. It hit the space just behind his ribs like a bruise. But guilt was better than losing her. Any day of the week.

When the last thermite crate was locked in place, Ursula turned on her heel without a word, disappearing around the side of the truck. Murray and Eden exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. Eddie just muttered, “Back in a sec,” and headed for the tent.

He ducked through the flap into the Hellfire master suite—a full 12-by-12 canvas room, outfitted like something out of a tactical catalog crossed with a rockstar’s trailer. The cot wasn’t even a cot anymore—more like a low-set memory foam slab with a legit bedframe. Soft lighting from battery lanterns, the modular dressers in both corners, and all of Ursula’s gear lined up with precision that bordered on obsessive.

His hoodie lay draped across the foot of the bed. Eddie snagged it, tugging it over one shoulder—but his eyes drifted toward the dresser.

The pill bottle was gone.

He froze for half a second, hoodie bunched in his hands. Just the absence of that amber bottle on the plastic dresser top was enough to spike something behind his ribs. Not exactly panic—but something close. The kind of weight you don’t want to carry, but know you might have to.

She’d moved it. Or taken it. Either way, it wasn’t where it had been before.

Eddie let out a slow breath, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered under his breath, “Well, fuck.” He still hadn’t asked her about it.

And now, the window for a casual conversation was long gone.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as the truck crunched to a stop just outside the Creel House. Vines coiled like veins across the sagging facade, windows dark and lifeless. But the quiet—that was the part that never sat right.

Ursula stepped out, hand resting on her belt, eyes scanning the warped rooftop line. She spoke into the open comms channel, voice steady.

“Thunderbird to Camp Hellfire, status check. You guys still clear?”

Dustin came through a half second later, sharp and direct. “We’ve got nothing on the board. No movement, no heat signatures, no signal interference. You’re good, T-Bird.”

Ursula gave a small nod. “Copy. Will?”

Will’s voice followed, a little softer but still alert. “Yeah, it’s all still quiet on the IR-01 side. No spikes, no shadow flickers. You should be good.”

“Alright,” Ursula said. “We’re going in.”

Eddie slung the first thermite case out of the truck bed, passing it to Murray, who in turn handed it off to Eden. They moved like a unit now—quick, practiced, focused.

Ursula had the payload drop map pulled up on her phone, the screen dimmed to avoid catching the light. She angled toward the left side of the house, navigating around bramble clusters and hunks of foundation rubble.

“First mark’s here,” she said quietly.

Eddie and Eden spread out on either side, weapons raised, scanning the tree line and the house’s shattered windows. Murray stayed close, fingers twitching near the next charge.

Eddie crouched low, eyes sweeping the skeletal remains of the porch while Eden moved fluid, catlike, toward the eastern treeline—her Mossberg tucked close, eyes sharp. Ursula dropped to one knee at the cracked base of the house’s north face.

She exhaled, slow.

A thin, perfect ring of golden light bloomed into the air like a sunflare. Silent. Clean. The portal hovered just long enough.

“Go,” she said.

Murray peeled the backing from the first thermite charge, hands steady despite the tension coiling in his jaw. He handed it to her, and Ursula pressed it flush to the exposed stonework just inside the portal.

Click. Secure.

She snapped the portal shut, jaw already clenched before the backlash came.

A single thin trickle of blood slipped from her left nostril.

No one said anything.

She wiped it away with the back of her glove and was already moving.

Four feet down. Second mark. She didn’t pause.

Portal.

Murray handed her the next charge—this one with a little more pressure in his fingers. She slapped it into place, the adhesive making that soft muted thup against the concrete. Another click. Another close.

This time, the blood came from both nostrils. Slow but steady. A second later, her shoulders dipped—not dramatically, just enough.

Eddie saw it. Saw everything.

The way her eyes had that glassy shimmer. The way her breath hitched before she caught it, like her own lungs were betraying her.

He gritted his teeth.

She was forcing it. Forcing her brain to bleed. Again. And he fucking hated it.

But he didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

Ursula staggered slightly as she stepped back from the third seal, one hand bracing on her thigh. Blood ran freely now—not just from one nostril but both—thin rivulets snaking toward her lip and down her chin. Her skin was pale, and the edges of her mouth were turning a little gray.

Eden saw it. So did Murray. Even Eddie, who had been biting his tongue, couldn’t pretend anymore.

“Nope,” Eddie said sharply. “We’re done.”

Murray echoed, firm. “That’s enough, Urs.”

Eden’s eyes narrowed. “You’re about to drop. Call it.”

Ursula snapped.

“Jesus fucking Christ, would you all stop being so goddamn insubordinate?” Her voice cracked under strain, more furious than loud. “I know what I can handle.”

She was shaking, breath coming hard, but the anger held her upright. “There’s no wiggle room on this payload setup. You guys already made it so I have to make an extra trip.”

No one moved.

She jammed a hand into her cargo pocket and pulled out the orange bottle. Popped the top, shook out two more pills, and dry swallowed them without water or hesitation.

Eddie’s stomach twisted.

Then, blessedly, Eden cut in.

“What are those?” she asked, frowning. “Sister spawn, what the hell are you popping like breath mints?”

“Adderall,” Ursula said, barely glancing at her. She was already back to pulling her gloves on tighter.

Murray blinked. “Is that… a painkiller or something?”

“No,” she said, blowing out a breath. “It’s ADHD medicine. Like Ritalin—only without the depressive crash after. It’s to help me focus.”

Eddie’s heart thudded dully in his chest. Okay, he thought. Okay, that makes sense. He’d heard of Ritalin. Gareth from Corroded Coffin had been on it for a couple years back in middle school.

But still… that didn’t explain why she’d snorted four already today. Or what the side effects were for taking five times her daily dose before noon.

And it definitely didn’t answer the one question that had been quietly gutting him all day:

Is this something she can get hooked on?

He knew people abused Ritalin. Sold it. Used it to stay sharp for days. Was Adderall like that too?

He hated this.

Hated that he was scared to ask.

He thought they could talk about anything.

She opened the fourth and final portal with her breath hitching in her chest, vision blurry at the edges. The circle gleamed to life—tight, controlled, golden—and she pushed the last thermite charge through with shaking hands, slapping it into position on the anchor stone.

The portal closed.

A thin stream of blood slipped from her left ear. Then her right.

“Fuck,” Eddie whispered, his voice strangled. He lurched toward her.

“Urs,” Eden said, frozen mid-cover, eyes wide. Even Murray had gone pale.

They were all staring.

Ursula wavered on her feet, blinking hard, her head pounding so loudly she could barely hear them. “Don’t,” she said hoarsely, raising a hand to stop them. “Don’t start. I’m fine.”

Eddie looked like he might break in half. “Ursula—”

“I said I’m fine!” she snapped, eyes flaring. “I get to decide when it’s too much. Not you.”

Eddie’s hands came up like he was trying to hold the whole world still. His voice was tight, trembling, low—but just barely. “I’m not trying to take away your goddamn free will, Ursula,” he said. “I’m trying to keep you from having a goddamn brain aneurism.”

There it was again.

That word.

Her expression didn’t change much—not on the surface—but something in her jaw eased, just barely. Her eyes, rimmed in red, flicked to his. It was hard to tell if they softened. But inside, in the part of her she didn’t show often, something gave just a fraction of an inch.

“I’ll get a solid eight hours of sleep this time,” she said quietly. “I swear. But after that… it’s right back here.”

Eddie didn’t say anything.

Didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. But his jaw was set tight, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Anger simmered there—hot and restless—but it wasn’t for her. It was for the fear. Because beneath all the frustration and disbelief and what the fuck are you doing, Urs, there was only one thing that really mattered: he was scared out of his goddamn mind.

Ursula leaned against the side of the house and wiped her sleeve across her upper lip, smearing a streak of blood from her nose. She tilted her head and tapped her ear—more blood. Then she spat hard into the weeds, a thick, dark loogie of blood landing with a wet splock in the grass.

Eddie stepped forward. “You’re gonna let me drive.”

It wasn’t a question.

She stared at him a second, then gave a single nod. “Fine,” she muttered, too worn out to keep pretending she had anything left in the tank. Even if she wouldn’t say it out loud, not yet, she knew it was true—this kind of pace wasn’t going to be sustainable much longer.

Together, they loaded back into the truck. Eddie climbed behind the wheel while Ursula climbed into the passenger seat, moving slower than usual. Eden and Murray took the back.

Ursula clicked on the comms. “Camp Hellfire, this is Thunderbird. Payload drop complete. We’re en route.”

Dustin’s voice crackled back, all business: “Copy that, Thunderbird. See you soon.”

Then Eddie pulled away from the curb, and the truck fell into silence.

The truck was quiet. Tense. Ten full minutes passed with nothing but the hum of tires on pavement. Ursula kept her eyes on the window, face unreadable.

Then, still not looking at anyone, she said, “I’m not going to apologize about how tough I have to be about this shit.  But you guys aren’t wrong about the toll this is taking.”

Eddie kept his hands on the wheel. Murray and Eden were silent.

“I might not be able to keep up this pace,” she said. “We might have to adjust the plan if this pace keeps being so unsustainable. I’ll have to sneak the rest in. Go over there.”

They didn’t respond right away. But eventually, one by one, they nodded.

Not because they agreed.

But because they had to.

Chapter Text

The truck rolled to a stop in the gravel ring behind Camp Hellfire, the sky a bruised shade of late-afternoon gold. Doors cracked open and Ursula was the first one out, boots hitting dirt like she barely felt the ground. She didn’t stagger. But only because she was too stubborn to.

Robin straightened up from where she’d been overseeing target drills, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Hey! You’re back—Urs, you okay?”

Max, nearby with Lucas, dropped her practice blade and took a step forward. “Jesus, you look—are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine after my nap,” Ursula said, brushing them both off with a weak flick of her wrist.

She didn’t stop walking. Made a straight line to the middle of the yard, turned on her heel, and addressed the entire crew like it hadn’t been barely fifteen minutes since she’d been spitting blood into the grass.

“Keep training,” she said. “You all already have the schedule. Stick to it. I need a team of teen assassins by tomorrow.”

That got a few dry chuckles from the group, but no one relaxed. Eddie stepped out of the truck slower, watching her with open concern.

Ursula went on. “At some point today, everyone needs to review the three binders in that box—” she jabbed a finger toward the crate under the tarp, “—especially the black one. It’s your new monster manual. Read it.”

And then, mid-sentence, her nose started to bleed. Not a drip, but a steady, unmistakable stream down her upper lip. She swiped it without flinching, smearing it into the red bandanna she pulled from her cargo pocket like this was routine. Because it was.

Max’s brow furrowed. Lucas stepped forward again. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I said I’m fine,” Ursula said, not even looking at them. “Hopper’s in charge when I’m not here. Next thermite run is in eight hours.”

She swayed a little on her feet, but straightened.

“I’m going to bed.”

No shower. No change of clothes. No brushing out the blood in her hair.

And that—that—was when Eddie knew. Really knew. She wasn’t just tired. She wasn’t just worn out.

She was in trouble. Because Ursula never went to bed without showering. Ever. 

Inside the tent, Susie was already waiting. She helped get Ursula out of the flak vest, tugged the blood-streaked camo pants off and eased her into clean pajamas like she was sleepwalking.

Ursula mumbled a single, thick, “Night, Momma.”

And then she was out cold before her head even hit the pillow.

An hour or so later, Eddie looked at her.

She was pale. Still. Her mouth slightly open, a faint smear of dried blood under one nostril. Even asleep, she felt… far away. Like something in her had sunk too deep to reach.

He reached out, gently, just a curled knuckle down the length of her arm.

She flinched in her sleep.

Eddie froze. Pulled his hand back, slow and careful. He didn’t try again.

Instead, he sat there beside her and thought about the portals.

The first time she’d shown him—just yesterday morning—she’d been rested. Fresh out of a full night’s sleep, wrapped in sheets, smiling like it was just another trick up her sleeve. And even then, it had drained her. Just one portal had left her needing a moment to breathe.

But today?

Today had been a different beast. Watching her wither, drain, and bleed with each opening—it was a really fucking shitty situation.

And now, after all the abuse she’d inflicted on herself—eight of those things in just over a day—she was talking about scrapping the entire portal payload plan altogether.

Which meant the toll wasn’t just bad. It was probably ten times worse than she was letting on.

And her backup?

Her backup was to go over there and sneak the payload in on foot. She hadn’t come right out and said it, but Eddie knew. Knew it in the same way he knew the sound of her laugh or the exact way she curled into his side when she was cold. She wouldn’t do it as a team.

She’d want to do it alone.

And Eddie couldn’t decide which way of watching her fucking die would be worse—dropping right in front of them from brain bleed because she pushed her psionics too far, or catching it on bodycam, helpless, while she got torn apart by whatever monsters were still roaming over there.

On one hand, letting her go back alone meant sending her at least seven miles from Forest Gate to the Creel House, and that was through woods the whole way. Ten, if she took the route near Forest Hills—but the terrain was easier there. Still, she’d be going alone. Carrying weight. Exposed the entire time.

And the last time she was over there alone, she died.

He couldn’t let that happen.

But she wouldn’t let anyone go with her. She’d said it before—and proven it—that having others around made it more dangerous for her. The psychic load, the distraction, the responsibility of keeping someone else alive. It all made it worse.

But then what? They’d only planted eighty pounds. Out of three hundred. She was supposed to carry two hundred and ten pounds of that shit seven—maybe ten—miles through the Upside Down?

Alone?

No fucking way.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t let her do that alone.

Eddie’s eyes drifted back to her. She really did look absolutely wrecked. Pale. Hollow-eyed even in sleep. Her breaths were shallow and uneven.

And he hated it.

Because he fucking loved this girl.

And right now, more than anything, he hated the fact that he couldn’t just slide in behind her and be her big spoon. Wrap himself around her, make her feel safe. But more than that—make himself feel like he could do something. Anything.

So instead, he just sat there—watching her sleep and running logistics in his head. Because this method? This opening-portals-until-blood-leaks-out-her-ears routine, followed by a short nap and another go at it… it just wasn’t sustainable. Not even close.

Maybe—he thought—maybe there was another way. One more portal. A big one. Drop all the remaining thermite at once, stash it, and let her travel without the weight. Less strain, maybe. Fewer trips.

But then he remembered the swarm.

The panic. The screaming.

The sting.

If they hadn’t worked together, kept their heads, moved fast—there was a real chance they wouldn’t have made it back at all.

He’d watched Steve go through the worst of the stinger’s hallucinations. Watched him beg for mercy from monsters that weren’t there. And now? Eddie was already having daymares. Of her. Of himself. Running into even worse danger with no one to pull them out.

And he knew he couldn’t stop her if she decided to go. Like—sure, he was surprisingly strong for a dude his size. That wasn’t just ego; it was fact. But Ursula? Ursula was a fucking karate ninja lady. Like real-life stealth modifiers at play. She could drop-kick a demon sideways in the dark without breaking a sweat. If she said she was going, then short of sedating her, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

But how the hell was he supposed to let her go back in there alone… and still feel even remotely worthy of her?

How was he supposed to live with this primal, marrow-deep instinct to protect her—and not be allowed to act on it? Because it wasn’t a casual kind of thing. It was carved into him now. Like some ancient, ritualistic brand that lived in his bones. A wild need. A sacred fury. He would do unspeakable things just to keep her safe. Things he wasn’t proud of even thinking about.

And the worst part?

She’d never let him.

No matter how badly he wanted to throw himself between her and every horror the Upside Down had to offer, he knew—knew—she wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t let him take a single bullet if it meant she could take it instead.

And that broke his heart in the most confusing fucking way.

Because God, he loved how wild she was. Brave and fierce and so fucking competent. She wasn’t some tragic little damsel in need of saving—she was the one building the damn plan to save everyone else. But still… he couldn’t stop thinking about that weekend. How she looked then. How happy she had been. How surprised she looked just to be relaxing. Like no one had ever given her permission to stop fighting before. Like she didn’t even know peace was an option.

And now that he’d seen that part of her—the soft part, the peaceful part—he couldn’t not fight to give it back to her.

He couldn’t let her go back in there before he had given her more of that.

But what the fuck was he supposed to do?

That’s when he heard it—soft, muffled little mmm sounds. Stuffy. Nasal. Agitated.

Eddie turned, heart already thudding.

Ursula was curled tight on her side, knees drawn up, one hand pawing absently at her face like something itched or stung. Her nose was scrunched in annoyance, and she let out another congested groan, rubbing harder now.

And then he saw it.

Blood. Smeared across her cheekbone, across the bridge of her nose. Wet and dark and fresh.

It was both nostrils this time. A slow but steady flow, leaking sideways across her face, streaking her temple and matting her hair into sticky clumps.

She kept rubbing at it in her sleep, making it worse with every movement. Still half-asleep, still fighting off the sensation like it was a dream.

Eddie’s stomach dropped.

Making that thick, nasal mmm sound again, Ursula writhed faintly in place, agitated. Eddie was already in motion—grabbing the red bandanna from his back pocket and sliding in next to her on the cot. He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“Urs,” he whispered. “Hey… Ursula.”

She didn’t stir.

“Urs,” he said again, a little louder this time, just enough to cut through the fog.

She groaned, rubbed her face again, and blinked her eyes open.

And it wasn’t her beautiful, fairytale wake-up this time. It was—scary.

Her eyes weren’t just bloodshot. The whites were laced with angry red bursts, tiny blood vessels blown out completely. And her face… smeared with streaks of dark blood, fresh and drying in patches, the bleeding still steady from both nostrils.

She looked toward him, sluggish, unfocused. Didn’t seem to register him at first.

Her expression twisted in confusion, distracted—caught on that sticky, cloying warmth across her upper lip and the thick metallic taste pooling at the back of her throat. She rubbed at her nose, smeared it worse.

“Ursula,” Eddie said again, softer this time. He reached up, slow and careful, pressing the bandanna gently against her nose, his other hand steady behind her head.

She flinched. Grabbed his wrist hard and yanked it away.

And then her eyes locked on him—and for the first time, she really saw him. The confusion broke. Surprise flashed through her.

And just as it did, a huge blood bubble swelled from her right nostril. It held for a breath.

Then it popped.

Blood smeared across her lips in a slick red splash.

She wiped at her face, looked down at her hands—shaking, red, soaked.

Then she looked at Eddie.

Like—what the fuck.

Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t freak out. His voice was low and calm, steady in a way that made her chest ache.

“Your nose is bleeding, Urs,” he said softly. “A lot.”

Ursula blinked, dazed. Then, wordless, she reached out and took the handkerchief from his hand, her fingers sticky with blood. She tilted her head back, pinching the bridge of her nose like it was second nature—because it was. She’d done this a thousand times.

But this time the blood rushed straight down her throat. Too much, too fast. She gagged, trying to clear it with a wet cough that rattled.

She fumbled for the water bottle on the nightstand, unscrewed the cap with shaking hands, and spat a thick, choking stream of blood into the crumpled bandanna. Then slammed half the bottle like it was life itself.

She paused. Folded the handkerchief the other direction with stiff, methodical hands and brought it back to her face, tilting her head again and pinching the bridge of her nose.

The whole motion was robotic. Muscle memory. All business. All survival.

Eddie ducked out through the tent flap, eyes sweeping toward the comms table where Will, Dustin, Mike, and Susie were half-slouched over radios and coffee mugs.

“Hey,” he called, keeping his voice low but urgent. “Can someone bring us a few towels? One of them wet. Hot, if you can manage it.”

Susie sat up straighter instantly. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie offered a casual shrug, too casual. “Her nose started bleeding again. She smeared it all over her face in her sleep. I just wanna clean her up a bit, that’s all.”

Dustin frowned, not quite buying it. “How bad?”

“I’ll be able to tell you better once I can see her under the blood,” Eddie said. “Can you just—please?”

Susie didn’t hesitate. She was already up, jogging toward the supply trunk near the med tent.

Three minutes later, she returned with an armful of towels—two folded and dry, and one steaming hot, tucked against her chest. She pushed the tent flap aside and froze.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Ursula looked like something out of a horror movie. Her eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot with broken vessels spidering through the whites. Her face was streaked in drying blood—smears from her nose, her cheek, even the edges of her lips. Her hair was matted and wild, soaked with sweat and clumped with scarlet at the ends.

She was shaking.

Still pinching her nose, still tilted back, still trying to stop the bleeding.

Susie crossed the room in a rush. “Urs—let me help—”

Ursula cut her off, voice ragged. “No. I got it.”

Susie froze.

Ursula didn’t even look at her, just kept pressure on her nose with one hand and waved vaguely toward the door with the other. “Go back to comms. Three people always. Remember?”

Susie hesitated—but only for a breath—then gave a small nod and stepped back. “Yeah. Okay.” She disappeared out through the tent flap, and the quiet snapped back into place.

Eddie turned back to Ursula, crouching beside her with the warm towel in hand. “Here—just let me—”

“I said I’ve got it,” Ursula muttered, still pinching the bridge of her nose with the bandanna, eyes narrowed and blood-speckled.

Eddie’s hand paused midair. He swallowed, sat back on his heels. “Are you mad at me?”

“Jesus, no,” she snapped. “For fuck’s sake, Eddie—I’m bleeding out of my face. Can I please have a goddamn minute?”

That shut him up. He nodded, lips pressed tight. Gave her the minute. And another five.

Still bleeding.

She shifted, annoyed, smearing a new streak of red higher up her cheek with the heel of her hand. The crust was starting to dry in flaking swirls along her jaw.

“Babe,” Eddie said gently. “If we don’t wipe your face soon, you’re gonna have to scrub it.”

Ursula groaned low, annoyed and exhausted. Then she held out her hand, palm up. “Fine. Towel.”

He handed it to her, but didn’t let go. “Urs, please,” he said quietly. “Let me help.”

Her jaw clenched hard enough to pop. She stared straight ahead for a second—then finally, stiffly, gave in. “Fine,” she muttered. “If it’ll get you off my back. Do it.”

She peeled the bandanna from her face—gingerly. The bleeding had slowed, maybe even stopped, and the crusting edges tugged against her skin. Her nose was swollen, red and sore. Still, she handed Eddie the towel without a word.

He moved carefully, wiping the blood in slow, deliberate circles from her cheeks and jaw. She let him, at first. But when he hesitated a little too long near her nostrils, dabbing too softly, she yanked the towel from his hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered, swabbing her own face with fast, practiced motions. She wiped hard, even though it probably hurt.

“There. It’s done.” Her voice was flat, tired. She slumped back into the pillow and closed her eyes again. “Now let me bleed in peace.”

Chapter Text

Before he stepped out, Eddie paused at the zippered doorway.

Ursula was curled into a tight fetal position, the red bandanna still pressed to her nose even in sleep. Her fingers were slack, her breathing shallow, but she was out cold now. Finally. Thank god.

He stayed there a moment longer, just watching her.

Even wrecked like this—sweaty, bloodied, curled up like she was trying to make herself disappear—she still looked like the most painfully beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It made his chest ache.

They’d only known each other a month. A month. It should’ve still been new, cautious. But instead, they’d forged something deep and strange and more loving than anything he’d ever had in his whole miserable life. Something that made him want to believe in words like fate. Or forever. 

But today had been a nightmare. One long, bruising stretch of watching her tear herself apart. Pushing through pain, pushing through people.

And pushing him away.

That’s what stung most. She was pushing everyone away right now—Snapped at her team, shrugged off help, even brushed off Susie like it didn’t gut her. And yeah, sure, maybe that wasn’t that weird. She was barely out of her teens and rebellious as hell. It was honestly one of the most normal things about her—that, under stress, she pushed her parents away.

But Eddie wasn’t her parent. And ever since they met, he’d been the one person she didn’t push away. Until now.

And he got it. He wasn’t emotionally stupid. He knew this wasn’t about him. Knew it was fear and exhaustion and pressure cracking her from the inside. She was overwhelmed. She was terrified. She was surviving the only way she knew how. But god, it still felt like she was mad at him. Like she was pulling back and he couldn’t figure out why—or what he’d done—or how to fix it. How to hold it.

How to hold her.

He wanted—achingly—to just wrap her up in his arms and not let go. Protect her. Be the one place in the whole hell-ripped world where she could rest.

And, if he was being honestly pathetic about it, he wanted her to hold him back. He could really use a fucking hug right about now.

She was right here. Just a few feet away. And he missed her.

Eddie sighed and stepped out of the master bedroom of the tent and made his way toward the comms table. 

The air outside coming in through the mesh tent windows had that late-afternoon stillness—warm, quiet, like the calm before a punch.

Susie and Dustin were still posted up, their eyes scanning the monitors, their shoulders tight with tension.

As he got closer, he could tell Susie had been crying. Her eyes were rimmed red, cheeks blotchy. He didn’t say anything—just gave her that kind of glance that held space without asking questions. The kind that said, Yeah. Me too.

Eddie hated seeing her like that, though. She was just a kid—fifteen—but carrying the kind of grief that didn’t belong to someone her age. And it wasn’t just anyone she was crying for. This was Ursula’s mom. Her real mom. 

It was all backwards and broken and beautiful in that time-travel way he still couldn’t fully wrap his head around, but it didn’t matter. Seeing his girlfriend's mother hurt like that made something sharp twist in his chest. He didn’t know how to fix it. Hated that he couldn’t.

Dustin looked up first. “How is she?” he asked.

“She’s in rough shape,” Eddie said. “Her temper’s super short, her eyes look like blood blisters, and she’s just… bleeding in her sleep now.” He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “This whole portal payload thing is gonna fucking kill her if she keeps this up.”

Susie nodded, her voice quiet but steady. “You’re right. Mathematically there’s just not enough time versus energy for this to be a sustainable plan.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Eddie said.

Susie made a soft, gasping sound at the swear.

“Sorry, Susie,” Eddie said.

“It’s okay,” Susie replied.

Dustin looked between them. “What are we supposed to do though? We told Ursula we were gonna follow the rules this time.”

“I know… But those nosebleeds… that’s her brain bleeding, you guys,” Eddie said. “If she keeps this up, she’s gonna end up having a stroke or like, a brain aneurysm.”

A look of utter fear crossed Dustin’s face at the word aneurysm.

Mike and Will, who had been quiet till now, both looked over at Dustin. Then at each other. Will’s fingers tightened around his pen. Mike didn’t say anything, just gave a barely-there nod. It was the kind of look you only gave someone when you knew the story—when you’d been there for the fallout, even if you hadn’t seen it happen.

Susie’s voice was small. “Well… what else can we do?”

Eddie sighed. “Ursula wants to go over by herself. Plant the rest by stealth.”

“No!” Susie said, her voice breaking. “I don’t want her going back there alone!”

“I don’t either,” Dustin said. “But I also don’t want to watch her drop dead of an aneurysm. I can’t watch that happen to another person.”

Susie turned sharply toward him. “Dusty… who did you see die of an aneurysm?”

Dustin hesitated. Then he looked down at the table. “My dad.”

There was a long, tense pause. No one moved.

Susie’s voice cracked as she looked at him. “Oh, god Dusty… I-I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Everyone turned toward Dustin, that same look on their faces—that quiet tilt of the head, the too-soft eyes. That pity look. And Dustin hated it.

Will glanced down, then said gently, “He doesn’t really like to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t,” Dustin said, jaw tight. “And I’m not going to now either, so…”

“So we need to come up with a third option,” Susie said.

“There is no third option,” Dustin said flatly.

“Even if there was,” Eddie added, “it wouldn’t matter. At the end of the day, you know this isn’t a democracy. If she decides to go, you know she will.”

“We can’t let her,” Susie whispered.

“We couldn’t stop her even if we wanted to, Susie-poo,” Dustin said.

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe it’s time to start at least thinking about logistics for it… If she’s going to go, I’d rather it be with backup. With us on deck to help.”

“I can’t,” Susie said suddenly, voice cracking. “No. I don’t want her to go there alone.”

“Susie,” Dustin said gently, “we need to back her up.”

“Back her up?” Susie snapped. “I can’t run comms for that! And what—just sit here and watch some invisible jellyfish electrocute her to death while lizards make a burrow in her chest? No. I can’t.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

Susie didn’t answer. Instead, she reached under the comms table and pulled out a thick black binder. She held it out without a word.

Eddie took it, frowning as he read the label across the front: Specimen Register: IR-01 – Terrestrial and Non-Terrestrial Hostiles.

“Susie,” Dustin said, his voice tight. “That’s not playing fair.”

“None of this is fair,” Susie shot back. “Besides, Ursula wanted everyone to read those binders while she was asleep. I’m just making sure he gets a turn.”

Dustin shook his head slowly. “This is gonna go great…”

Eddie didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked back toward the master tent bedroom, binder in hand.

None of this was fair. But that didn’t matter either. Fair didn’t change a goddamn thing.

Chapter Text

>>>Click Here to read the Upsidedown Monster Manual<<<

Eddie slipped through the tent flap into the dim quiet of their shared space. The tactical glamping tent didn’t exactly scream “home,” but it came close enough. Everything smelled faintly like canvas, pine, and gun oil—a weird combo, but one he was quickly growing used to. The shadows inside were long and soft, the last of the daylight filtering in through the mesh panels.

He paused just inside the zippered doorway, eyes drifting to the cot.

Ursula was still curled into herself, deep in sleep. The bandanna was balled loosely in her hand now, her fingers half-clenched around it like a child gripping a comfort object in her dreams. Her breathing was slow but uneven, one leg twitching faintly beneath the blanket like she might bolt awake at any second. But she didn’t.

The cot she lay on was ridiculous. Queen-sized. Raised on a solid tactical frame. The kind of thing he might’ve cracked a joke about at first—“Jesus Christ, is this Army Barbie’s dream tent?”—but not now. Now, it just looked like a haven. The kind of place someone like her needed after the kind of day she’d just survived. Honestly? It was probably the nicest bed Eddie had ever seen up close. Definitely the nicest he’d ever slept in.

Quietly, he crossed to his side of it. Sat down slow, careful not to jostle her.

He propped himself against the pile of pillows she’d arranged—way too many, but in that weirdly charming Ursula way—and reached for the thick black binder Susie had handed him. Specimen Register: IR-01 – Terrestrial and Non-Terrestrial Hostiles.

Eddie cracked it open and exhaled, muttering under his breath. “Alright. Let’s see what fresh hell we’re dealing with.”

He turned the first page. Then the next.

And started reading.

The binder was heavier than it looked—pages stiff with slick paper, crisp corners, and an eerie newness that made Eddie feel like it had been printed just yesterday. Maybe it had. CIA ink probably didn’t smudge. He flipped to the index and started scanning for anything familiar.

First stop: Vecna.

He hadn’t expected a picture.

Not a sketch or an artist’s rendering. A photo. Blurry, overexposed, black-and-white—but unmistakable. That twisted skeleton of a man, one withered eye socket caved in, the flesh across his face pulled taut like melted wax. He looked like a corpse halfway through becoming a god.

Eddie froze.

This was who they were fighting. Not the metaphor. Not the memory. The thing. And it didn’t matter how many times Ursula called him Henry or how many science-y descriptions she slapped over his evil—seeing it here, cataloged, labeled “IR-01-A: Primary Hive Entity,” made Eddie’s skin crawl.

Eddie’s lip curled.

This was the monster that raped his girlfriend. The thing that carved itself into Ursula’s mind and body and left wreckage behind. That broke things inside her so deep they didn’t even have names.

And now here it was. Not in a dream. Not in her voice shaking at 3 a.m.—but here. On paper. Real. Alive.

He stared at that photo like it owed him something.

And he memorized that face.

Because if he ever saw it in person, he was going to end it.

No weapons. No speeches. Just destruction. He was going to fucking destroy it.

He tore his gaze away and flipped faster.

Demogorgons. A little more clinical than he’d imagined. Muscle mass estimates, jaw strength, bite radius. There were diagrams of tendons and bone alignment like it was a lion or some zoo animal instead of a goddamn terror-beast that once cornered his friends in a meat tunnel.

Demodogs. They were in there too. Smaller class, listed as “juvenile hunting variants.” He skipped the body stats. He’d seen what they could do. Still had the nightmares.

Demobats. Fast entry. “Aerial nuisance class.” That was what the manual called them. A fucking nuisance. Eddie snorted quietly through his nose. Tell that to his ribcage and the way it whistled in the cold after that first hit.

Then: Kruthik Wasps.

He froze again.

Just reading the name made the panic flash behind his eyes. The wasps. From earlier. The same ones that nearly got them all killed that morning. The entry had cross-sections. Wing structure. Chemical compound breakdowns of the venom. It even mentioned the neurological impact of their sting—hallucinations, panic attacks, irrational behavior.

Eddie’s stomach turned. He remembered Steve’s face. The way he screamed like he was being pulled apart from the inside. He kept flipping.

Too fast. He didn’t want to see the rest. Didn’t want to know what was coming next.

Because everything after that? He had no names for it. No stories. No context. Just worse shapes.

Worse teeth.

The next page hit him like a slap.

It wasn’t even the words at first. It was the photo.

Big as the whole page. Dark as rot. A field of them—spindly stalks knotted up in roots and crowned with massive, veined eyelids—and at the center, one opened. One eye. Just one. But it was enough.

It stared out of the paper like it could still see him.

His breath caught. That thing… it wasn’t some D&D metaphor. It wasn’t mythic. It was real. And it was looking at him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He read the name—Deathroot Eye—and immediately remembered it. From the mission brief before they left for McKinney. Ursula had mentioned it once, too fast, too focused to give details. She hadn’t used the name. Just said there were things in the woods you didn’t want looking at you.

Now he understood why.

He skimmed the breakdown, each bullet point another nail in the coffin of his already-fraying nerves.

“Eye diameter: 10–13 feet.”

A fucking pupil that could engulf a grown man. A thing with no legs. No mouth. Just roots, paralysis, and consumption.

“Kill pattern: Psionic freeze, root crush, body absorbed.”

Eddie swallowed hard. The photo. The description. The quote from Ursula’s debrief.

“The eyes weren’t watching—they were waiting.”

He shut the binder for a second, hand over the cover. His pulse was racing.

She had seen this. Been surrounded by it. Walked into a grove and walked out the only one moving. The only one alive.

And she just… talked about it like it was an errand.

He flipped it open again—just long enough to memorize the entry.

If he ever saw one of these in person, he needed to know how not to die.

Then he turned the page. Fast. Before he threw up.

The next page stopped him cold.

It was the thing. The one that had taken her.

The same hulking nightmare that had slammed into their yard two weeks ago and dragged Ursula off like she was nothing but a ragdoll. Eddie’s fingers clenched around the binder as he stared at the photo—its body like something sculpted out of rot and rage, all sinew and flowered mouths and purpose.

It had a purpose.

“Abyssal Warden.”

His stomach turned. Fourteen feet tall. Triple bloom head—one for scent, one for movement, one to track fear.

Cortisol.

That third face didn’t even need to see you. It just had to feel your panic. Eddie could barely breathe reading that. That was what hunted her?

That thing didn’t just come for blood. It came to command. It was Vecna’s general. Its presence meant swarm tactics. Siege formations. Precision control over every lesser demogorgon in range.

And it had come straight for Ursula.

She said she had a history with it. Mentioned it like she might mention a scar. But this wasn’t a scar. It was still bleeding. She hadn’t told him everything—not even close.

Eddie rubbed at his face, trying to press the memory of it down.

Then he hit the final quote. The field note.

“It’s not just a monster. It’s a commander. You don’t outrun it—you surrender or you’re shredded.”

— E. Sinclair

Eddie blinked.

Sinclair?

He looked again. E. Sinclair.

There was only one person in the party named E. Sinclair who’d seen this thing in combat—and Eddie had just seen her five minutes ago outside dual-wielding industrial flamethrowers and arguing about pasta sauce with Murray.

“Erica?” he whispered.

The little sass-lord who haunted Scoops Ahoy, and owned the campaign table? The undefeated Lady Applejack?

She’d fought this thing as an adult?

And she said you surrender?

Eddie leaned back against the pillow stack like someone had pulled a plug in his spine. He stared at the ceiling for a long beat.

There was no metaphor here. No D&D veil to throw over it.

This wasn’t just Ursula’s fight.

This was war.

And the monsters were real.

The next entry flipped him right back into that conversation from earlier.

Invisible jellyfish.

Suzie had said that. “Watch some invisible jellyfish electrocute her to death while lizards make a burrow in her chest.”

And Eddie—he hadn’t taken it literally. He thought she was exaggerating.

But this thing?

He stared at the blurry grayscale photo stapled to the top of the page. It wasn’t blurry from bad resolution. The thing just didn’t have edges. A drifting, translucent thing that looked like a jellyfish someone had skinned and soaked in static. Its tendrils trailed like wet wires, and the edges of it shimmered as if reality didn’t want to commit to its presence.

“SPORE WRAITH.”

That sighing sound it made? He could almost hear it now, just from the description—low and slow, like a haunted exhale through underwater lungs.

Tendrils that shocked. Spores that disoriented. Gel that caught fire and kept burning, even underwater.

Jesus.

Eddie flipped to the historical note and skimmed it with rising dread.

Temporal hallucinations. Paralysis. One guy caught fire from the inside and kept burning.

He looked back at the image—at the eerie dome and the crackling bolts extending down—and felt his stomach twist.

It wasn’t a monster you fought. It was one you walked into by mistake.

And this thing was real. In there. Floating around waiting to zap Ursula’s heart into seizure while she was already bleeding out her ears.

And he was supposed to just let her go?

Fuck that.

The next page slammed him with another high-res horror: Bloomtail Thornling.

A full-color photo showed it crouched in a shallow pit—something between a possum and a mushroom bloom, with swollen pink sacs along its spine and a tail that looked like a half-flayed rosebud full of needle-like barbs.

Eddie squinted. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

The notes said it used the tail to puncture its prey and inject larval sacs. Larvae emerge after 4–6 hours. Host typically unconscious throughout gestation.

He didn’t read the rest.

“LATCHDRAIN” was next. It looked like a fat black eel with rows of chrome-hooked mandibles spiraling around a glistening borehole of a mouth. The image was caught mid-latch—hooked to some poor soldier’s back just above the kidney line.

It said the damn thing latched to your spine and overrode your motor functions. “Puppeted” was the word they used.

Eddie made a face. “Nope. That’s a hard no.”

He tapped the page with the back of his knuckle before flipping.

“CHITTERFANG”:  Imagine a jungle cat crossed with a mantis shrimp and a carnivorous flower. Feline body, mandible jaw, retractable petal mane. They don’t travel in swarms—they hunt in prides. Fast, coordinated, hive-linked. And that scream? It’s not just noise. It’s a pressure-blast that can punch through armor and rupture organs.

Field note: If it starts chittering, get out. That’s the wind-up.

“Awesome. It comes with a built-in sonic cannon.”

“SWAMPJAW”: This one made him blink. It looked like a gator that had been bloated and overgrown with swamp fungi. The picture was mid-det—no, not detonation—expansion. Its belly was ballooned, jaw split wide and fused into the mud.

Field line: Pressure spike upon contact. Explosion radius: 4–6 meters. Regenerates from scattered tissue.

Eddie groaned. “Because just getting eaten wasn’t dramatic enough.”

“AUROCHS” came next. Huge. Towering. Something like cattle but twisted and dangerous. The photo looked like something out of Fantasia, but make it demonic—tree bark shoulders, a skull like a war hammer, and eyes that were just black pits of depth.

It didn’t feed. It stomped. The note said it killed just to fertilize the ground with blood nutrients.

“Goddamn,” Eddie muttered. “What the hell kind of Druidcore nightmare spawned this thing?”

“HOWLSPIRE GULL” was last in the run.

The picture caught it mid-flight, wings outstretched—tattered and stretched thin like seaweed, with ribs visible under the skin. It was screaming in the image, mouth like an open wound, and something about it felt personal. Like the photo was yelling at him.

He scanned the threat notes: Auditory-based trauma. Elicits memory flashbacks. Weaponized grief.

“Of course it does,” he whispered, voice dry. “Of course it screams your fucking trauma back at you. This is Camp Feelings Hell.”

He sat back, blinking hard. His spine felt too stiff. The pillow was suddenly too hot. He wasn’t even halfway through the damn binder and already he felt like he needed a drink, a smoke, and a week in a sensory deprivation tank.

There was still more in the binder—dozens of little color-coded tabs jutting from the edge like teeth—but Eddie needed a second. His eyes burned. His pulse was too loud in his neck. He shut the thing and let it rest on his chest, just breathing for a moment.

He turned his head to look at her.

Ursula was still curled on her side, one arm pinned under her head, the other lying slack across the edge of the pillow. Bandanna clutched in one hand. Dried blood caked along the edge of her nostril. She looked impossibly young like that. Fragile.

But that was a lie. A trick of the light and the angle.

She wasn’t fragile.

She was terrifying.

He let his eyes roam back to the ceiling of the tent, exhaling through his nose. The plan—her plan—was insane. March back into that monster-infested acid trip and plant the rest of the thermite payload herself. Alone. Stealth-mode. That was Plan B.

And somehow… somehow Eddie was actually considering it.

Because Plan A was just her slowly bleeding out of her face until her brain gave out. And he wasn’t built to sit back and watch that happen. Not to her. Not to the one person who’d made him feel like more than just a burnout in a borrowed band tee. Not after everything they’d been through.

So yeah—maybe backing her up didn’t sound so impossible after all.

Because the shit in that binder? Yeah, it was nightmare fuel. Apex brain slugs. Trauma birds. Latchy meat puppets. Deathplants with eyeballs the size of sedans.

But Ursula?

She made them look tame.

He reached down and gently ran his knuckles against the edge of the blanket that had slid off her shoulder, tugging it back up around her with a kind of reverence.

“Terrifying little tyrant,” he whispered.

And smiled.

Just a little.

He opened the binder again.

No illusions now—he knew what he was flipping through. Death catalogs. Field nightmares. The CIA’s version of a monster manual, except these weren’t game stats and fantasy sketches. They were photographs. Intel. Warnings. “DO NOT ENGAGE” stamped again and again across entries like a dare.

He took the next half hour just getting familiar. Letting the horror settle in. Trying to understand what Ursula had been fighting all this time. What she was still fighting. What she was planning to walk right back into.

When he finally reached the end of the binder, he noticed something odd—something that hadn’t been obvious at first. The back pocket was stretched slightly, like it had been stuffed and unstuffed more than once. He slipped his fingers inside.

A stack of pages came out—torn, black and white, faded from a poor-quality photocopy job. They weren’t formatted like the rest of the binder. No headers. No redactions. No agency stamp.

Just handwriting. Scrawled. Slanted. Like someone trying to record thoughts faster than they could fully think them.

Eddie stared.

These weren’t just notes.

They were journal pages.

And the handwriting… it was hers.

His heart dropped.

These were copies—ripped from the original and hidden here—of Ursula’s journal from the year she’d spent trapped alone in the Upside Down.

He looked over at her again.

Still sleeping.

Still soft around the edges in a way that betrayed none of what these pages probably held.

Whatever was in here… she hadn’t wanted anyone to see it.

Especially not him.

But it was here.

And she was letting him see it now—even if she wasn’t awake to say so.

Eddie turned the first page.

And began to read.

Chapter Text

>>>Click Here<<< to read the full IR-01 Survival Journal

The pages felt wrong in his hands—thinner than the standard government-issue paper stock, like someone had run them off on a corner store Xerox. Torn clean from a binder. Folded, flattened, refolded. Hidden. Not lost. Hidden. Eddie could see the deliberate creases in the margins, the corners curled from long storage. This wasn’t just documentation. This was personal.

He adjusted his back against the tent cot’s headboard, angled the lamplight just right, and looked across the room to where Ursula still slept—bandanna crusted against her nose, jaw slack with exhaustion. A little crease between her brows even now, like her dreams were trying to kill her.

And then he started reading.

‘IR-01 Survival Journal – Ursula Henderson 2019

ENTRY 001

IR-01 – Near Piney Wood Drive

Day 11 (I think)

Condition: Upright, pissed off, and not dead

Hydration: Stabilized (for now)

Blood loss: Moderate but manageable’

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie whispered. His eyes flicked to her again. The Ursula he knew now wasn’t bleeding anymore or upright or pissed off—she was just… still. And he didn’t like it. Somehow, this version on the page—swearing and bleeding and stubborn as hell—felt more alive than the girl in the bed.

‘Okay, I guess we’re doing this.

Wasn’t planning to start a diary, but here we are—almost two weeks deep in Vecna’s moldy hell-dimension, and it’s finally sinking in: I might be here a while. If that’s the case, I need to keep track of my routines, my gear, and which ruined kitchen I’ve stashed what in before I start drinking Gatorade from a piss jug thinking it’s hose water. Again.’

Eddie barked out a single, startled laugh. That sounded exactly like her. Even at sixteen and half, apparently, she’d already had the mouth of a sailor and the emotional maturity of a war vet.

‘EVENT ZERO: Abyssal Warden grabbed me. Just—bam. No warning. Just claws and displacement and then I was halfway into the Upsidedown before I could scream. Shadow-stepped on reflex. Slid right out of his grip and landed somewhere behind what used to be a Blockbuster. Vomited behind the returns drop. Glamorous entrance, I know.’

Eddie’s blood ran cold.

He knew that thing. Had read about it. Had seen the photos, the spec doc, the massive fucking demogorgon variant that looked like it had been built to end worlds and eat souls. And this—this was how it started for her? At sixteen?

“Fuck,” he muttered. Quiet, almost reverent. His hands were trembling now.

‘WATER ACQUISITION (Day 3):

I nearly died. Like, no exaggeration. Tongue swollen, hallucinating. Hadn’t even stabilized enough to open a portal until Day 2…’

She described crawling through a meat-sky version of Hawkins, hallucinating until she found an open hose spigot from her dad’s old childhood house. Drank so fast she puked. Then drank again.

He paused, fingers tightening on the edge of the paper. Sixteen and alone. No one coming. Using her powers like lifelines tossed into black water. Not even knowing if the portal would open to a wall or to death. Just trying. Just surviving.

There was this one line he had to read twice:

‘I filled every functional, sealable container I could scavenge: jugs, capped thermoses, canteens, a couple of 1980s Igloo coolers with uncracked lids. Everything is watertight, portable, and hidden in marked caches.’

Eddie stared at the page. “Marked caches.” Like she’d just… known. Like some part of her had kicked into gear and turned terror into logistics. She’d made herself a goddamn water network.

And then, in the next breath:

‘CURRENT STRATEGY: Still based out of Piney Wood. The Upside Down version of town is frozen in 1984, but structurally intact. Monster traffic is light this far from Creel House, and I’ve mapped six semi-secure houses to rotate through. Two-night max per location.’

He flipped to the next page, quick—eager, hungry to know how she survived when the world went dark. 

She listed creatures. Avoided psionically tagged threats. Kruthik Wasps, Bloomtails, Demodogs. She called them out like they were bad neighbors, like she’d already figured out which ones wanted blood and which ones just screamed at you from across the lawn.

He recognized every name from the specimen binder. Now, seeing them here, in her handwriting—cramped and angry—he felt like they had teeth again.

And powers. Real ones. Not D&D stat sheets.

‘My handy dandy Polly Pocket Portals are going to be the make or break here. Gotta be careful though. I can only open a max of four per day. Fifth one wipes me—either nosebleed knockout or 24-hour crash.’

Eddie rubbed his hands over his face, exhaling hard. “Jesus Christ, Ursula…”

She was fucking sixteen.

‘But the best advantage I have now is my Thunderbird Shield. Still totally intact. Full psionic block. Vecna can’t touch me unless I screw up bad.’

He looked at her again—soft under the covers, jaw bruised from earlier, power still flaring behind her eyes even while unconscious. He believed it now, every word. She was terrifying, yeah. But this? This was next-level.

Sixteen. Alone. Surrounded by monsters with names like Abyssal Warden and Kruthik Wasp. Booby-trapping demobat nests with Pop-Tarts. And still here. Still breathing.

Eddie leaned his head back, clutching the last page of the entry like it was scripture.

He whispered it aloud, the last line, just for himself.

‘Vecna can’t touch me unless I screw up bad.’

Eddie flipped the page, the crease running rough under his thumb like it’d been folded and refolded a hundred times. Entry 002.

She hadn’t written this like a girl. She’d written it like a soldier. A pissed-off, half-starved, brilliant-mouthed, half-mad soldier who’d been trapped in hell for almost three weeks.

He braced himself and read on.

‘ENTRY 002

IR-01 – Somewhere south of Piney Wood

Day 18 (maybe?)

Condition: Lightly crisped, deeply unwell

Hunger: Constant

Hallucination status: Tapering

Mood: Fuck this place’

“Shit,” Eddie muttered, a smile curling despite the subject matter. That last line? That was his girl. Not the way she looked now—crashed hard, knotted in the sheets like a downed fighter plane—but the core of her. Sharp. Feral. Unbreakable.

‘Food is a bitch. It’s been a full week since I started writing these, and the hunger is officially getting biblical…’

She described the dregs of what she’d scavenged early—crackers, candy, jelly packets—and how those were long gone now. She’d been rationing every portal, sticking only to places she could picture clearly. Eddie could almost hear her voice: irritated, dry, but under that? Scared. Alone.

He glanced over at her again. She hadn’t stirred. Still breathing, shallow and steady.

Goddamn.

‘FLOATVINE INCIDENT (Day 16?)

Today I saw my first Floatvine Cyst. Whole lotta nope right there.’

Eddie froze.

He knew what that was. Had read the doc in the binder just hours ago—acid-spewing plant-bomb straight out of Lovecraft’s wettest fever dream. But here, on the page, it wasn’t classified. It wasn’t cataloged. It was just a sixteen-year-old girl getting slimed by goddamn psychic tree-snot and tripping her face off in a haunted version of Hawkins.

‘Thing drifted right over the street, slow and bloated like a jellyfish with a hangover. I froze. Didn’t move. Watched it drift. And then—Boom. It ruptured like a piñata full of acid and bad ideas.’

He laughed out loud at that one. Couldn’t help it. Then immediately winced. Because the next part—

‘I got tagged—left forearm, part of my neck. Nothing deep, but it burned like hell and I definitely hallucinated for two straight days… Saw a baby Demodog turn into a tree, which then turned into my mom if mom was a tree. Watched a streetlamp do jazz hands. Also forgot I was hungry, so… upsides?’

“Jesus,” he muttered. Jazz hands.

There was something about the way she made it funny—how she processed pure horror through jokes like razors—that made it even worse. She hadn’t written this to entertain anyone. It was just how she was.

‘BOW GUY (Day 17): Found shelter in a split-level… Archery trophies in the basement, racks of gear in the attic, and a full compound setup I would’ve sold my left tit for back home.’

Eddie blinked. “Sold your—?” He barked another quiet laugh, shaking his head. “God, you’re worse than me.”

But the humor slid off fast. She described trying to shoot while still tripping, wasting arrows, finally hitting something she called a Mawkite.

He knew that one too. Read about it in the binder. Ugly blind ground-skulker with a bite like bolt cutters.

‘Smelled like burning hair and piss. Tasted worse.

One star. Would not eat again unless literally starving. Which I am. So. Yay?’

Eddie closed his eyes for a second. He could see her: skin burnt, eyes sunken, hallucinating her way through murder-plant territory and still sarcastic enough to rate her monster meat like it was a drive-thru review.

How the fuck had she survived this?

He read the rest in a steady rhythm—wounds scabbing over, bow ready, quiver full. A few bones sharpened into shivs. No infection. No music.

‘I miss my headphones more than I miss people. That’s probably bad.’

“Shit,” Eddie whispered. That one hit harder than it should’ve. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he remembered her humming to herself sometimes when she thought no one was listening. Always the same two or three notes, like she was trying to recreate a melody from memory.

He could feel it now—the silence she must’ve lived in. The weight of it.

The last part was just… so her:

‘Final Thought:

If I ever make it out of here, I’m becoming a vegetarian. Unless it’s a Demogorgon. That bastard’s going on a spit. Just kidding. I’d punch a baby for a cheeseburger right now.’

He dropped the page to his lap and just… stared at her again.

There she was. Not the war-witch curled in the bed beside him, not the half-mythical time traveler or psionic badass with an apocalypse plan. Just a starving sixteen-year-old girl who’d hallucinated jazz-handing streetlamps and sharpened monster bones into soup spoons.

And survived.

He cleared his throat. It caught anyway.

Eddie flipped the page and immediately snorted. The heading alone made him chuckle.

IR-01 – Back in town, thank Christ

Day 40-something. I’m not counting anymore. Fuck your couch.

“Jesus, Henderson,” he muttered, shaking his head.

She’d made it back to Piney. Barely. Apparently, her big return with the aurochs haul got interrupted by a Demodog double ambush. But Ursula had remembered she’d kept part of the exploded beast—a rupture-stomach, no less. Eddie blinked, then laughed out loud.

“…like a sick little meat grenade.”

She’d lobbed it and took one out in a shower of meat confetti. The second ran off half-cooked. Miraculously, her stash survived. But her curiosity got the better of her.

‘Yes—I ate some of the cooked Demodog meat. Do not recommend. I shit myself. Violently.’

Eddie nearly dropped the binder from laughing. It wasn’t even the words. It was how casually she confessed to full gastrointestinal disaster like it was just another Tuesday.

But the entry didn’t stop. No, Ursula trudged back to her base camp still in her fouled gear, launched herself into a full-body scrub the second she found a working water hose, and described the portal closing “like a butthole.” Eddie choked on his own spit. The girl had absolutely no shame.

Then came the wardrobe update.

She’d opened a portal into some stranger’s closet and yanked out:

• A tackle shop hoodie.
• Jeans four sizes too big.
• Diesel-scented work boots.

Stuffed the boots with denim. Tailored the jeans with a knife. Tested the look with a perimeter lap. Declared herself “clean, warm, and no longer dying in Target clearance leggings filled with my own dookie and blood socks.”

Eddie wheezed. “This is the most horrifying glow-up I’ve ever read.”

Her “Plans for tomorrow” section looked almost normal: build a jerky rig, check her stash spots, start portal scouting for starches. But the closing line brought it full circle.

Final thought: I will NEVER eat a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto again as long as I live. Owie.

Eddie just shook his head, smiling wide. “Good call,” he said, flipping to the next page—and froze. The title caught him square in the chest:

’IR-01 – Forest Hills Trailer Park.’

A slow, uneasy chill crept up his spine. His trailer. His neighborhood. His ghosts.

He stared at the words without blinking as the rest spilled out.

‘Piney Wood base is gone,’ Ursula had written, casual like she was talking about a bad cup of coffee. “Not ‘oops a Bloomtail snuck in’ gone. Gone gone. Flattened. Obliterated. A herd of Aurochs stormed the entire block like they were late for demon prom and my meat stash insulted their mom.”

Eddie barked out a laugh. God, she was relentless. But the way she wrote about it—how the attack wasn’t random—set his nerves on edge. He remembered the entry in the binder. Aurochs weren’t known for coordinated anything. If they’d stampeded her out with tactical force… that meant someone had sent them.

Vecna.

He sat up straighter.

Ursula had bailed hard—shadowstepping out mid-collapse, wheezing through adrenaline, and heading straight for Forest Hills. Eddie’s trailer. Her words came faster now, like the memory was alive under her hands.

‘I hadn’t been here since… well, since I was born. Literally.’

Eddie blinked. What?

She wrote about the trailer like it was legend. The Munson place was half-gone—wrecked, twisted—but she still found the spot. The spot. The one her dad said she was born in. She described standing there, right beside where Eddie and Wayne’s trailer would’ve been in 1984, and something about it cracked through time and space in his chest. She hadn’t said it, not in plain words, but Eddie felt it anyway.

She had come home.

And then it got weird.

“I saw it: a patch of green. Lush, bioluminescent, alive in a way nothing else in IR-01 is. It was crazy. Just this little glowing cluster of moss and mushrooms, pulsing faintly. Right in the middle of all this rot.”

Eddie stared at the page. That felt… wrong. Or right. Or ancient. Sacred, she said. Not comforting—but like it meant something.

She called it her afterbirth mushrooms. Collected spores. Didn’t eat them—yet. Added “Amniotic Mushroom” to her band name list. Eddie shook his head with a low laugh. Morbid. Genius. So fucking her.

Then she’d moved on.

The rest of the entry was more familiar survival hustle. A quick sweep of Forest Hills north—scavenging semi-functional trailers. Intact windows. Makeshift water lines, fresh caches, all marked and blacked out for stealth. Solid work. Smart. But then the entry started to twist again.

‘I keep hearing this weird little snippet of music. Same five notes every time: E, B, F, C, A.’

Eddie stopped breathing.

The hairs on his arms stood up.

He knew that riff.

He didn’t know from where, not yet, but those notes—he could feel them. Like a dream from a stage he hadn’t stood on. Like the echo of something already played.

She broke it down: harmonic shape, chromatic aggression, called it familiar but distant—like a whisper through a wall that shouldn’t be there. She wished she had her violin. She wanted to play it in the church down the road. But she knew it’d be suicide.

Still, the riff haunted her.

And now, it haunted him.

The entry rounded off with a classic Ursula flex—torching a Bloomtail nest with an acetylene tank she’d pulled through a portal a few days earlier. Called it “Fire Good.” Classic.

She laid out her status like a checklist:

• Shelter secured
• Water flowing
• Meat stash intact
• Torch working
• Morale: weirdly okay

And then the riff again, woven back in. ‘It’s not in my head,” she wrote. “It’s not ambient noise. It’s… real.’

Eddie could hear it now. Not literally. But deep down in the back of his mind, those five notes played themselves. Quiet. Relentless. Wrong in the way nightmares are melodic.

Ursula ended it with one line that made Eddie lean back and exhale slow:

‘Something’s coming. I can feel it. The pulse in the air has changed. But I’ve got fire now.’

He stared at the page, his thumb resting over the bottom corner. And for a long second, he just listened—to nothing. To the memory of a song he hadn’t written yet. To the feeling of her voice bleeding through time like an amp buzz over a dream.

Then he turned the page.

Eddie sat cross-legged now, journal balanced across his lap, his knuckles resting lightly against the page like touching it too hard might wake the ghosts.

‘IR-01 – Forest Hills, still haunted, still alive.’

He was already frowning.

The entry opened with a full-on spiral—Ursula wired, starving, pissed off at the air itself. She was writing like she’d been chewing glass for weeks.

‘I’m bored. I’m lonely. And I’m bored. And so lonely I could scream, but screaming is how you get Bloomtailed.’

He snorted. That tone? That was familiar. It wasn’t just survival anymore—it was cabin fever with a knife.

She missed her dog. Her violin. ‘The sound of someone else’s breathing that isn’t trying to kill me.’

Same. Jesus. That hit harder than he expected.

The rest twisted fast—abandoned rescue plans, sealed-off portals, corpses with military tags overgrown by fungus but not rotting. She was seeing echoes of Chernobyl, except worse. And Vecna? Yeah, he’d slammed the door behind her. Locked her in the attic of hell and thrown away the goddamn key.

But the part that cracked Eddie straight down the middle?

‘I know I’m going to make it. That’s not hope talking—that’s prophecy.’

He stared at that line, his thumb rubbing the edge of the page, smearing some invisible thought he couldn’t name. She knew she’d survive. Not believed. Knew.

And that made it worse for her. That meant every second of agony stretched longer because there wasn’t even the possibility of it ending soon. It was just… time. Rotting forward.

Then—just when the static in Eddie’s chest started to match hers—she mentioned it again.

‘Five notes.’

He whispered it under his breath without realizing. “E, B, F, C, A…”

It was still haunting her. She wrote that it wasn’t just in her head—creatures reacted. Vines twitched. Bloomtails stalled. The wasps froze like something hit pause on their brains.

Eddie felt his stomach twist. The music wasn’t just music.

And she was still writing a song around it.

‘Maybe if I can finish it, it’ll tell me what it wants.’

His head tilted. Tell what it wants? That wasn't a metaphor anymore. That sounded like compulsion. Like a signal. Eddie swallowed hard.

He closed the binder with a soft, shaking breath, thumb still pressed against the last page like it might anchor him. Across the room, Ursula hadn’t moved—still asleep, still wrapped in too many layers, like part of her knew she wasn’t done fighting yet. 

And maybe she wasn’t. He knew what was coming. She hadn’t said it out loud, not yet, but he could feel it curling at the edges of her silence. She was going back in. Back into the Upside Down. And she was going to try to do it alone. 

Thermite. Creel House. Whatever plan she’d stitched together in that sharp, fucked-up brain of hers. She’d walk right back into hell like it owed her something. And now, after reading this—after seeing what that place had already taken from her—Eddie felt something inside him lock tight.

He didn’t want her to go.

Not again.

Not alone.

Not ever.

But she would. He could see that already. And the worst part—the part that burned slow, deep, and helpless—was that he wasn’t sure he could stop her.

He reached over and turned off her alarm before it could wake her.

Chapter Text

Ursula had set the alarm on her phone before she crashed. Eight hours, no snooze, loud enough to wake the dead.

But now it was eight hours and thirty-four minutes later, and the alarm had never gone off.

Her phone lay face down beside her on the edge of the crate-table, screen black, battery dead. She hadn’t moved in nearly nine hours. Not so much as twitched.

Outside the room, the cabin had gone quiet. Payload four had come and gone without her—no movement, no instructions, no fire or thunder. Just the steady rustle of the woods outside and the heavy, nerve-thick waiting that filled the tent like fog.

And then the landline rang.

The one inside the main cabin. The old one.

The sharp trill echoed through the house like something from another life—too loud, too analog, too wrong. Hopper reached it first, coffee half-forgotten and boots thudding heavy against the floor.

“Yeah?” Hopper said, answering the phone.

On the other end came a rush of background wind and the distant echo of cars—thin and metallic, the unmistakable signature of a roadside payphone. And then a calm, low voice with the faint trace of something foreign beneath it—Haitian maybe. Cape Verdean. Hard to place.

“I’m calling for Jane,” the man on the line said.

Hopper straightened slightly. “Jane?” he repeated.

“Yes,” the man said. “She is expecting me.”

“Who is this?” Hopper asked, voice sharpening.

“She knows me,” the man replied. “Please. Just tell her I’m on the line.”

That’s when El appeared—quiet, barefoot, like she’d felt it through the floorboards. She moved straight to Hopper and gently put a hand on his arm.

“Hey,” Eleven said softly. “It’s okay.”

Hopper held her gaze for a long second before exhaling hard through his nose and handing her the phone.

“Hello?” Eleven said, pressing the receiver to her ear.

“Is this Miss Jane?” the man on the phone asked.

“Yes,” Eleven said, a smile blooming. “It’s me. Is that Funshine?”

“I am happy to hear the sound of your voice, Miss Jane,” Funshine said.

“I am happy to hear yours too,” Eleven said warmly. “Are you and Kali almost here?”

“Yes,” Funshine said. “But we need the exact address.”

“628 Denfield Road,” Eleven said quickly. “Can you find that?”

“Give me a moment…” Funshine said, and the faint rustle of a paper map echoed down the line.

Mike appeared at her side, sleepy but alert, and hovered behind her shoulder.

“Can you give him directions?” Eleven asked, handing him the receiver.

“Uh—hi,” Mike said nervously into the phone. “Um. Mr. Funshine? This is El’s—Jane’s—boyfriend, Mike.”

“‘El’? Who is El?” Funshine asked.

“Oh—it’s what we’ve called her for years,” Mike explained. “Short for Eleven. I mean Jane. We didn’t know her name for a while.”

“And you call her by her number?” Funshine asked again, his tone unreadable. “That’s a number of suppression.”

“Yeah. I know,” Mike admitted. “We didn’t mean to… suppress. It’s just—what we called her before.”

“It’s okay, Funshine,” Eleven said gently, stepping closer to the phone. “Mike does not… suppress.”

“Let’s see if he can impress,” Funshine said after a beat.

Mike cleared his throat and pushed through, “Okay, uh, take County 6 in until you pass a rusted blue mailbox with no numbers—there’s a turnoff just after the railroad bridge, gravel road. Look for a split in the fence line with old tires piled on either side.”

“And don’t pull down the driveway,” Mike added quickly. “Not until someone meets you at the road. You could get a bolt through the leg or sprayed with dinosaur pepper spray. That’s no way to welcome you to Camp Hellfire.”

“Understood,” Funshine said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “We’ll be there soon.”

The phone clicked back into its cradle.

Hopper turned slowly, deliberately, jaw tight and eyes narrowing in on Eleven like he was trying to scan her for weapons.

“Who the hell is that grown man calling you at eleven-thirty at night?” Hopper asked, voice gruff and not remotely hiding the rising dad-rage.

Eleven blinked, then answered calmly. “That was Funshine.”

“Funshine,” Hopper repeated flatly. “That his real name or just the cult codename he gives underage girls over payphones?”

“He’s part of Kali’s family,” Mike jumped in, his voice careful, hands lifted like he was trying to de-escalate a bomb. “He’s not… he’s not like that.”

“Kali,” Hopper said, pointing a thick finger between them. “That’s your friend in Chi-Town, right? The Indian girl from the lab?”

“Yes,” Eleven said. “She’s Eight.”

Joyce stepped forward now, arms folded across her chest, giving El a skeptical squint. “How old is this guy exactly?”

Eleven tilted her head, thinking. “I don’t know. Older... Not as old as you.”

Joyce raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“He’s not a threat,” Eleven said. “He’s her protector. He’s… her bodyguard.”

“They’ll be here soon,” Mike added. “They’re still on their way. But they’re in Hawkins.”

“And we’re just… what? Rolling out the welcome mat for mystery adults with superhero names now?” Hopper asked, voice sharp but not quite yelling. Yet.

“Me and Ursula met her in the void last night,” Eleven said, holding her ground. “She’s agreed to come and fight. And she brought Funshine because he is her warrior.”

Hopper let out a long breath through his nose, eyeing the both of them.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “You and Ursula recruited another psychic from the lab… and a warrior?”

“Yes,” Eleven said.

Hopper looked between them again, then finally nodded once. “Great. Perfect. Just what we needed. More lab kids with traumatic backstories and mysterious grown men with action-figure names.”

Mike looked back to Lucas at Hopper’s last comment—the kind of glance that said let’s not be in this room anymore.

“I’ll go check the traps,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah. Me too,” Lucas added quickly.

“Same,” Jonathan said, already pulling on his jacket.

They were halfway out the door before Hopper could ask ‘what traps.’

The three of them walked the gravel drive in silence at first, boots crunching against the packed stones and old pine needles. The air was cool—midnight air, full of damp and tree hush and the distant rustle of wind through high branches.

Jonathan crouched first, fingers brushing lightly across the tripwire grid just before the driveway entrance.

“Still tight,” he said. “Disarming now.”

Lucas knelt beside one of the pressure plates near the edge of the clearing. “Boltshot’s live. Deactivating.”

Mike moved down the line, checking the homemade warning bell rig that Eden had dubbed “the cowbell of doom.” All of it—disabled one by one with quick, practiced hands. They’d done this before. They were fast.

Fifteen minutes passed, and the road beyond the perimeter stayed quiet.

Then: headlights.

A dull, uneven rumble echoed up the tree-lined gravel path. The van that came into view was tan—technically. In the same way a bandage found under a gas station urinal is “tan.” Dented fenders. Mismatched panels. One headlight partially duct-taped into place.

It looked like the A-Team van if it had been found at a police impound lot after a crack house explosion.

“That’s gotta be them,” Mike said under his breath.

“Only one person inside,” Lucas noted, squinting through the glare. “Just the driver.”

“Where’s the girl?” Jonathan asked.

No one had an answer.

Still, they waved him down the drive. Mike stepped forward and motioned to the path with a quick two-finger signal.

“All clear!” Mike called out.

As the van approached, they moved in behind it, replacing the booby trap components as they went—tripwire tensioned, bolt plates reset, the cowbell of doom carefully rehung.

The van rolled on, engine coughing once before catching smooth again.

It rumbled slowly down the driveway toward the cabin.

And none of them said it aloud, but all three had the same unspoken thought: Where the hell is Kali?

Eleven stood waiting at the base of the cabin steps, arms folded across her chest. Her buzzcut was growing back in just enough to show the shape of her skull—soft around the crown, fierce at the brow. She wasn’t smiling yet, but her entire body was poised like a tuning fork waiting for the right vibration.

The van came to a stop in the packed dirt, engine shuddering quiet. The driver’s side door creaked open and stayed open longer than expected—just long enough for anyone paying close attention to wonder.

Then he emerged.

The man who stepped out was huge. Towering. Six foot four, maybe more, with shoulders like wrecking balls and forearms thick enough to bend rebar. His skin was a rich, dark brown that caught the porch light in matte gold tones. His head was shaved smooth except for a single dreadlocked ponytail that erupted low from the nape of his neck, trailing down past his waist like a coiled rope. His chin was capped in a small bleached-yellow beard, vivid against his skin.

He looked like someone who could fold a car in half.

He was dressed like a street brawler—combat boots, canvas pants, a long-sleeved black tee under a black puffer vest. Everything about him screamed danger.

Until he smiled.

His eyes were soft. Disarmingly kind. Like he carried galaxies of patience behind them.

And when he saw her, that kindness broke through the surface fully.

“Miss Jane,” the man said, his voice rich and low like it came from beneath the floorboards of the earth. “You got tall.”

Eleven beamed, her whole face lighting up like a sunrise behind storm clouds. “Funshine!” she cried, and without hesitation, she launched herself forward—bare feet kicking up dust, arms flung wide like she was a little kid again.

She had to leap at the last second just to avoid colliding chest-first into his knees, and Funshine caught her mid-air with practiced ease. One arm wrapped beneath her legs, the other around her shoulders, and he lifted her like she weighed nothing at all. He held her for a beat—solid, grounding—then set her gently back down like she was made of spun sugar.

Hopper stood nearby, stiff as a crowbar. The cop in him clocked every physical detail: the man’s height, the mass of him, the glint of silver at his belt, the way his stance was relaxed but unmistakably trained. But the father in him? That part was just trying not to scowl. Hard. Because this giant stranger—this grown-ass man—had just embraced his daughter like an old friend, like someone who knew her. Really knew her.

And Jim Hopper wasn’t at all sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

Eleven slipped her hand into Funshine’s and led him forward, her grin still wide. “Come on,” she said. “I want you to meet everybody.”

She pulled him toward the small crowd gathering just outside the cabin—Joyce, Will, Mike, Jonathan, Lucas, Erica, all pausing in whatever they’d been doing as this towering man strode into view.

“This is my dad,” El said, tugging Funshine’s attention toward Hopper, who gave a single slow nod, arms folded over his chest like a wall of denim and skepticism.

“My mom, Joyce.” Joyce stepped forward, warmer than Hopper but just as protective. She gave Funshine a measured once-over and a polite smile.

“And that’s Will. And Mike—my boyfriend. And Jonathan. And Lucas.” She pointed them out in order.

Lucas stepped forward, clearly pumped. “Yo!” he said, extending his hand in an elaborate ready-made handshake. “Finally—another brotha on the squad. Let’s go!”

Funshine looked down at the offered fist like it was a new species. Then he gently wrapped his entire massive hand around Lucas’s closed one and gave it a firm, literal shake.

Lucas blinked. “Oh. Okay. That works too.”

And then Erica Sinclair stepped out from behind the group like she’d been summoned by destiny itself.

She froze.

Her mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then opened again.

Because there, in front of her, was a six-foot-four wall of muscle, dreadlocked ponytail trailing down his back, puffer vest somehow making him look bigger, eyes so soft and kind they made her knees wobbly—and his name, she had just heard, was Funshine.

Erica Sinclair was undone.

All her legendary sass, all that bite and brilliance and rolled-eye dominance, just evaporated.

“Oh. Um. Hi,” she said, blinking fast. “I’m Erica. Erica Sinclair. I, uh… play D&D. And… also I like your… um, vest.”

Mike and Lucas turned to each other at the exact same time, eyebrows shooting up in unison.

Lucas whispered, “Did she just—flirt?”

Mike muttered back, “She just malfunctioned.”

And all Funshine did was offer her the same calm, respectful nod he’d given Joyce. “Nice to meet you, Miss Erica.”

And Erica Sinclair melted like a popsicle in the sun.

Funshine scanned the cabin yard slowly, then turned to Eleven with an expectant look. “Where is your sister, Miss Jane?” he asked, warmth and curiosity in his voice. “I am very excited to meet her.”

Eleven smiled, but it faltered a little at the edges. “She… expended her powers,” she explained softly. “She’s sleeping. Recharging.”

Funshine nodded solemnly, like that made perfect sense.

Once the introductions had rounded out, and the awkward thrill of meeting Camp Hellfire’s full cast began to settle, Eleven tilted her head slightly. “Wait,” she said, suddenly realizing. “Where’s Kali? I thought you were coming together. Is she okay?”

Funshine didn’t answer.

Instead, the space to his left shimmered.

No sound. No wind. No light show.

Just—Kali.

There. Suddenly. Like she had always been there.

Joyce gasped aloud. Hopper took a half step back, hand twitching toward his holster.

Because where there had been empty night just a second ago, now stood a girl.

She looked about Ursula’s age—early twenties—but there was something feral in her posture, something honed and sharp. She was Indian, radiant under her thick, dark eyeliner, her eyes rimmed with kajal that only emphasized the heat behind them. Her hair was a mess of violet and black, buzzed clean on one side, the other flaring out in angles like jagged wings. She wore a shredded leather biker jacket, fingerless gloves, and black Doc Martens with scuffed toes. She was all harsh lines and chaos energy.

And she looked dangerous.

Until she saw Eleven.

In that moment, every trace of menace bled away from her.

The smile that cracked across Kali’s face was wide and full of light—so unguarded, so heartbreakingly joyful, it knocked the air right out of the room.

She didn’t move. Not yet. Just stood there, smiling like the universe had handed her back something she thought was gone forever.

Eleven didn’t wait.

She launched forward without hesitation, sprinting across the short distance between them and throwing her arms around Kali’s neck like she’d never let go. Kali caught her instantly, pulling her in tight, lifting her feet off the ground with the force of it. Neither of them said a word—just held on, fierce and trembling and real.

And just like that, a small crack opened in the thick wall of Jim Hopper’s suspicion.

Because there was no posturing here. No distance. No hesitation. Just love. Clear and raw and ancient, like the kind only forged in suffering and survival and the same sterile nightmares.

El clung to her like she was still making sure it was real. Like she couldn’t believe it. Hopper had never seen that look on his daughter’s face. Not quite like that. Maybe with Mike, almost. And, honestly, maybe a little with Ursula too—still something he hadn’t figured out how to file—but this? This was different.

This was joy. Bone-deep. Shaking.

He didn’t know how to feel about any of it. But he couldn’t deny what he saw.

Eventually, the hug broke. Kali still had both hands on Eleven’s arms, eyes searching hers like she couldn’t look away. “You’re taller,” she murmured with a grin.

“You’re not,” Eleven teased back.

Kali laughed, breathless. “Still the same mouth.”

That broke the tension. The rest of the group, still half in awe, started to drift forward as El beamed and turned to the others. She began the rapid introductions—Kali meeting Mike, Will, Lucas, Jonathan, Joyce, Erica. Hopper gave her a nod, still wary, but less so now.

And then, they took them around.

Funshine and Kali got the full Camp Hellfire tour—perimeter lines, the storage setups, med station, gear cache, kitchen tent. The warmth of the group slowly started to wrap around them, and despite the chaos of the world outside, something about it felt safe.

Safe enough—for now.

The walk back toward the tactical glamping compound was slow and easy, lit by string lights and humming generator lamps. As the group rounded the curve near the clustered vehicles, the Surfer Boy Pizza van creaked open, and a lazy cloud of smoke rolled out like it had been waiting for a cue.

Argyle stepped out first, all limbs and long hair, blinking at the night like it had interrupted something important. He wore his usual chaotic print pants and company tee under a slouchy hoodie, grin loose and easy.

“Yo,” Argyle said, stretching. “Welcome to Camp Hellfire, dudes. And dudettes. And mysterious new energy.”

Eden climbed out after him, all tousled curls and layered black, her thick sweater swallowing her frame. She gave a little nod, sharp eyes flicking over Kali with barely concealed curiosity. Her necklaces clinked with every step.

Kali smiled faintly. “We may stop by later,” she said, her voice low, accent still intact from years away. She cast a small glance toward the haze drifting from the van. “We’re open to good company. And smoke.”

Funshine raised one brow, his voice honey-thick. “As long as the invitation includes snacks and stories, we’ll bring the peace offering.”

Argyle’s face lit up. “Duuuuude. There’s, like, six flavors of chips in there right now and a bag of marshmallows I’ve been spiritually bonding with. Come vibe anytime.”

The grin Funshine gave him was small but genuine—something about two oversized men who had no interest in being loud about their strength recognizing each other like gentle apexes. It was wordless. Easy. Argyle nodded. Funshine nodded back. Pact made.

As they stepped up toward the tent compound, Jonathan gestured to the edge of the camp.

“We’ve got more than enough room in the main structure if you guys want to crash in there,” Jonathan offered. “Cots, blankets, indoor heat.”

Kali shook her head politely. “We’re fine in the van. It’s rigged. Comfortable. Familiar.”

“I said the same thing,” Eden chimed in, stepping forward. “Our van’s got insulation, books, a cursed amulet or two. Basically the perfect getaway dungeon.”

She tipped her head toward Argyle and added, “We’re just over by the west fire line. If you want late night pizza or… weird existential conversation, we’ve got both.”

Kali raised an eyebrow, amused. “Your van smells like oregano and secrets.”

“That’s the brand,” Eden said, deadpan. “You’re welcome anytime.”

And from the driver’s side of the Surfer Boy van, Argyle added with a loose grin, “Just, like… don’t come a-knockin’ if the van is a-rockin’, my dudes.”

That earned a collective laugh from the group—Joyce included. Even Hopper, arms crossed like a skeptical dad, smirked at the absurdity of it all.

For now, the air was calm. The camp was full. And the newest pieces of the war effort had arrived.

The laughter from the fire pit faded behind them as the trio slipped into the tactical tent compound, canvas walls muffling the cold night air. Inside, the lighting was low but warm—lanterns casting soft golden glows across tables, supply shelves, and the makeshift walls of private quarters stitched together from blackout tarps and heavy blankets.

Kali glanced around, eyes sharp even in the dimness. “When can I see her?” she asked, voice lowered but urgent. “Ursula.”

El nodded. “We can peek in. Just for a second.”

They weaved through the quiet of the main tent, El guiding her toward the far corner partition where Eddie and Ursula’s shared space was tucked. On the way, Will looked up from a crate he was sorting through, soft-spoken and watchful as ever.

“Will,” El said, touching his shoulder, “this is Kali.”

The moment hung for a beat.

Will stood slowly. “We’ve met,” he said, eyes narrowed, uncertain but sincere.

Kali tilted her head. “Kind of. I think we remember each other from someone else’s memory.”

Will gave a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Sanctum stuff.”

“Exactly,” Kali said, smiling for real this time. “We’ll talk soon. I’d like that.”

She followed El deeper, past supply bins and half-unpacked gear until they reached a low folding table where Dustin and Susie were hunched over the comms array, headphones on, notes scrawled across their respective legal pads. Susie had on fuzzy bear socks. Dustin was sipping something aggressively carbonated from a thermos labeled NOT COFFEE.

“Hey,” El said gently. “Kali, this is Dustin and Susie.”

Dustin looked up and beamed. “Hi. We’re Ursula’s parents.”

Kali stared.

There was a long pause.

“…Fifteen,” Susie added brightly. “In this timeline.”

“Time travel,” El offered, like that explained everything.

Kali blinked twice. “Of course.”

There was no judgment. Just a mild short-circuit, a mental processing lag that eventually resolved into a head nod. “You have a very powerful daughter,” she said finally.

“We know,” Dustin said, completely serious.

El pressed her hand to the flap of black canvas just behind the table. “She’s sleeping. Psychic overload. We’re just going to peek in.”

Dustin nodded, shifting his chair back slightly. “Go ahead. She hasn’t moved since earlier. Eddie’s in there.”

The zipper gave way with a soft rustle, and Kali stepped beside El, both of them leaning gently around the corner.

The light inside was faint—just a small lamp flicked to its lowest setting on a milk crate beside the cot. Eddie was half-curled beside Ursula, journal still resting near his hip, his eyes closed but not asleep. Ursula was wrapped tight in blankets, hair a wild halo on the pillow, face pale with the kind of stillness that only came after absolute burnout.

Kali stared.

And in an instant, she felt it. That same low thrum she’d felt when she first found El—something ancient, something rare. A resonance. Not psionic, not purely. Soul-level.

This girl was one of them.

A sister.

A spirit forged from the same broken glass and starlight.

And Kali hadn’t been this excited—this relieved—to meet someone in years.

She took a silent breath, her gaze softening.

“She’s beautiful,” Kali whispered.

El smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah. She really is.”

She stepped closer to the tent flap, voice soft so she wouldn’t startle him. “Hey, Eddie.”

There was a rustle from inside. Eddie hadn’t noticed the cluster of faces peeking in, not until that moment. His head snapped up, eyes bleary and a little wild.

“Hey, El,” he said, then blinked at the others behind her. “And… friends.”

He looked rough around the edges—like he hadn’t blinked in hours, like the words he’d been reading had been eating him alive. He pushed off the edge of the cot, tucking Ursula’s journal under the mattress with an absent hand, and stretched his spine with a faint groan.

But the change in his face was clear. He was relieved. Distracted. Grateful.

He stepped into the open air of the tent, rubbing the side of his neck and trying to pull himself back together. “Sorry. I’ve been locked in a one-sided conversation with my girlfriend’s trauma diary. Kind of nice to see some new faces.”

He turned to the tall figure next to El, posture instinctively straightening. He held out a hand. “Eddie Munson.”

Funshine clasped it firmly. “Funshine,” he said, his voice deep and grounded.

Eddie raised an eyebrow at the name, but before he could comment, the other newcomer stepped forward.

Kali tilted her head. “Ah. The infamous Eddie Munson.”

Eddie gave a crooked half-smile, confused. “Infamous? Uh…” He still reached out to shake her hand.

Kali took it. Her grip was steady, her gaze sharp. “After walking the halls of my new sister’s mind,” she said, “learning who she is… I saw a lot of you there, Eddie Munson.”

Their hands fell apart.

Eddie’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Really?”

Kali nodded. “Yes. You are very special to her. I hope you live up to the way she’s built you up in there.”

It hit harder than it should have. He blinked, visibly thrown.

“I… I hope I do too,” Eddie said, voice quieter now.

Then his gaze drifted back toward the canvas partition behind him. A flicker of something protective passed over his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t like leaving her alone when she’s all broken down like this.”

And with that, Eddie stepped back into the tent, the flap falling shut behind him.

That’s when the tent flap on the far end of the glamping compound whipped open and a haze of steam and oregano-scented air poured out. Argyle strolled through it like he was entering a scene in a spaghetti western—only way more stoned and wearing mismatched socks.

“Yo, new friends!” he called, grinning. “Hope you like food with your atmosphere, because we saved you plates.”

Eden followed behind him, her oversized thrifted sweater swaying with each step, her wild curls tied up with what looked like a red bandana and a twist of twine. “Dinner’s hot. Or at least warm adjacent. Come eat before the weird squash starts reincarnating.”

Funshine’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “What’s on the menu?” he asked, voice still that low, buttery bassline but now with a definite thread of excitement.

Argyle struck a pose like he was reading a sacred scroll. “Homemade bread, roast beast, sky fluff mashed potatoes, and like… six vegetables, all of which may or may not be native to Earth.”

“And rolls,” Eden added, pointing a warning finger. “Argyle was going to hoard them.”

“I was not,” Argyle said, scandalized. “I was simply… safeguarding the carbs.”

Funshine chuckled—an actual, rumbly laugh—and nodded to Kali. “Sounds like we chose the right camp.”

And Eden? She noticed it immediately—the faint shift in the set of Funshine’s shoulders, the subtle weight he carried like armor he didn’t take off easily, beginning to slip. Just a little.

It didn’t take long after that. Once they were inside and plates were in hand, Eden and Argyle made it their mission to make sure Funshine and Kali were fed like gods.

Roast beef sliced thick and heavy, potatoes drowned in herbed butter, vegetables that probably had names like hairy goblin root or moon squash but somehow tasted amazing. No one asked too many questions.

And the best part? The food hit like comfort. Like someone had time-traveled to scoop warmth from a grandmother’s kitchen and serve it on mismatched tin plates in the middle of a tactical war camp.

Funshine, who’d barely stopped moving for months, leaned back on a folding chair that creaked under his massive frame and sighed like someone who’d forgotten what fullness felt like.

Kali wiped her mouth with the back of her leather sleeve and murmured, “Okay. That’s probably the best thing I’ve eaten in ten years.”

Eden beamed. Argyle gave a satisfied “yesss, my dudes” and passed the bread basket around again.

And then they ate. And ate. And ate—until even warriors and illusionists had to admit defeat.

Chapter Text

>>>Click Here<<< to read the full Survival Journal

Back in the master suite of Hellfire HQ, Eddie was still reading Ursula’s survival journal.  The entry jumped again. Time was skipping now, even in her words.

Two days later, she was out of jerky. Which, she noted, tasted like ‘gristle-flavored despair.’

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered, half-laughing. “You absolute maniac.”

She was done with wasp territory. Planning a smarter Aurochs trail hunt. Wanted protein. Coffee. Something to keep her tethered to the human part of herself.

The entry ended like a clenched fist:

“I need something to remind me I’m alive and not just pacing circles in a corpse-colored terrarium.”

And then:

“Time to move.”

Eddie stared down at the page a second longer.

Then he closed the binder slowly and just… sat with it. That song was still in his head. Still there. Clear as if it had always been.

He didn’t know where it came from.

But he had a feeling he was going to find out.

Eddie flipped the page and instantly raised an eyebrow.

Day 200? It’s an estimate.

Condition: Damp, slightly traumatized, extremely full

Mood: Swamp-drenched but victorious (barely)

“Two hundred days?” he muttered, stunned. He glanced over at Ursula’s sleeping form, one arm thrown over her face, tank top collar soaked in sweat. Jesus Christ, baby. You really did this.

His eyes dropped back to the page, following her story as she plunged into low terrain—half swamp, half nightmare.

And then: Deathroot Eyes.

He didn’t need the monster manual for that one. The name alone painted it well enough. But her description—

“Twelve stalks, each one a hundred times taller than I wanted it to be… Eyes the size of cars.”

He squirmed. “Nope,” he said aloud. “Absolutely not.”

Then: “All twelve. At once. Just… blinked awake.”

“Okay,” he whispered, mouth half-open in horror. “You’re kidding me. You are kidding me.”

He didn’t blink as she described the feeder roots crawling up her legs, slow and probing. His hands tightened around the journal until—

“They didn’t just burn. They fucking vaporized.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. He could see it—her, sixteen, terrified, backed into a ring of monsters that even nightmares would second-guess—and she turned the whole place into golden ash with nothing but her will and a shield he still didn’t fully understand.

He felt it. The jolt in his chest. The rush that always hit when someone pulled off a last-stand move that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway. Ursula had gone feral. She’d sprinted into the thick of it, bare-handed, flickering through vines and slapping hell with golden light.

He laughed—sharp and involuntary.

Then she wrote:

“It was basically the most OP moment of my whole stupid life.”

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Sounds like it.”

Then came the Warden. The tone flipped fast.

The whole grove changed like it felt him coming. She said the air got heavier, that even the vines recoiled—and that meant he’d been close. That was all it took for the adrenaline spike to land square in Eddie’s gut. His thumb pressed hard against the margin.

She’d run. Shadow-stepped into swamp muck. Kept moving. No plan.

And then the unraveling began.

He read in silence as she descended into cabin fever, hallucination, gout panic, and full-on foot paranoia.

“Like what if I’m eating too much dried monster meat and swamp protein and one day my foot turns purple and falls off?”

Eddie stifled a snort. “God. You’re such a freak,” he whispered, affection laced deep in his voice.

She went off about scurvy, about missing canned fruit like it was contraband, and then, finally, she killed a Swampjaw.

He straightened. “Wait—seriously?”

A Swampjaw. From the manual—page fifty-something. Mud-dwelling apex predator. Armor-plated. Explosive sac glands. Ambush tactics.

And she took it out with a pipe to the eye.

“She stabbed it in the face,” Eddie whispered, disbelieving. “You lunatic.”

She even narrated the kill in a messed-up, fake Australian accent that made no goddamn sense to him. He had no idea who Steve Irwin was, but she was clearly doing a bit. He grinned despite himself.

“Stick a finger in ‘er bum-hole for dominance.”

Eddie shook his head, laughing softly into his palm. “You are so fucking broken.”

But after the chaos and the filth and the gout-fueled existential crisis, there it was again—peace. She made it back. She cooked meat. She sat on the roof.

And she listened to that strange riff.

“Heard the echo again.”

Same five notes. E, B, F, C, A. And now she was writing a song around it. Trying to make something from this place.

He exhaled slowly, thumb tapping rhythm against the page.

You are a goddamn miracle, he thought, watching her sleep like a corpse under three blankets. You shouldn’t be real.

He closed the journal for the night, mind still playing the riff—soft, strange, caught between keys.

And for the first time since they’d started this war, he didn’t feel like he was walking into it alone.

Eddie adjusted his grip on the last few pages, still chuckling under his breath at the tail end of the Swampjaw saga, when the next entry caught his eye.

Captains Log: Stardate: Uhhhhhh.

He smirked. “Oh no,” he muttered. “That’s never a good sign.”

The next line was written in giant, loopy handwriting.

I 8 my birth spot musrooooms. And they are aWEs0mE!!

Eddie let out a bark of laughter. “Oh my god, you idiot,” he whispered, and turned the page. There were little stars and swirls drawn in the margins.

“Notes: Very chill and mellow trip. Similar to psilocybin. No hangover.”

“Great,” Eddie said, still amused, “So we’re doing interdimensional shrooms now. Cool. Cool cool cool.”

But then the next line slowed his reading down.

“Extremely vivid dreams/nightmares.”

He blinked. Okay.

“Dreamed Steve Harrington was skinning and gutting a deer with a hide that looked like green moss. Not bright or verdant—just dull. Dead. Like the pelt had been seeded with something fungal.”

Eddie’s smile faded.

“The whole scene was dim and cold, like a haunted butcher shop in a forest that hated me. Steve was very, like, Tywin Lannister-coded. Calm. Methodical. Disappointed in ways I didn’t want to unpack. He told me I care too much about what other people think of me. I told him that wasn’t true. He didn’t even look up—just said, “That’s just what you want people to think.””

Eddie stared at the sentence, jaw tightening.

“…Jesus, Ursula.”

He turned the page carefully.

“Then Uncle Steve let the deer’s black blood drain out across the floor—and it turned into spiders. Big, shiny, black widows. Hundreds of them. They dropped down from the antlers and poured across the floor, dragging thick strands of webbing behind them like funeral shrouds.”

His scalp prickled.

“Tell them the Harringtons send their regards, amirite?”

That last line had a sarcastic lilt. She’d clearly written it while still buzzed. But there was a tension under it—like she was trying too hard to make it funny.

“Dreamed I slapped a Mawkite out of the air. At least I thought it was a dream. I still can’t convince myself it wasn’t.”

He paused. That wasn’t good.

“But there’s actual blood under my nails, and I have big clumps of these weird black feather-ish things in all of my pockets too. Even stuffed in the little utility pocket.”

Eddie leaned back from the page, unsettled now.

It wasn’t just the trip. It wasn’t the weird mushrooms. It was the fact that she’d done all this alone—just a kid, only a year older than Dustin is now, stuck in hell, laughing through her own breakdown with a pen and a pile of trauma.

“Good chance I could still be tripping. Could still die. I’ll let you know if I do.”

He lowered the page, thumb brushing the edge of the torn binder pocket. His stomach felt weird. Hollow.

“Jesus Christ, Ursula,” he said again, this time quietly. No laughter. Just the kind of sick, stunned fear you don’t feel unless you’ve just realized the person you love wasn’t just tough. She was barely holding on.

And somehow, she still wrote it like a joke.

Eddie didn’t even flip the page—he just kept reading where he left off, the next lines catching like grit in his throat.

“Under the blanket that smells like old sadness.”

She was sick. Really sick.

She’d eaten something she knew she shouldn’t—some weird, bulbous fruit that looked like a pear crossed with a tumor. It had been growing near Trailer 2, bloated and wet-looking, and she’d stared at it thinking one thing: vitamin C.

Because scurvy. Because paranoia. Because two hundred-plus days without sunlight, without fruit, without anything that resembled nutrition, had finally cracked something in her.

Eddie swallowed, jaw tight.

She’d thrown it down fast. Didn’t even finish chewing. She’d said it tasted like “juicy mold” and “compost smoothie.” And then she’d spent the next three days projectile vomiting into a trench tarp she couldn’t even crawl out of.

Crying. Shitting herself. Blacking out mid-portal cast. Fever so high she couldn’t see straight. She didn’t even remember how she hadn’t gotten killed by a demodog—said maybe they’d taken one look at her and decided she’d already expired.

Eddie’s stomach churned. He shifted, one hand tightening around the edge of the binder.

This wasn’t survival anymore. This wasn’t even fighting.

This was slow death.

She wrote that her mouth tasted like pennies. That her skin felt like it didn’t fit. That she thought there might’ve been literal shit in her hair and she didn’t have the energy to care.

And then the kicker. The line that hit like a hammer to the ribs:

“If I don’t get better soon, I’m going to eat another one of those dookie fruits and shit myself to death because I can’t keep doing this.”

Eddie sat back hard, the binder loose in his lap now. He stared at the sleeping shape across the trailer—at the way her hair curled over her cheek, the faint hitch in her breath.

He knew she always showered before bed. No matter what. Even when she was half-dead from work or grueling planning sessions, even when they were running on three hours of sleep—she’d disappear into the bathroom and scrub herself raw.

He used to think it was just her thing. A habit. One of those girl-code rules he didn’t get but respected.

But this? This was why.

This was why she couldn’t sleep with that smell on her. Why she refused to lie down if her hands didn’t feel clean. Why she kept three extra toothbrushes and could recite how many seconds it took to boil water in a cold pot.

Because there’d been a time—days, maybe weeks—where she’d been too sick to wash, too weak to move, curled up in her own filth and convinced she was going to die with vomit in her mouth and shit in her hair.

Eddie looked back down at the page, vision blurry, jaw clenched.

She wasn’t going back there.

No fucking way. Not alone. Not again.

He didn’t care how much she argued, or what backup plan she’d mapped out. If this was what it had looked like the first time—this slow, rotting collapse—then whatever was waiting now would be worse. And he wasn’t going to be on the other side of the door again.

Not while she turned into a ghost in her own skin. Not while she died politely.

Not while she wrote lines like that.

He turned the page.

The handwriting was still hers—sharp, loud, half-cursive chaos across the photocopy. Same ink bleed. Same burn along the edge where it had half-melted before someone salvaged it. But something was different now. The air changed. The heaviness cracked.

And when he read the first line—

“Life is a bitch and I am her pimp, motherfuckers.”

—he laughed.

Out loud.

Not a dry breath through his nose. Not that brittle smirk he’d been defaulting to between horror shows. A real laugh. Short. Sharp. Almost startled. It pulled him forward before he even realized it, head dropping low between his knees as he grinned into the next line, already hearing her voice in his head again—cocky, full of teeth, louder than the dark had ever been.

He smiled.

For real this time. The first real one since he opened the binder.

It was so her. Ursula, raw and filthy and riding the edge between emotional collapse and manic defiance. He could hear her in every line—slurring her vowels into chaos, biting off curses like they were candy, and yelling into the void with that unstoppable fuck-you-and-everything-you-rode-in-on tone.

He laughed—soft, sharp—when she thanked a doomsday prepper like he was a minor god. She’d found a shipping container, sealed tight beneath a ruined trailer on the southern edge of Forest Hills. Not just some rusty stash or a forgotten pantry—an entire underground survival cache, guarded like nuclear launch codes.

And it had everything.

Water. Real water. Bottled. Cold. Un-tainted. She wrote that she moaned when she drank it and “wasn’t even ashamed.”

Eddie’s heart cracked open at that.

Then came the peaches. Canned, syrupy, apocalyptic salvation. She cried while she ate them. Described the sweetness like it broke her in half. Wrote that her tongue forgot sugar, her jaw locked up from joy.

God, he could see it. Ursula, filthy and hollowed out, curled in a bunker with a can of fruit like it was sacred. Crying her guts out with sticky juice on her chin. Laughing and sobbing at once.

And then, the line that made his hand stop turning pages.

“I wonder if Eddie Munson knew this guy. I hope he did. This feels like his kind of chaos. His kind of brilliance.”

He blinked. Swallowed. The inside of his mouth tasted like nothing.

“I wish his trailer was still there. I wish I could sit in it. Even just once. Is that weird?”

Eddie sat motionless for a long time, thumb hovering over the paper. There was a pressure in his chest like all the air had gone sideways.

She didn’t know.

In that moment—when she wrote that—she thought he was already gone.

He could feel it in the spaces between the words. In the quiet, aching tilt of her voice as she said she wanted to sit in his trailer. As she wondered if the ground would remember the fight. If maybe—just maybe—his ghost was still there.

So she’d have someone to talk to.

Eddie’s throat locked up. He pressed his hand against his mouth, eyes burning.

She had gone back. Not just physically—emotionally. She had retraced every inch of that hell for a fragment of him. For a shadow. A whisper. Even when she thought he was dead.

And now she wanted to go back again—to plant seeds. Not just because she found a prepper’s seed pack, but because she needed something to grow. To live. To prove something could take root where she had bled and nearly died.

Where she thought he had.

Eddie reached over and brushed his fingers along the edge of the page. His voice caught when he finally said it out loud:

“You’re not going back alone.”

Not again. Not this time. He was here now. And the world—whatever twisted version of it they had left—was going to have to deal with both of them.

Together.

Eddie turned the last page with a sort of breathless dread. His thumb hesitated at the corner, like maybe the paper would bite him for trying. The stack of handwritten pages had been getting thinner, but he hadn’t expected it to feel like a countdown.

This one didn’t have a title. No sketch, no margin joke, no dumbass subtitle like “Peach Day.” Just a tight, panicked scrawl and a line scratched so deep into the paper it had cut through.

He braced himself.

And read.

ENTRY 010

IR-01 – Forest Hills Trailer Park, hiding under the floor

Who cares what day

Condition: Surrounded

Mood: I think this is the end

Who cares what day.

Pretty sure I’m about to die.

She was under the floor when she wrote it. Counting. Forty demogorgons at least. Double that in demodogs. She could hear them between the trailers, crawling through the crawlspaces, coordinating like soldiers. Organized. Sweeping. Not hunting. Searching.

There were Howlspire Gulls in the sky—at least twenty. Screaming. Constant. Celebrating.

And still, she’d written.

“I want my mom.”

Eddie swallowed hard.

She hadn’t seen the Chitterfangs yet, but she heard them. In the trees. On the rooftops. That awful bone-clicking. That sound that got into your teeth and made your jaw lock.

And worse than that, worse than the monsters closing in, was the weight she described in the air. Him. Vecna. He was already there. She could feel him pressing on her thoughts.

“He knows Momma’s dead… and he’s mad.”

Eddie stared at the word.

Mad.

Like this was personal. Like Vecna wasn’t just hunting her. He was punishing her.

She’d known she wasn’t getting out. Not that night. Maybe not ever. Not from that crawlspace.

“If someone finds this notebook, please give it to my dad.

His name is Dr. Dustin Henderson…

The rest hit like lead.

Tell him I love him. Tell him to hug my dog.

Tell Hellfire I love them.

Tell them I’m sorry.

I’m so fucking sorry.

I tried to come home.

But he got me.

—Urzzz

Eddie sat there frozen, eyes locked on the final line, throat locked tighter. The paper crinkled between his fingers, but he didn’t notice. Not until the ache in his chest turned sharp.

There was no fucking way she was going back in there alone.

Not after that.

Not now that he knew what it had actually looked like at the end. Not when it took her that long to come home. Not when Vecna had dragged it out, trapped her under the floor like some dying animal, kept her locked in her own head.

And Jesus. She never went to bed without a shower.

Now he knew why.

He turned the last page and finally—finally—smiled.

Not a smirk. Not some bitter twist.

An honest smile. The first one since he’d started reading.

Because she’d survived. She came back.

And he was going to make sure she never had to go back again.

Not alone.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Ursula woke with the kind of dry, metallic mouth that felt like she’d been chewing pennies. Her head pounded—slow and low, like bass from another room. Nose crusted, one arm stuck awkwardly beneath her cheek. Her lashes fluttered once, twice—then she blinked hard, waking to the hazy overhead glare of the glamping tent’s LED lantern strips. 

Eddie was sitting next to her in bed, legs crossed beneath her. Her head was on his lap, her hand tucked up under her chin like a kid dreaming of wolves. The fabric of his jeans was damp from the blood on her sleeve. Her arm, pale and scabbed from hours of dried nosebleeds, had smears where she’d wiped in her sleep. A brownish-black splotch had soaked into the pillow beside her head—she must have coughed some up. That metallic taste made more sense now.

Surrounding Eddie on the bed were the color-printed xeroxes from the IR-01 journal. Curling edges. A moldy corner. Some flecks of what could have been blood. The pages were weighted open with one of the mission binders—her annotations in red sharpie trailing off mid-sentence. He’d been reading.

She groaned and shifted, eyes bleary. “Hey, love,” she rasped, voice slurred from sleep and dehydration. “How long was I out?”

Eddie didn’t look up from the page. His fingers carded gently through her hair.

“Eighteen hours.”

That hit like a shock collar.

“WHAT!?!??” She jolted upright, chest heaving, blood rushing to her face. “Eighteen—? Eighteen hours?”

The blanket came off like it had been doused in acid. She shoved it off with both hands and twisted sideways off the bed in one furious motion.

“Eddie, are you out of your fucking mind?!”

“Ursula, wait, chill out, swee—”

“Don’t sweetheart me,” she snapped, already on her feet. She swayed once and blinked hard. “Do you have a fucking death-wish? We’re thirteen hours behind and I’ve still got half the thermite to plant!”

“You needed it,” Eddie said quickly. Still gentle. He stood, hands half-extended like she was a spooked horse. “You were bleeding in your sleep, Urs—”

“I’ve been bleeding everywhere!” she cut in, hair a wild mess, sweat-dried to her temple. “You think the nosebleeds were the red flag?”

She staggered forward and bent to grab her boots. One hand already yanking her laces from the pile by the weapons wall, the other shoving gear into the half-zipped duffel near the cot.

Adrenaline was flushing out the rest of the sleep. Her skin looked almost gray in the tent light. Still, she moved like she’d already made peace with what was coming.

The lights in the tent gave a faint flicker. Just once.

Ursula yanked a fresh detonator charge from the armory crate and slammed it into her open bag with a force that made the zipper jump. Her voice was rising—frantic now. The calm she’d carried into the previous nights’ deployment was gone, buried under the weight of a ticking clock and a brain barely holding its shape under pressure.

“I told you this portal method might be a temporary solution,” she snapped, not looking at him, eyes darting across the gear as she reached for a bundle of smoke canisters. “I told you I could only open four a day before my fucking brain started melting. We have twenty-four hours left and I still have half the payload to plant!”

The lights above them gave a long, low flicker—like the tent itself was trying to exhale around her rising pulse.

Eddie started pacing, raking both hands through his hair. He looked like he hadn’t slept either—shirt wrinkled, face drawn tight, red rimmed eyes flitting between the tent flap and her pack like he could somehow wrestle the future into submission.

“Then don’t go,” he said, trying hard to keep it steady. “We can still use the portals. Just hit the critical zones—”

“No.”

She didn’t even look up.

She dropped a coil of wire, grabbed another charge, shoved it into the satchel with one knee on the cot frame.

“This isn’t a campfire map,” she spat. “You can’t just ‘hit the zones.’ The pattern was designed by an MIT field strategist with actual math. This has to carve through the hive structure—through the Creel house’s foundation to burn out the hive core—or it won’t work.”

“Then adjust the plan—”

“We can’t!”

She spun on him, a smoke canister in her hand, knuckles white. Her braid was half-loose now, tendrils falling into her face. Eyes wild, stormglass bright and pulsing with residual field glow.

“We can’t adjust anything,” she hissed, “because we just fucking ran out of time. Because you let me sleep through thirteen goddamn alarms. Because you didn’t trust me to know how far I could push myself. And now we can’t finish this unless I go right now.”

“Ursula—”

“No,” she snapped, louder now, voice shaking as her hands kept moving. “No more Ursula. No more soft voice. No more ‘please, baby, let’s compromise.’ This is a war. We do this right now or everybody dies.”

Eddie moved toward her, just one step. “Urs, wait… just fucking stop for a second.”

She rounded on him, voice almost cracking with fury.

“No dude! There is no more stopping! I don’t even get to run a full weapons check now. Because you let me oversleep like a fucking retard while the clock ran out!!!”

Another flicker in the lights. This one longer. A buzz of static kissed the air, and a faint taste of copper hit the back of his throat.

Eddie ripped both hands through his hair again, the strands sticking up at wild angles as he forced himself to breathe through the spike in his chest. His jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

Ursula muttered under her breath as she kicked open the lid of another munitions crate. “Jesus Christ dude, we might very well be fucked already. Dude… how the fuck could you have let me sleep for eighteen fucking hours…”

“You needed it!” Eddie fired back, defensive, voice cracking. “You were bleeding in your sleep! You couldn’t even breathe right!”

“Yeah, I know,” Ursula growled, throwing gear into her bag in a blur of motion, her words pelting him like shrapnel. “And now I can’t use the portal trick anymore. Not just because you fucked the clock—but because if I keep opening portals at this rate, I will stroke out. Brain aneurysm. Dead on the floor. Blood coming out my ears. And then everyone dies. Because you fucking morons can’t do this without me!”

She launched a box of bullets into her backpack so hard it dented the side panel. Her breath came in fast, furious bursts as she tossed in the next set of detonator cables.

“Ursula, you don’t have—Jesus! Just stop! Where are you even going!?”

He lunged for the bag, trying to block her path. She shoved past him without even looking.

“To the Benson Gate. Then I’m heading straight to the Creel House to plant the rest in person.”

“NO! No fucking way!” Eddie stepped in front of her again, shaking his head so hard his hair whipped his face. “You’re not going back, Urs. You can’t! We just got you back—”

“Bro, I don’t have a choice now!” she screamed, face flushing hot with rage. “You think I want to go back in there alone? I hate it there. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Then don’t fucking GO!!!” Eddie roared.

“I HAVE TO, you idiot!” she shouted back, voice ringing off the aluminum struts of the tent. “I’m the only one with a psychic shield. No one else can go without tipping off the hive that we’re planning something. Have you listened to fucking anything I’ve told you?!?”

Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. His fists balled at his sides.

The lights above them flickered again—this time followed by the sound of a metal support beam subtly groaning under pressure.

Eddie was gnawing at the edge of his thumbnail like it might hold the answer, jaw locked, eyes glassy with panic. His foot tapped uncontrollably, fingers twitching at his side. He looked wrecked. Pale. Shaken.

“Babe!” he snapped, desperate now. “You’re not going to make it back. You can barely stand! You can’t even see straight! This isn’t a suicide mission—it’s just suicide.”

Ursula froze with her hand halfway to a bandolier pouch. Her expression shifted—just a twitch. Something brittle and dark moved under her skin.

Then she laughed.

It was a horrible sound. Crooked and dry. Mean. Sad. A sound that didn’t belong in her throat but had clearly been living there rent-free for years.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” she asked, quiet and venomous. “You think I haven’t been building this whole op with the full fucking knowledge that I might not come back? I planned to die doing this if I had to. I already made peace with that.”

“Well I DIDN’T!” Eddie roared, his voice breaking mid-syllable.

He turned, grabbed a heavy cluster of detonator timers and a radio from the edge of the folding table, and hurled them. They slammed into the side of a weapons case with a metallic clang and skittered across the floor.

Ursula didn’t even blink.

“I know what’s over there now,” Eddie spat, his voice low and bitter. “I read it. You can’t go in there like this.”

She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing, posture coiled.

“You think you have any idea of what’s actually in there?” she asked, sharp and venomous. “That little picture book you read doesn’t tell you shit. You don’t know. And I don’t have time to fucking babysit you.”

She reached for the gear again.

Eddie lunged, stepping directly in front of her with arms spread, his body physically blocking her path. Hands shaking. Mouth opening to say something—anything—to stop her.

Ursula’s eyes locked on his chest like she was mentally calculating the weakest point to aim for.

Her voice dropped an octave, deadly and cold.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Munson,” she said. “Or I will fucking throat punch you.”

The tent’s power surged—hard. A sharp snap of electricity cracked overhead as the LED rigging blinked violently, casting flickering shadows like the aftermath of lightning. The air buzzed with a prickle of ozone, a tension you could feel under your skin. Every fine hair on every arm lifted.

In the outer room, silence dropped like a bomb. Max froze, eyes wide. Eleven’s mouth hung slightly open. Even Funshine had stilled, massive arms at his sides, like a bear waiting on the edge of a thunderclap.

Dustin whispered, stunned, “she’s never been mean to Eddie before.”

Lucas swallowed. “She’s never been mean to anyone before.”

Susie stood at the edge of the room, white-knuckled and ghost-faced. Her daughter’s voice hadn’t sounded like that—not ever. Not when she’d been hurt. Not even when she was scared. This was different. This was war.

Eddie’s voice cracked in the static haze. “Please, Urs, you can’t go over there now!”

Ursula didn’t even blink. She stared at him like he’d just said something criminal.

“Who the fuck are you,” she growled, “to tell me where I can’t go?”

Eddie’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “Who the fuck am I?” he barked. “I’m your fucking boyfriend! And I love you! And you’re staying!”

And then it broke.

Ursula exploded, voice ricocheting off canvas and steel with enough force to rattle the water in the canteens. “I’m not your fucking girlfriend right now! I’m your superior! You don’t give me orders. You stand the fuck down!”

The lights flickered again—harder. The small fan above the bunk groaned. Static pulsed against everyone’s skin like it was being pulled through dimensions.

Eddie was wringing his hands so hard it looked like he might snap the bones in his own fingers. His breath came fast, like he couldn’t pull enough air through the thick weight of panic pressing down on him.

“I’m not trying to control you—I love you!” His voice cracked around the words. “You died already, Ursula! I don’t want to lose you again!”

Ursula didn’t even flinch.

“What the fuck ever,” she bit out. “I brought myself back.”

She grabbed a half-loaded field pack from the cot and stuffed a side pouch with smoke grenades. Her voice went colder.

“I already had to drag your ass out of the dirt because you died being a fucking moron a second time. Because you DIDN’T LISTEN.”

Eddie threw his arms out, exasperated and breaking. “Of course I didn’t listen! You were getting deep-throated by a tentacle monster! What the hell was I supposed to do?!”

“Not die like a fucking idiot!” she shrieked, whirling on him. “I didn’t need saving!”

Her voice cracked something in the tent structure—one of the steel poles groaned like it was under pressure.

Eddie looked like he’d just been punched in the chest. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

Ursula was strapping a sidearm into her hip holster, hands trembling but precise. Blood still painted a smear beneath one nostril, dried to rust. Another pistol clicked into place under her arm, and a knife went down the length of her boot. She was outfitting for war like it was a morning routine.

“You want to protect me?” she snapped, not even looking at him. “Then fucking listen when I say I’m the only one who can do this. You’re not saving me. You’re trying to save yourself from what happens if I don’t come back.”

“No,” Eddie bit out, voice cracking. “That’s bullshit. I’m trying to protect you! You can’t do this by yourself.”

“The fuck I can’t,” she barked, slamming a pouch shut. “I don’t need your protection. I don’t need anyone’s protection.”

“You’re so fucking scared of needing people,” Eddie yelled, eyes glassy. “You’d rather die than admit you’re scared!”

She paused—just for a beat. Then turned, all fire and fury, eyes like scorched obsidian.

“You don’t want to survive,” Eddie continued, on the verge of sobbing. “You just want it to matter when you go.”

Her expression darkened into something lethal.

“I’d rather die doing something that matters than stay here with a codependent burnout who can’t handle being alone for a few fucking hours.”

“Why the fuck are you being such a bitch to me?” he shot back, voice broken but furious.

Ursula grabbed her empty pistol case, slammed it down hard enough to make a plate fall off a nearby cot, and kicked it across the tent.

“Because I AM a bitch,” she seethed. “And I’m getting sick of this shit. Now get the fuck out of my way before I fuck you up. I need to LEAVE!”

“You can’t even open your eyes in bright light!” Eddie was yelling again, panicking. “You’ve got blood crusted under your nose and your hands are still shaking. That’s not go time. That’s hospital time!”

“This is a trans-dimensional fucking war, Eddie!” she bellowed. “Do you see a hospital? You want me to wait in line for triage while Vecna regrows a spine, eats our friends, and starts tentacle raping my mother in another timeline?!”

A hard, sharp gasp carried through the flap separating the tent’s two rooms.

Then silence. The kind that buzzed.

No one outside had ever heard that before.

Susie’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide, blinking fast and frantic. Dustin looked like someone had pulled out his heart barehanded.

But inside the tent, neither Ursula nor Eddie flinched.

Eddie’s voice cracked as he shouted, “I want you to stay alive.”

Ursula’s hands didn’t stop moving. Another strap buckled, another clip locked, another smoke charge shoved into the bag.

“Yeah?” she snapped, sharper than glass. “Well I want to make sure everyone else does too. Now fucking MOVE!!!”

It hit like a gunshot in a closed room. A rupture.

This—this was the split.

He was looking at her like she was all he had left.

She was looking at the mission like it was all she had left.

They couldn’t see eye to eye because they were standing on opposite cliffs—he was afraid of losing her, and she was terrified of losing everyone else.

“Ursula,” he growled, his tone tipping toward something darker. “You’re being stupid, you can’t just—”

“Oh, I’m being stupid?” Her eyes narrowed into slits, venom flashing like lightning. “Me? That’s fucking rich coming from someone who’s a year shy of a master’s degree in senior year.”

Eddie flinched like she’d slapped him.

“Dude,” he said, voice ragged, breath catching, “why are you being such a fucking cunt to me?”

Her face curled, teeth bared.

“Because you’re going to ruin everything,” she hissed. “And you’re still fucking arguing about it. Like you could fucking stop me.”

They stared at each other—nose to nose, inches apart. The air between them was toxic with static. Anger, desperation, grief, love—it was all there, fighting to be heard.

He loved her. He knew that. She knew that.

And if their positions were reversed, if he were the one suited up to walk into hell, she’d have already chained him to the goddamn wall.

But she also knew the stakes better than anyone. He knew them too. That was what made it worse. He knew how bad it was. He knew what they were up against. And he was still fighting her, still trying to stop her like he had any idea what it took to shoulder the end of the world.

And it made her want to scream, to throw something, to punch him right in the fucking dick.

Eddie saw it in her eyes—the steel. The decision. The part of her that had already left the tent, already crossed back into the Upside Down.

He realized then: even if he tried to stop her by force, he couldn’t. Not physically. Not psychically. Not emotionally.

But he was terrified.

And terror always mutated inside him—twisted, turned ugly.

Turned into anger.

He stepped forward suddenly, chest up, arms spread—blocking her path, making himself big. His voice, when it came, was strangled with rage and desperation.

“No,” he said, loud and low and shaking. “No fucking way. I—I forbid you.”

The world stopped.

Absolute silence.

Ursula blinked at him. Once. Slow. Disbelieving. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

Eddie didn’t flinch. His voice dropped into something low and solid, a sound meant to end arguments. But his hands were still trembling.

“You fucking heard me, Ursula. You’re not going back over there. That’s final.”

The temperature seemed to plummet. The lights inside the tent stuttered, flickered, then flared—a pulse of static riding a wave of fury so thick it made the walls hum.

Her pupils dilated. Her body went perfectly still.

“You don’t get to forbid me,” she said, voice colder than the Upside Down ever was.

“I’m not just gonna sit here and let you fucking die!” Eddie shouted.

She snapped. “I am NOT yours to manage, Eddie! You don’t own me. You don’t command me. And you sure as fuck don’t decide what I can or can’t do.”

“I said NO!”

She was shaking now—voice rising with every syllable, hands clenched at her sides, lights around them glitching like they were trying to escape the tent.

“You don’t get to tell me no,” she hissed. “I don’t belong to you. I’m not your goddamn emotional support psionic. I’m not your redemption arc. I am an ELITE SOLDIER in the middle of a WAR, and if I don’t do this, you die. I die. Everyone dies. So don’t you dare come at me with ‘I forbid you’ like I’m your fucking child. Like you didn’t already die. Twice. The same fucking way because you DIDN’T LEARN ANYTHING THE FIRST TIME!!”

She screamed the last line like it ripped her throat on the way out. Her nose was bleeding again—dark red threading past her lips—and she didn’t even feel it.

Eddie took a step toward her, hands up. “Ursula, stop—you’re bleeding again, and you aren’t in control, look at the fucking lights!”

As if summoned, the ceiling fan overhead popped with a burst of electric flare, glass raining down in tiny sparks.

“See!” he shouted. “You need to chill the fuck out. Listen to me—”

“NO!!!!” Her voice was thunder. “YOU shut the fuck up and listen to ME. You don’t get to claim me when I’m convenient and then cage me when I’m dangerous. I AM FUCKING DANGEROUS. And if you can’t handle that, then get the fuck out of my way.”

Eddie’s voice cracked around the edges as he took a step closer, palms out like he could hold her together just by willing it. “Please, Ursula. Please. Don’t do this. Just open one more portal and drop the rest of the payload in. You don’t have to go back in there by yourself.”

Ursula spun so fast her hair lashed across her face. Her eyes were a tempest.

“I DO have to!!” she bellowed, shoving gear into the duffel with wild force. “This isn’t about me. This is about the goddamn planet, Eddie! We don’t have time for you to male macho power plays while I stroke out one portal at a time, trying to spare your feelings.”

She rounded on him, chest heaving. Her voice was pure combustion.

“I have to go now. I have to go alone. And if I don’t—if I fuck this up—then everyone we’ve ever loved dies screaming. So grow the fuck up and stop acting like I’m ditching you. I’m arming the fucking endgame.”

“Just stay,” Eddie begged, his voice cracking wide open. “Please, baby, we can figure out a safer way. Just—just—”

He reached for her, fingers desperate for contact, to steady himself, to steady her—anything to make this stop. But all she saw was someone trying to box her in again.

“ENOUGH!!” she roared, flaring her shoulders like a struck viper. “Munson, I am your superior officer, and you need to stand the fuck down.”

Eddie’s fists clenched. The storm inside him broke free.

“You’re being such a fucking BITCH right now!” he shouted.

Her head turned. Slow. Measured. Face stone-cold.

“Affirmative. And you just got outranked by a bitch. Now stand the fuck down.”

Silence. Crushing. Electric.

She stared at him, eyes locked, her breath shallow. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Something deep in him shattered—because she’d never looked at him like that before. Like he was just another soldier in her way.

Then she spoke again. Quieter. Slower. Each word a scalpel.

“I said stand down, Munson.”

And he did.

But the rage didn’t. He turned away like something had possessed him, booted the nearby laundry basket hard enough to launch it. Socks and shirts scattered like debris from a blown-up argument. He was pacing now, frantic, a caged thing caught between grief and fury.

“Fuck you, Ursula,” he spat, not even looking at her.

Her hands froze mid-strap. She turned with surgical precision. When her eyes met his again, Eddie’s stomach dropped. Too far. He’d gone too far.

“Fuck me?” she repeated, calm like thunder. “No. Fuck you, Eddie.”

She stepped forward, her voice going full venom.

“You already fucked this whole thermite mission up by not letting me go over there to set up days ago—and then not letting me wake up when I needed to. I didn’t come back here to save your dumb ass just to have you cause a bigger and worse end of the world. So not fuck me. Fuck you.”

“Fine,” he snapped, shaking with hurt. “Fuck me for giving a shit about you.”

Her mouth twisted, a sneer beneath grief.

“You know, this is why I didn’t want to get into this thing with you before the mission was done. I fucking called it from day one. I knew this was going to be a fucking mistake.”

And that was the sound of his heart hitting the ground.

Eddie’s breath hitched. His mouth parted but no sound came. The burn in his chest was getting sharper now—grief, rage, shame—fusing into something jagged and unbearable. His brain was scrambling for a way to rewind the last five minutes, but there was no undoing this. No edit. No soften-the-blow.

A mistake.

That word cracked him clean open.

She thinks we’re a mistake.

She thinks I’m a mistake.

His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into his palms.

God, why wasn’t he going numb yet? He should be. Maybe the real mistake was thinking he could touch something that burned this bright without eventually watching it incinerate everything it touched—including him. He should’ve stayed in the goddamn dirt.

His voice came out hollow. Raw. “You don’t have to die for this.”

Ursula didn’t even look at him. She clipped another magazine into place with a clean, practiced click. “You don’t get to decide what I die for.”

Eddie’s voice broke wide open. His eyes were full and hot and falling over. “Fine,” he bit out, low and gutted. “Go then. Just know if you go, I’m coming after you.”

Ursula froze mid-step. Her shoulders squared with mechanical slowness. When she turned back, her voice was pure command. “The fuck you are,” she said, dead serious. “As your superior, I forbid you from following. You’ll die. I’ve already had to bring you back once because you didn’t fucking listen, and I won’t do it again. I don’t have time. Now move.”

Eddie stepped in her path and didn’t budge. “No.”

Her jaw worked sideways. Her molars ground together like gears chewing rock.

“Move, Eddie,” she said again, lower.

Still, “No,” he said.

Her nostrils flared. Her hand came up.

A pressure-wave flared outward—fast, unseen but not unfelt. Eddie’s boots stayed planted, but the shield hit him square in the chest like a sudden gale. It shoved him clean across the tent floor with a scrape of rubber soles on padded vinyl. He skidded until his back hit the supply crate across from the cot. It didn’t knock him over. But it fucking hurt.

Ursula stepped past him without a word.

From the floor, Eddie’s voice tore loose. “Ursula—please—come back!”

She didn’t pause. Didn’t glance back.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, and pulled the tent flap wide.

Eddie didn’t follow. He just dropped where he was standing, right onto the padded floor of their room, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. And when the first sob punched out of his chest, there was no one there to stop it. His fingers curled against his temples. His vision blurred. And all he could do was sit in the echo of her absence, trying not to break any louder. His face buried in the crook of his elbow like maybe it could hide the sounds he couldn’t stop making. But the sobs came anyway—wet, hard, chest-caving sobs that made his shoulders shake and his ribs hurt.

Because there was nothing else he could do.

Nothing to say. Nothing to fix. He’d pushed her. Fought her. Tried to stop her. And she still walked out.

What if this was it?

What if she never came back?

He always fucking ruined everything.

He should have known. Of course he should have known. Of course he would destroy this just like he destroyed everything else he came into contact with. Every time he thought maybe he’d finally done something right—finally earned something good—it just turned to shit in his hands.

What am I going to do?

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

And in that awful moment, face crumpled in his arms, voice too gone to scream anymore, Eddie wished for just a second that he had stayed dead.

At least he would’ve died thinking she still loved him.

Ursula stormed across the dew-soaked backyard like a missile made of teeth and spite, her boots carving ruts in the dirt. The flap of the tent behind her snapped shut with a hard whump, sealing the combustion inside.

From the back porch, Hopper stepped out, coffee in hand, stopping short when he saw her expression. Through the kitchen window, Joyce and Murray froze mid-sip, watching like wildlife spotting a bear too close to camp.

Kali and Funshine had only just gotten out of the van when she rounded on them. Rage coiled under her skin like a thunderhead, but her voice came out crisp, polite—and fucking terrifying.

“Hi, Kali,” Ursula said with nuclear courtesy. “Thank fucking Christ you’re here. I owe you big time.”

Kali blinked. “Uh… hi Ursula. Everything good?”

Ursula barked a single, joyless laugh. “Oh yeah. Everything is totally honky-dory.”

She pivoted to Funshine, reached out, shook his hand like she hadn’t just been moments from a full aneurysm. “Hi, Funshine. It’s so fucking good to see you, dude. Sorry I can’t say hi properly—”

Then she turned her head slightly, raised her voice and roared back toward the tent at a volume only a woman halfway through a breakdown and high on cortisol could muster.

“—because my STUPID fucking death-wish-having MORON of a boyfriend let me sleep through THIRTEEN FUCKING HOURS of alarms at the fucking ZERO HOUR, and now I need to go plant thermite charges in a death dimension manually, while I’m two seconds away from an aneurysm!”

Her voice echoed across the backyard. Somewhere in the tent, Eddie flinched like the words had teeth.

Funshine didn’t even blink. “It’s all good, little sister. We will have time enough when you get back.”

For half a second, something in her cracked—just a hairline fracture through the boiling veneer. A real smile ghosted across her mouth. It didn’t stay, but it happened.

“I will be back,” Ursula said, steel and certainty lacing the words. “Glad someone here knows how to recognize.”

She patted the chest of her jacket, automatically checking for her usual inventory. Her hand froze mid-motion.

Her eyes narrowed.

Deadpan. Low. She growled, “where the fuck are my keys.”

A beat passed.

And she knew instantly.

Eddie had them.

Her jaw locked tight enough to crack molars. If she didn’t regulate her bite force, she was going to snap enamel like brittle glass.

Chapter Text

Ursula’s boots hit the dirt like accusations. She stalked a tight circle near the back of the camp, jaw clenched hard enough to crack molars.

“Dad,” she snapped, sharp enough to draw blood. “Go get my fucking keys from Eddie.”

Dustin blinked, mid-sip of his reheated coffee.

“Because if I go in there right now,” she added, dragging a hand down her face, “I’m going to kick him in the nads.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and marched toward the truck, muttering something that sounded like “Jesus Christ” under her breath.

The tent flap was still half-zipped when Dustin ducked inside.

The master suite was dark. Too dark. Quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful—more like the air had given up.

And Eddie was on the floor. Curled in on himself. Knees pulled tight. Shoulders hunched like someone who’d just survived a bombing. One fist dug into the side of his head like he could squeeze the thoughts out if he pressed hard enough. The other curled near his mouth. He was shaking. Not sobbing loud. Just… breaking quiet.

Dustin didn’t say a word.

He just crossed the padded vinyl, dropped to the floor, and wrapped both arms around him. No fanfare. No big emotional overture.

Just there.

And Eddie—who needed a goddamn lifeline more than oxygen right now—let himself collapse into it. No pretense. No cool. Just a full-body sag like the scaffolding gave out.

The hug hit weird. Not bad weird. Not uncomfortable. Just… bigger than Dustin had expected. Like his arms were holding something he hadn’t trained for. Not just a friend. Not just Eddie. But her Eddie. The guy who, if all this went sideways, might die loving Dustin’s daughter. Might die for her. And that twisted something in his chest in a way he didn’t like. 

Because Eddie wasn’t just older. He wasn’t just a romantic liability. He was fragile. Earnest. Tangled up in this in ways no one else was. And Dustin—fifteen-year-old Dustin—felt something ancient rise up in him. Protective. Primal. Like if anyone ever hurt Eddie, it’d rip Ursula apart. 

And if Ursula ever broke him? Well… then maybe he’d have to break something too. And that didn’t make sense. Not really. But it was there all the same. A weird little echo of future-past loyalty he couldn’t explain. So he just held on tighter. For both of them.

When they pulled apart, Eddie ducked his head and swiped at his face fast—like maybe if he moved quick enough, Dustin wouldn’t see the damage. Eyes red. Cheeks raw. Voice wrecked and low.

He stared down at the floor like it had the answer.

“Thanks, Dustin,” Eddie muttered, voice brittle. His knuckles dragged down his jaw, thumb digging into the edge of a stubbled cheekbone like maybe pain could force clarity. “I think… I think I just ruined everything with her.”

The words clanged in the thick quiet of the tent. They sounded smaller than they felt. Defeated.

Dustin didn’t rush a reply. He settled next to Eddie with the same solid patience that had always made him the best player at any table—able to read the room, parse the moment, and wait until the dice stopped tumbling. His hand stayed firm on Eddie’s shoulder, grounding him.

“No way, man,” he said finally. “She loves you.”

Eddie gave a crooked snort that barely passed for laughter. His nose was red, eyes bloodshot, and his shoulders had that hunched shape that said he’d forgotten what breathing without guilt felt like.

“She hates me,” he whispered, eyes tracing the seams in the vinyl floor. “Didn’t you hear her?”

Dustin didn’t flinch. “I know, dude. We heard the whole thing. It was… brutal.” He winced a little at the memory, but he didn’t look away. “She doesn’t hate you, though.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched. His shoulders gave a twitch, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the stamina. Silence crept back in, thick and warm and uncomfortable.

Dustin tightened his grip on Eddie’s shoulder. “She’s just stressed,” he said. “And pretending to not be overwhelmed when she totally is.”

Eddie’s hand went up and raked through his hair, shaking as he dragged it back. His rings clinked faintly against each other. “Well I’m overwhelmed too,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges. “And… and I’m scared. And I don’t want her to get hurt. I wish she’d just fucking listen to me for once.”

The overhead lights gave a low flicker—barely perceptible, but enough to make the shadows twitch. 

Dustin glanced up, then back to Eddie. “I get that, Eddie. I do.”

There was something ancient in the way Dustin spoke then. Something aged under pressure, like rock compressed into diamond. It was the voice of someone who’d loved a wild, hurting thing for a long time and still did.

“But think about it this way…” he said. “My daughter has never been in charge of her own life. She’s been training for what, five years on this mission? And we barely got out of the first part alive. She’s afraid everything she’s worked toward is a failure. And now you tell her she can’t do this last part?”

Eddie swallowed hard. His fingers curled in on themselves like claws, then uncurled with a shaky breath. He wasn’t crying anymore, but the aftermath clung to him—eyes glassy, lips chewed raw. His voice, when it came, sounded scraped out of the bottom of his throat.

“I’m just trying to keep her safe,” he said. “I’ve already had to watch her die once.” He shook his head. “I love her. I love her so fucking much.”

“Well obviously,” Dustin said, trying to fold a little levity into the moment without breaking it. “I love her too. And I don’t want her to go over there alone either. Not when we just got her back.”

The tent was quiet around them, the walls faintly rustling with the breeze outside. A fan buzzed softly from one corner, stirring the thick air but doing nothing to lighten it.

“But you read the Specimen Register, right?” Dustin asked.

Eddie’s nod was slow. Grim. “Yeah. That’s why I don’t want her to go there alone. It’s the most terrifying shit I’ve ever read.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said. “But did you realize that because of how those creatures function, she’s really the only one who can go there without being detected? Like it’s actually more dangerous for her to go in with a team?”

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean—”

A voice cut straight through the tent wall like a dagger made of exasperation and pure nuclear-grade teenage spite:

“For fuck’s sake, Dad—are you getting my keys or what?”

Eddie flinched. Visibly. Like she’d shot a nerve.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared in the direction of the sound like it had slapped him across the face. Then, slowly—like it hurt to move—he reached into the front pocket of his jeans. His fingers curled around the familiar weight of her keys and held them there a beat too long.

Dustin watched him, and what he saw in Eddie’s face made his own chest go tight.

It wasn’t just sadness. It wasn’t even heartbreak. It was that bone-deep, oxygen-stealing kind of grief that looked like a man trying to keep breathing while something inside him bled out slow.

The keys left Eddie’s hand with reluctance that almost seemed cellular.

Dustin took them.

“Eddie…” he said, voice soft with all the things he didn’t know how to say.

Eddie didn’t meet his eyes. His shoulders curled inward like maybe, if he folded small enough, he could disappear into the tent floor. “Just go,” he rasped. “Give them to her.”

Dustin hesitated.

Then, before he moved to stand, he put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder again—firmer this time. Not a gesture. A presence. A weight. No words this time. Just the shared knowledge of what it meant to hand over something to someone who might never come back for it.

From outside the tent, Ursula’s voice hit again—sharper this time, clipped and loaded with the kind of frustrated urgency that came from someone trying not to panic: “Come ON, Dad! Move your ass! I’m not trying to be over there after dark!”

Eddie flinched again. Less like a slap this time and more like a tremor. He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t move. Just stared at the floor like it might give him a reason to exist. “Better bring her the keys,” he said, voice barely audible.

Dustin lingered for another second. Maybe two. Long enough to confirm what he already knew—this was the most broken he’d ever seen Eddie Munson.

He rose slowly, keys clenched in one fist, breath catching in his throat like it didn’t want to leave Eddie behind. And somewhere between that inhale and the next step, something inside him hardened. His spine straightened. His jaw locked. That wasn’t just their general out there barking orders.

That was his daughter. And it was time someone reminded her who raised her.

He pushed through the tent flap and stepped out into the heat of Ursula’s rage.

The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in bruised amber and migraine pink. Dust curled at Ursula’s boots as she stalked circles near the truck like a lion pacing its cage, jacket half-zipped and jaw locked with the kind of tension that could turn carbon into diamonds.

She spun toward the tent as Dustin emerged, fire already loaded behind her eyes—but he cut her off by stepping straight into her path and holding out the keys.

She reached for them.

He didn’t let go.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You better fix this when you get back,” he said, steady as stone.

Her jaw clenched hard enough to twitch. She gave the keys a sharp tug. He held fast.

“I mean it, Ursula.” Dustin’s voice dipped—no longer pleading. Parental now. Iron in it. “Don’t be cruel to him. I don’t care how frustrated and overtired you are. He deserves better than that.”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at him, pupils blown wide, something feral flickering behind her lashes.

Dustin didn’t blink. Didn’t budge.

The stare held. A long, crackling silence between them. Like they were deciding who was more stubborn, who flinched first, who remembered bloodlines over battlefield rank.

Finally, her shoulders gave the smallest twitch. Her voice came low and tight. “Fine.”

He released the keys.

She yanked them from his hand, spun without another word, and stormed toward the truck. The door creaked open and slammed shut in the same breath. Engine coughing to life like it already knew what kind of hell it was about to carry.

From near the porch, Susie’s voice lifted—soft, but clear, “stay safe, Ursula.”

The truck didn’t answer.

It just peeled out in a churn of dust and diesel and disappeared down the road.

The ride to the McKinney breach was a blur of fury and static.

Ursula gripped the steering wheel like it owed her money, every turn taken hard, every mile eaten alive under her tires. The truck’s engine rattled like it knew not to ask questions. Rage was armor now—thick and hot and breathing down her neck. It kept the tears back. Mostly.

How fucking dare he.

How fucking dare Eddie Munson think he had the right to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. After everything. After all the blood, all the years. After all the choices that hadn’t been choices—just survival, just inertia, just some grim treadmill of expectations she never signed up for and couldn’t step off. He knew. He knew what it had cost her to get even a molecule of control back. And now, in the eleventh hour, when the world sat on a goddamn pin waiting to fall, he thought he could pull rank and tell her no?

Unbelievable.

Turning off that alarm had been a betrayal. Treasonous. Like spitting on the battlefield before the first shot was even fired. He hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d dug it up, lit it on fire, and danced over the ashes like some sanctimonious little martyr trying to protect her from herself.

She had been the one trying not to let it get here. Not to let it twist into something Henry could use. She’d fought the pull of this thing—whatever it was between them—because she knew what Henry Creel did with love. How he’d puppeteer it, poison it, pervert it into weapons sharper than teeth.

But she never thought the danger would come from Eddie.

Not him.

Not the one person who was supposed to be hers in this. Her anchor. Her harbor. Her constant.

And now?

Now he was just another liability.

Just another frightened man trying to shrink her down to something manageable so he could sleep at night. Another voice in the goddamn choir telling her to sit still and play nice and wait for the monsters to knock.

Well fuck that.

And fuck him.

If she had to scrap the plan and do this alone, then so be it. If everyone she loved wanted to die protecting her instead of letting her do the work she was born to do, then they could line up and wait for the reaping. She didn’t have time to hold hands with people more worried about her heart than the fate of every breathing thing on the planet.

Because this was it.

This was the shot.

Get it right… or burn.

And Eddie—fucking Eddie, who knew the weight she carried, who had seen the seams and counted every crack—had chosen this moment to break faith.

And now that betrayal sat rotting in her chest like something alive.

And worse?

Worse than the anger, worse than the heartbreak, worse than the screaming silence between his arms and her back turning?

She resented him.

And that resentment was growing roots.

Twenty minutes later she tore into the site, gravel spitting under her wheels as she braked sharp, killed the ignition, and slammed the door with the force of someone holding the whole world together by a single fraying thread.

Gear up. Move fast. Don’t think.

She threw the back hatch open, strapped on the loaded assault rig like it was an extension of her spine, yanked her thermite satchel into place with a grunt, and cinched it tight across her chest. Her boots hit the dirt running. Fuck this thing was heavy.

The Bennet portal shimmered up ahead, pulsing faintly at the edge of the containment ring like a bad memory clawing back.

She spoke into her comms headset as she thumbed off the safety of her M4. “Mom, take down the dinomist. I’m heading in hot.”

A beat of static passed, then Max’s voice came through the line. “Copy that, dinomist is deactivated now, over.”

The shimmer dulled slightly as the safety layer peeled back like scab from skin. Ursula didn’t slow. “Max? Where is my mom? Why aren’t you out in the yard training?” she asked, voice curt and clipped.

Max hesitated a second. “I’m covering for Susie. She’s… having a rough time.”

Ursula exhaled sharply through her nose—less a sigh, more a pressure release valve trying not to rupture. She ground her molars together before speaking. “Okay, well… what the fuck is she doing? We already have two people out of commission, I can’t have the whole squad falling apart before shit even gets serious.”

Over the line, Dustin’s voice came in low and muttering. “This whole thing’s already pretty serious…”

Ursula didn’t even acknowledge him.

Eyes locked on the shimmer ahead, breath tight, posture wound like a tripwire. She wasn’t just moving fast now. She was bracing for war.

“Hey, uh—she’s setting up her compact Cerebro on the cabin roof,” Mike’s voice chimed in suddenly, slightly winded, like he’d just scrambled up a ladder to check. “Figured she’d get better range up there.”

Ursula blinked once, still staring at the portal’s faint pulse. The muscles in her jaw relaxed just enough to let a breath escape. “Actually, that’s a really good idea,” she said. “We need to start scanning for military chatter. Can you guys talk to her about setting scanning shifts?”

“Yeah, we got you, Urs,” Mike replied, no hesitation. 

Ursula’s fingers twitched near her belt. Her hand hovered, then pulled back. She spoke into her mic again, voice steady. “Will—what’s the other side look like? Is the portal clear?”

Silence.

Not dead air. Not static.

Just… nothing.

A full three-count. Then five.

She stopped walking.

“Uhh… Will? Do you copy?” she said again, sharper this time. The portal shimmered in front of her like a dare.

Will’s voice finally filtered in. Flat. Hushed. Echoing straight through the psionic thread he shared like a pulse in the mindspace. “Zoso is just arriving and…” a pause, soft static under the words, “Ursula, you can’t go through. There are—I think—cats? The ones with… I think they have lobster faces?”

Her stomach dropped. The breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding went sharp in her throat. “Fuck,” she hissed. “Fuck. Okay… how many chitterfangs are there?”

A beat. Will’s presence flinched a little in the channel before responding. “More than twenty.”

Ursula closed her eyes for a half-second and let her forehead press against the side of a scorched pine, exhale spilling hard through her nose. “Fuck! Fuck my life,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay… uh… what are they doing?”

“Pacing,” Will replied. Flat. Faint. Creeping toward worried.

Another long silence followed. The kind that builds like a crack behind your eyes.

Then she whispered, almost like she was afraid of spooking the world: “Shit…”

She pushed off the tree and turned, stomping through the brittle needles and dead grass with fresh fury. “I’m gonna have to drive to Forest Gate.”

She sucked in a breath, steadied her voice, then asked—lower, warier, “Will… is there still a piece of Zoso in the attic at the Creel house?”

There was a grunt—uncomfortable, small. She could feel him grimace even before the words arrived. “Yeah… Vecna still hasn’t moved.”

Ursula stared hard at the shimmer of the portal, jaw locked so tight her molars ached. “Then why,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “are there like… the equivalent of three prides stalking the fucking portal?”

Mike’s voice crackled in through comms, his tone light but unsure. “Maybe they’re curious? What’s that old saying, curiosity killed the cat… and then something about being fat? I can’t remember.”

Ursula let out a sharp, humorless huff. “Yeah, maybe…”

She pushed a hand back through her braid, fingers catching in dried sweat and stubborn strands. “And you can’t see them from the perimeter cameras?”

Dustin piped in, voice scratchy and a little too close to the mic. “No. They’re staying just outside the burn circle, and the camera’s not covering much more than that. It’s not wide enough.”

Ursula swore under her breath. Her boots scraped against dead needles as she turned on her heel, heading back to the truck. “I don’t like that at all,” she muttered. “Alright. I guess Forest Gate it is. Not stoked about having to lug 180 pounds ten miles, but this is what I trained for in military school, so… meh.”

She dropped her pack in the dust beside Black Bettie, kicked open the back door, and crouched low. The weight of the thermite bricks bag was nearly body-sized and solid as a corpse—she grunted as she wrestled it up and shoved it into the back seat. The springs under the upholstery groaned as the weight slammed down. She gave it a hard pat. Secured.

Dustin’s voice came through again, cautious. “Urs… are you sure you’re gonna be able to handle your weapon with that much weight on your back? Forest Gate is, like, ten miles from the Creel House.”

Ursula was already throwing the driver’s side door open, reaching for her weapons, her tone clipped and steady. “I mean… yeah. Like I said, carrying heavy stuff long distances while armed and alert is pretty standard basic training for ground operatives. It’s not going to be delightful but, I’ll be good.”

She tossed her sidearm and her short-range rifle into the passenger seat without ceremony, then hopped up into the driver's seat.

Dustin’s sigh was audible through the headset. “Okay… just… be careful.”

Ursula didn’t miss a beat. “10-4,” she said flatly, and thumbed the mic to mute.

As soon as the mic light went dark, Ursula cracked wide open.

Her hands shot to her scalp, fingers laced tight into her hair, and she bent double over the wheel with a sound that wasn’t a cry and wasn’t a scream but lived somewhere in between. “Fuck,” she gasped. Then louder. “Fuck—fuck—fuckfuckfuck—”

Her body shook with the kind of pressure that only comes when the last nerve snaps. A sob tore loose from her throat, raw and violent, and she hit the wheel with the side of her fist. Her breathing shattered, jagged and loud in the cramped cab.

Ten seconds. That’s all she let herself have. Ten seconds of spiraling fury and grief and fear.

Then she caught herself.

Her hand came up and slapped her own cheek—hard. A sound like the crack of dry kindling snapped through the truck. Her head rocked sideways with the force, and her breath hitched back into her chest like she was yanking the leash on her own breakdown.

Five to eight chitterfangs? That was a single pride. A curious cluster of predators sniffing out a new landmark. Nothing to panic about.

But more than twenty?

Twenty meant something else. Twenty meant the dominant males from multiple prides—at least three—were working in tandem. Coordinated. Strategic. And that meant only one thing. 

That meant hive logic.

That meant a link.

That meant Vecna.

Ursula’s fist slammed into the steering wheel so hard it rattled the column. Again. Again. A third time—this one sharp enough that the pop of knuckle bone split the skin on her middle finger. Blood smeared across the wheel as she let out a vicious snarl and threw her head back against the seat. The headrest clicked down a notch under the impact.

“FUCK!”

Because this wasn’t just a scouting party.

This was communication.

And if the hive was moving, it meant he was moving. It meant the bastard had been faking dormancy. Whispering through his network. Waiting for the moment they let their guard down.

That motherfucker had been playing possum.

And now the web was tightening.

She glanced at the dark streak of blood across the steering wheel, then brought her split knuckle to her mouth and sucked the worst of it clean. Copper bloomed on her tongue. It grounded her. That little taste of violence. Of consequence.

The headset crackled to life with Dustin’s voice, low and edged with concern. “Hey Ursula? You okay? Your position hasn’t changed and your signal’s been silent for a minute… Urs?”

Ursula blinked hard, dragging the sleeve of her jacket across her face to scrub away the tears she hadn’t meant to cry. Her chest still hitched with the tail end of the sobs, but her jaw was locked now—tight as a trap.

Her fingers found the side of her headset, and she thumbed the mic back to life.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice hoarse but controlled. “I was just recalibrating. I’m on my way now.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then—through the shared channel—the low growl of Black Bettie’s engine rolled into their ears, gravel crunching as the wheels kicked into motion.

On the ops room map screen, her dot began to move again. Out of the field. Toward Forest Gate.

Chapter Text

The comms tent smelled like static and stale coffee. Cold light from the monitors bled into every corner, casting pale shadows across unzipped gear bags, half-drained mugs, and the bundled wires that laced the floor like roots. It was quiet except for the hum of generators outside and the occasional static flicker from the shortwave array.

Max leaned forward over the main console, elbow braced against the desk, her brows knit tight. Dustin stood nearby, arms folded, chewing at the edge of his thumbnail, watching the digital map update in real time.

The new ping blinked in. Top-right quadrant. Several miles down from the police station on Curlew. Forest Gate.

“She’s there,” Max said, voice low.

Mike muttered, “About time,” and adjusted the gain on the nearest radio dial.

The speakers hissed.

“Thunderbird to Hellfire,” Ursula’s voice cut through, businesslike and brisk. “Forest Gate reached. 10-23. Will, check me—has Zoso reached the breach? Anything stirring in the dark?”

Will’s reply came after a beat—slow, composed, but carrying that distinct thread of pressure that meant he was multitasking inside the mindspace. “Zoso’s been circling the breach for the past five minutes,” he said. “He hasn’t seen any movement.”

There was a moment of quiet—just background camp noise filtering in over the open channel.

“Have him circle up high,” Ursula said, “but under the tree canopy. Look for chitterfangs.”

“Copy,” Will answered. A moment passed. The line stayed open.

Then it came: a sharp inhale, fast and brittle.

“Ursula,” Will said, his voice suddenly clipped and higher, “there’s like—at least another thirty of those cat things. Up in the branches.”

Dustin’s spine straightened like someone had pulled a wire. Max went still. Mike froze halfway to speaking.

From the other end of the line came chaos. No words at first—just boots stomping, a clatter of gear, fabric against bark, something sharp striking metal. 

That’s when Eddie stepped through the divider flap. He’d only made it a few paces and then Ursula’s voice cracked sharp through the comms again, rattling down the length of the tent.

“Okay,” she said. “Well we’re fucked then. We are totally, absolutely fucked.”

The words hit him like a brick to the chest.

He froze.

Dustin’s head snapped toward the speaker array, confusion flickering across his face. “No, wait—why are we fucked? Can’t we just blast them?”

Ursula’s answer came fast and sharp, edged with frustration. “No! I mean—yeah, I can handle taking them out. But Dad, you read the guide. These guys run in prides of five to eight max.”

Max spun in her seat. “What does that mean?”

She was already reaching for the field notes binder. The light from the screens cast her face in a nervous blue.

Behind them, Eddie hadn’t said a word. But his jaw clenched. Hard. One hand hovered near the edge of the folding table like he wasn’t sure whether to grip it or flip it.

He knew what it meant.

And the fact that Ursula was the one saying it?

Meant it was real.

Meant it was bad.

Eddie didn’t look up when he spoke. Just fixed his eyes on the floor, like maybe if he didn’t make eye contact with anyone, it wouldn’t feel like saying it made it worse.

“It means the prides are working together,” Eddie said quietly. “It means they’re connected to Vecna’s hive mind…”

Dustin stiffened beside him. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Then that would mean…”

“Vecna’s just pretending to be asleep.” It was Eddie again—louder this time, more certain. Like the words were rocks in his mouth but he’d decided to spit them anyway.

A sharp breath came through the speaker system.

“Exactly,” Ursula bit out. “It means he knows someone is up to something out here. Fuck—fuck—fuck.”

She was unraveling. Not fast, but in strips—fraying along the edges the way Kevlar did when you bent it too hard too many times.

Dustin leaned in over the console. “What do we do now?”

There was a pause.

A too-long silence that didn’t sound like static—it sounded like someone holding their breath because the answer might not exist.

Then Ursula’s voice came again. Smaller. Hoarse. “…uh. I don’t know… let me think…”

And in that instant, it got real in the tent.

Because Ursula never said that. Not her.

Not until now.

The quiet in the comms tent cracked like a fault line. Every head turned toward the speaker rig hanging above the main console, like maybe the next words would tell them if the floor was about to drop out.

And Eddie wasn’t about to let her spiral.

Not again.

His mind spun like a bad clutch—too fast, too rough, but turning. Then it caught.

“Will,” Eddie said suddenly, pushing forward in his seat, voice cutting clean through the static haze, “do you have eyes on Vecna now?”

There was a pause. Then Will’s voice filtered in—thin, almost slurred at the edges. His tone had the quality of someone speaking from far away. Not geographically. Psychically. “Yes,” he murmured. “He still looks dead. He hasn’t moved. And the sliver of Zoso with him is hidden.”

Dustin stiffened beside him.

“Can you send part of that sliver to check the thermite we’ve planted?” Eddie asked.

He didn’t breathe until Ursula’s voice came through the feed. “…That’s… actually a good idea.” She sounded surprised—like maybe the idea had hit a different part of her brain than the panic had.

“Henry may know about the portal barriers,” she went on, “but my little portals don’t even ping him. And I didn’t touch any of the roots, so… if those payloads are still there, and there isn’t any new fungal growth on the foundation…”

Her voice steadied, the way a plane does once it clears the turbulence. “…we may still be able to keep placing the charges.”

In the quiet that followed, Dustin shifted just enough to glance at Eddie.

The dungeon master’s jaw was tight—cut-glass tense. His gaze stayed fixed on the speaker rig, but something behind his eyes glinted. Not quite tears. Not yet. But close.

Dustin didn’t say a word. Just gave a slight nod. A quiet understanding passed between them—he could feel the wave of emotion roll through Eddie like pressure under skin, but Eddie didn’t let it surface. Didn’t need a witness to that kind of unraveling.

Will’s voice came back over the feed, and it sounded… strained. “I’ve asked Zoso to break off and look, it… ow…”

A sharp breath crackled through the channel. In the tent, Mike stood straighter. Max’s fingers froze mid-tap against her thigh.

Will’s voice dipped again, breath hitching, like he was working through a stomach-churning punch to the gut. “We are circling now… and… they look… they… they look okay. There’s no new growth. I think—”

Will swallowed audibly, “I think we’re good.”

There was a pause, then Ursula’s voice returned, laced with concern. “Are you okay, Uncle Will?”

Will made a rough sound into the mic—clearing his throat like he was trying to force normal back into his lungs. “Yeah... Yeah, just—makes me nauseous when he breaks off. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

Then Ursula’s voice came over the comms line, this time softer. “I gave your mom a bottle of Dramamine for Steve earlier. Go take a break for a while, eat something, and take two of those.”

A soft breath came through the speaker. Will’s voice sounded a little more anchored. “Okay, Urs… thanks.”

“It’s all good,” she said. “You’re doing great, dude.”

The line buzzed faintly with quiet again, but the tension had eased—just a notch.

Then Max cleared her throat. It wasn’t subtle. It was the kind of deliberate sound that drew heads and demanded focus without asking for it. “So… what’s the next move, Blue?”

A beat passed.

From the speaker, the hiss of a truck door swinging open sliced through the moment. It clunked shut with a metallic finality. Then came pacing—boots on dirt, fast, uneven, restless.

Ursula’s voice followed, laced with exhaustion and pressure. “Well… it’s not safe for me to do these payload drops alone.”

A metallic thunk cracked through the audio feed—loud, reverberant. The sharp clatter of knuckles or a closed fist slamming something hard and unyielding.

“Fuuuuuuck!” she screamed. The word tore through the comms like it had claws.

“I’ve gotta come back… there’s just no… we’re gonna have to try something drastic. We need more time.”

She didn’t say anything else.

The channel hung in static silence, punctuated only by the background shuffle of her pacing—faster now, angrier.

In the tent, Dustin’s head turned. His eyes found Eddie, who hadn’t moved much since he came in. Still half-tensed near the corner post, listening like the world might collapse if he missed a syllable.

But something had shifted in his face.

That kicked-dog devastation had peeled back a little, and in its place was something more measured. Not peace exactly—but relief, maybe. Not joy—but not despair either.

Dustin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The knot that had been coiled in his gut ever since he walked into that tent and found Eddie in pieces—it loosened. Not gone. Not untangled. But looser now.

Then Ursula’s voice came back over the radio, more measured this time, but not calm—just controlled the way a pilot might talk through a nosedive.

“Okay. Here’s the deal,” she said, breath short. “Someone run out to the training field and have Pop see if he can get Agent Stinson—or even better, Dr. Owens—on the line. We need them to stay the fuck away for at least another four days or we are so fucking beyond fucked, we might as well just give up now and enjoy what little time we have left.”

The comms tent went still.

No shuffling of papers. No typing. No shifting in chairs. Just the low hum of the equipment and the weight of that word: give up.

Every head in the room turned slowly, first toward the speaker, then toward each other. Max. Mike. Susie. Dustin. Even Eden, who had been lurking just outside the flap, had frozen halfway through zipping her jacket.

No one moved.

Because Ursula didn’t say things like “give up.”

Ursula didn’t surrender. Didn’t hedge. Didn’t rattle—not even when the blood hit the dirt. For her to say that, out loud, over an open channel?

It cracked something open in all of them.

Then came her voice again, lower now. Tense. A frayed edge trying to sound firm. “Uhh… Hellfire? Do you copy?”

Mike was the first to find his voice. It came through the line steady, but his hand was trembling faintly over the radio. “Yeah, Urs. We copy. How long until you’re back?”

“I’ll be back in twenty-five,” came her reply. Brisk. Businesslike. Almost normal—but not quite.

“We’ll see you soon, Urs,” Max added, softer. “Drive safely.”

The line went quiet after that, but the silence didn’t feel like relief. It felt like pressure.

The kind that filled lungs with cold and made air hard to hold.

Inside the comms tent, no one said a word for a long moment. The screens flickered, showing Ursula’s signal beginning to trace its way back toward camp. The soft hum of equipment was the only sound, but it felt loud against the sudden stillness.

And yet, in the midst of that stillness—Eddie exhaled. Quiet. Almost invisible. But real.

It wasn’t peace. Not even close. But it was something like permission to breathe.

She was coming back.

She was being rational.

She wasn’t just going to throw herself into the portal, guns blazing and blood in her teeth, and that alone made his ribs loosen from where they’d been welded shut for hours. Even if she still wouldn’t look at him. Even if she hated him right now—at least she wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

Eddie stood, slow and deliberate, brushing a hand over the front of his jeans like it might help smooth the nerves still crawling under his skin. Then he looked to Dustin.

“I’ll go ask Hopper,” he said, voice low but firm. “See if he can get Ellen on the line.”

Dustin gave a short nod and didn’t stop him.

Eddie ducked out of the comms tent and headed toward the training field behind the cabin, the tent flap hissing shut behind him.

The air out back was crisp with gunpowder and bark mulch, and the steady pop-pop-pop of live rounds cracked through the clearing in deliberate rhythm. The training field behind the cabin looked less like a camp exercise and more like a prelude to war.

Targets lined up in staggered rows. Some standard paper, some shaped like humanoid silhouettes with fungal growth mock-ups slathered over chest zones in spray paint and red marker. Crates of ammunition sat half-shaded under tarps, while spent shells gleamed in the dirt like gold teeth under the sun.

Hopper stood at the front of the line, arms crossed and scowl deep. Murray flanked him, leaning in just close enough to make a sarcastic remark about someone’s grip before ducking back again with a smirk. Eden was in the far lane running drills with Lucas—shouting over the gunfire but keeping everyone focused. Like she was coaching a team she’d actually die for.

Down the line, Argyle was mid-reload, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Jonathan next to him, steadier now than he’d been a week ago, braced his stance with practiced weight. Joyce and Robin were focused on a moving target system, working tandem shots like it was a synchronized dance. Erica and Funshine ran a relay on breakdown-and-clean in the shade, and Eleven and Kali were at the far end, taking turns with a scoped rifle that looked too big for either of them—but neither seemed to notice.

Eddie moved through the noise like a ghost cutting across the edges of a fireline.

Hopper spotted him first, face unreadable behind dark lenses.

Eddie gave a short nod as he approached. “Sheriff.”

“Munson,” Hopper replied, flat but not unfriendly. Not warm either. Measured. Like he wasn’t quite sure yet if Eddie was a ticking clock or just bad luck in boots.

“We have an issue at the portal sites,” Eddie said.

Eden, down the line, looked up sharply. Her brow furrowed. She started toward them, but Eddie lifted a hand—wait. Not yet. He’d explain. Just not in the middle of a firing line.

To Hopper, he added, quieter, “Here—let’s step away for a sec. Keep these guys’ heads in training while we still can.”

Hopper gave him a long look. Like he was trying to x-ray the motive behind the words. Then he gave a slow nod and turned on his heel without a word, motioning Eddie to follow him down the edge of the field toward the tree line, away from curious ears and drawn barrels.

The crunch of boots over pine needles muffled the last echoes of gunfire as Hopper led Eddie into the treeline, just far enough to muffle the world behind them. Branches swayed overhead in the breeze, dappling the ground in broken gold light. The sounds of training dulled to background thumps and sharp commands, fading like the tension from someone else’s dream.

Hopper stopped near a felled log and turned, expression unreadable beneath his battered ballcap. He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Eddie with that cop’s instinct for spotting lies before they left your tongue. “What’s going on, Munson?”

Eddie exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “It looks like Henry Creel’s been playing possum this whole time. Or at least… he is now.”

That got Hopper’s attention. The man’s jaw ticked, slow and deliberate, like it was winding itself tighter with every syllable.

Eddie continued, voice low but certain. “Both of the portals—Forest Gate and Bennet—they’re being watched from the other side. Guarded. And that would only happen if he sent something there.”

Hopper didn’t speak. Not right away. His brow furrowed, and his mouth settled into a flat line that promised bad weather. Then he asked, “Okay. So what now?”

Eddie hesitated. Only for a second. Just long enough to measure how it would sound out loud. “Well… Ursula still thinks the thermite plants haven’t been detected. That Henry doesn’t know about the charges. Not yet anyway. So as long as that’s still true…” He shrugged, the motion more exhaustion than confidence. “We can keep planting. Quietly. While he’s busy watching the breaches.”

Hopper crossed his arms. His gaze didn’t waver. “She’s gonna burn out if she keeps doing them.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, almost immediately. No protest. Just truth. “But only because she’s doing too many at once. If we had more time, she could pace herself safely. Or—not safely, but…” He rubbed at his mouth, then dropped his hand. “She wouldn’t collapse every time.”

The wind picked up. Somewhere behind them, another round of shots rang out—sharp, decisive, like punctuation marks in a sentence neither of them wanted to finish.

Hopper didn’t look away. He blinked slow, like he was weighing something heavy in his chest—maybe the ask, maybe the messenger. The breeze cut sideways through the trees again, carrying the ghost of gun oil and churned dust from the field.

“So what does she need me to do?” he asked, voice low but ready.

Eddie shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the edge of his jeans pocket. “Call Ellen,” he said. “The CIA lady who drove you here.”

Hopper arched an eyebrow, not moving otherwise.

“Or even better,” Eddie added quickly, “the doctor. Doctor… uh…”

“Owens,” Hopper supplied, voice flat as gravel.

“Yeah. Doctor Owens.” Eddie nodded, then frowned. “Or Agent—Simpsons?”

“Stinson,” Hopper corrected, his mouth tightening slightly.

“Right. That.” Eddie scratched the back of his neck, wincing like the correction had stung more than it should have. “Can you do it? Do you have contacts for them?”

“I’ve got a way to reach ‘em,” Hopper said, his tone measured and calm. “Maybe not Sam, though. They did a real number on him out in Nevada.”

“Still,” Eddie pressed, locking eyes with him now, something in his voice finally steady. “Try Owens first? Ursula said he’s the preferred contact. She trusts him more.”

Hopper gave the smallest nod, the kind that didn’t come easy from a man like him. “Okay. I’ll try,” he said. “What exactly are we asking for?”

“She wanted a week originally. They gave us three days,” Eddie said, no hesitation. He rubbed his jaw like the words itched coming out. “So we ask for the week again. Be happy if they give us four days. Hell, even three. Because Henry Creel… he knows something’s happening. He knows someone’s planning something. And if the military rolls up with tanks and guns thinking they’re the cavalry?”

He looked dead at Hopper now, gaze tight and unwavering. “This whole thing goes to shit,” he finished. “All of it.”

Hopper held his gaze a beat longer, eyes narrowing like he was reassessing a man he thought he’d already filed away. Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t fidget. Just stood there, hands at his sides, spine straight despite the weight of the day hanging on his shoulders.

And something in Hopper shifted.

He gave Eddie one last look—tight, considering—and then nodded. Not just in agreement. In recognition.

“I’ll go give him a ring now,” Hopper said, already turning toward the cabin. “She’ll be back soon, I assume?”

Eddie nodded once, sharp and sure.

Hopper returned it with a single, curt dip of his chin before heading up the path, boots crunching over the pine litter. No more questions. Just the sound of quiet resolve moving toward the nearest comms line and the long-shot hope of a delay.

Chapter Text

The mid-afternoon sun hung low and heavy, turning the air behind Hopper’s cabin into a shimmer of heat and sound. From the far side of the yard came the steady pop-pop-pop of rifle fire—measured bursts that cut through the quiet like a metronome for chaos. Lucas’s voice carried over the range, sharp with instruction, while Eden’s barked countdowns chased every volley like punctuation.

The tent compound loomed at the edge of the yard, familiar now in its bulk and purpose, its seams tugging in the breeze like it was holding its breath.

Outside, just beyond the shadow of the compound, Eddie stood with a hand shielding his eyes, staring up at the roof where Susie was perched, legs braced, cable spool at her hip, adjusting the compact antenna she and Dustin had dubbed Cerebro 2.0. The metal rig jutted skyward like a rogue science fair project on steroids, all antenna forks and knotted wiring, with Susie cinching it in place using rope, elbow grease, and an unapologetic overuse of duct tape.

A sudden clink broke the rhythm. A pair of pliers slipped from her hand, skittered down the shingles, and hit the dirt beside Eddie with a muffled thud.

He crouched, picked them up, and looked up just in time to see Susie pivot toward the ladder, preparing to climb down.

“Hey, hold up,” he called, dusting off the grip. “I got it. Stay there—I’ll bring ’em up.”

She hesitated for half a beat, then nodded and settled back onto the ridge.

Eddie tucked the tool into his back pocket and started climbing, the ladder creaking under his boots as he ascended into the sun’s glare. At the top, Susie waited cross-legged, the breeze tugging at her curls, a pair of wire strippers dangling from one wrist.

He reached the roofline and handed her the pliers.

She took them with a small, tired nod. “Thanks, Eddie.” Her voice was thin, distant, like it had been stretched out too far and frayed in the middle.

Eddie lingered a second longer after handing over the pliers, watching as Susie gave the wires a final tug. Then, trying to shift the mood—even a little—he gestured up toward the towering antenna. “So,” he said, lifting his eyebrows, “this looks pretty cool. What is it?”

Susie didn’t look up right away. Her hands were still moving automatically, tightening a strip of tape that didn’t really need tightening. “It’s called Cerebro,” she said. “It’s a long-range radio antenna. Experimental build. Well—sort of. It’s based on schematics I pulled from a couple different patents… and a ham radio zine from 1981.”

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Ursula said it’d be helpful.”

At that, Susie paused. Really paused. Then turned just slightly toward him. Her eyes were hidden behind her safety glasses, but her mouth tightened, and something in her posture pulled inward. “She did?” she asked. “Is… is she okay? Is she over there?”

“No,” Eddie said. His voice was gentle but hollow around the edges. “There’s been a development.”

Susie turned and moved carefully to sit down along the roof’s ridge line, legs swung out on either side like she was perching on a balance beam. Eddie followed and eased down beside her, boots scraping against the shingles.

She pulled her knees in a little and rested her hands on the tops of her thighs. “What kind of development?” she asked. Her tone was level, but the quiet weight beneath it said she already knew it wasn’t good.

Eddie leaned forward a bit, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the tree line beyond the roof. “Both portals have patrols,” he said quietly. “Those cat things.”

Susie’s brow furrowed. “You mean chitterfangs.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Her mouth twisted in confusion. “So… can she not get through? There can’t be more than eight or nine, right? That’s what the field notes said.”

Eddie shook his head slowly. “There’s at least twenty at the Benson portal,” he said. “Maybe double that at Forest Gate.”

Susie blinked. Her mouth opened just slightly, and for a second, she didn’t speak. Then: “But… that means…”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Vecna’s been playing possum. And now he’s deployed his own perimeter around the portals.”

Susie stared down at the shingles beneath her shoes, like they might offer an alternate explanation. When none came, she exhaled—tight and sharp.

“Shit,” she whispered.

She didn’t even notice she’d said it. And that—more than anything—was how Eddie knew just how shaken she really was.

Susie’s eyes flicked up from the roofline, her voice quieter now, more clinical than panicked—like she was running probabilities in her head and not liking any of the outcomes. “What about the thermite? Did he find that?”

Eddie shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. Ursula says her little portals don’t ping him when she’s dropping the charges. Seems like the patrols are just there because the main portals were sealed off. That’s all they know.”

Susie’s shoulders sank as she sat back a little on the roof ridge. “So what… she’s just going to keep bleeding for these payload drops again? Because, Eddie, she’s not gonna make it if she keeps this up.”

“I know,” he said, jaw tightening. “Hopper’s inside now trying to call Agent Stinson and that doctor guy—”

“Owens,” Susie cut in, flat.

“Yeah. I don’t know why I can’t ever remember that guy’s name.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “He’s trying to buy us more time. If Ursula had been given the window she originally asked for, she wouldn’t have to keep taking it to the edge like this.”

Susie looked down, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I hate this, Eddie.”

Eddie’s voice was soft. “I hate it too.”

Susie glanced down at the tangle of cables beside her, then back up at Eddie with something softer in her eyes. “Wanna take a break and help with this? It’s quiet up here. Away from the chaos.”

She reached out and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder—firm, warm, motherly in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with understanding.

“You look like you need it,” she added.

Eddie nodded, the motion small and heavy. “Yeah. That sounds good. My head’s… not in a good place.”

“I know,” Susie said quietly. “We heard the whole thing. I’m sorry my daughter was so mean. I… I didn’t expect that. I’ve never…” She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Eddie said, cutting in gently. “I deserved it. I shouldn’t hav—”

“No, Eddie,” Susie interrupted, voice firm. “Don’t say it. You acted exactly the way someone should when they watch someone they love start to crash and burn.”

Eddie’s eyes dropped to the shingles, and when he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “I wish she saw it like that.”

“She would if the roles were reversed,” Susie said gently, watching him from the corner of her eye.

Eddie exhaled, the sigh dragging out of his chest like it weighed too much. “You’re probably right. I just… I think I screwed up. I’ve never seen her that angry.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “And I’ve seen her angry.”

Susie nodded slowly. “She said some pretty mean things,” she admitted. “But I think she’s scared. Really scared.”

“I know she is.” Eddie rubbed his hands over his face, like trying to scrub the fear off. “I’m scared too. I’ve never been more scared in my life.” He dropped his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just want to keep her safe. And I don’t think she’s ever going to let me. What kind of man does that make me?”

Susie didn’t hesitate. “The kind of man who’s going to stand beside her anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. Not awkward—just the kind of quiet that settled between two people who knew there wasn’t anything else to say that hadn’t already been felt. The wind tugged gently at the cables, the antenna casting a sharp shadow across the roof’s slope.

Then Susie stood, brushed the dust off her knees, and offered Eddie a screwdriver with a small, steady hand.

“Let’s get to work,” she said.

Down below, in the doorway of the comms tent, Dustin stood with one shoulder propped against the frame, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He watched the two of them—his partner and his daughter’s partner—side by side on the roof, hands moving in slow, quiet tandem. Two of the most important people in his world, and they were both fraying at the edges.

He didn’t know how to fix them.

Hell, he didn’t even know how to fix himself.

All he could do was watch and hope that whatever was being said up there—whatever was holding them together, even for now—might be enough to keep them from breaking all the way.

When Ursula pulled back into base camp, the afternoon sun was a blade behind the treeline—sharp, gold, and low. The cabin came into view first, solid and quiet, its silhouette cut clean against the sky. Then her eyes tracked upward.

There it was—mounted clean and mean on the cabin roof, Cerebro 2.0. The compact antenna gleamed against the shingles, cables stretching from its base like veins down the siding and into the open window of the comms tent across the yard.

She killed the engine, stepped out, and didn’t even bother closing the truck door behind her. Her boots hit the gravel hard as she made a straight line for the cabin.

Inside, the air was thick with quiet. Steve was still passed out on the couch, and Joyce was next to him now, dabbing his forehead with a damp rag, murmuring something low and rhythmic.

Across the room, Hopper stood beside the wall-mounted phone. He didn’t turn as she walked in—just slammed the receiver into the cradle with a force that made it bounce.

Joyce looked over, her voice hopeful, tired. “Still nothing?”

The front door creaked shut behind Ursula. She didn’t answer yet. Just stepped inside, jaw tight, eyes already moving to Hopper for the rest.

Hopper didn’t look up right away. His hand still hovered near the phone like he might strangle it. “Nothing. I got through to some secretary who said she couldn’t disclose Dr. Owens’ location, and that Ellen was out in the field. But she’d pass on the message to call.”

Ursula stepped further in. “They said Ellen was out in the field?”

Hopper gave a curt nod, jaw ticking.

She didn’t snap or shout or break, but Hopper could see it plain as day—the tension drawn tight beneath her skin, the way her fists clenched at her sides. And right there in the center of her forehead, a big vein had started to throb like it was trying to punch its way out.

Controlled. Barely. Like the lid on a boiling pot.

Hopper crossed the room without a word and set both hands on her shoulders—steady, firm, familiar. The kind of touch meant to ground, not steer.

Ursula looked up at him, and in that moment, all the bark and iron fell away. The general was gone. What stared back at him now wasn’t a leader or a strategist—it was just a scared kid who’d run out of road.

And Hopper didn’t care how bad things had gotten. Didn’t care about orders, or protocols, or how close to collapse everything might be. Because right now, she didn’t need a second-in-command. She needed a grown-up. Someone to hold the weight for a minute. Someone who’d been there. And Hopper—old softie that he was—had a little experience holding daughters who carried too much.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low, even. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, well,” Ursula muttered, her voice thin and cracked, “I feel like shit.” She looked down at her hands, limp in front of her, like they’d forgotten how to do anything but tremble. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now, Pop.”

Hopper didn’t miss a beat. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

“Ate?” she blinked, the question hitting her like a wrong note in the middle of a funeral march. “What the fu—”

Joyce’s voice came in gentle but firm, crossing the room as she left Steve’s side. “Ursula, you’re running yourself into the ground. You’ve gotta take a breath, sweetie. We’re counting on you.”

And that—that—was the smartest thing she could’ve said.

She didn’t tell Ursula to stop. Didn’t urge caution or command rest. Joyce didn’t undermine her urgency or downplay the stakes. She just reminded her—soft and clear—that she mattered. That she wasn’t just the one making the plan; she was part of the plan. Still needed. Still loved. Still here.

Hopper saw it land, saw the subtle shift in Ursula’s shoulders, like a single thread had been pulled loose from the weight wrapped around her. He clocked it immediately—and his chest swelled with something warm and old and stupidly tender.

Joyce always had that kind of smart. The kind that snuck in sideways and stitched people back together without ever saying the words. And it had always made Hopper crazy about her.

Ursula turned, eyes glassy now, voice fraying at the edges. “Gramma Joyce, what am I supposed to do?” Her throat bobbed. “Everything just went from fucked to double fucked.”

Joyce didn’t flinch. She just stepped closer, her voice soft and sure. “Just take a minute and breathe. It will help, sweet girl. I promise.”

The words hit like a gut-punch wrapped in a lullaby.

Sweet girl.

Ursula dropped into the nearest chair like her bones had gone soft. She folded over the table, forehead to forearms, arms drawn tight around herself. She didn’t sob loud. She just came apart—quiet, aching, into the crook of her own elbow.

Because Joyce had called her sweet girl.

And in her original timeline, that voice—her gramma’s voice—had gone silent two years ago.

Joyce rubbed slow, steady circles into her back, keeping a gentle rhythm. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just a grounding hand while Ursula wept like a kid who hadn’t cried in years.

Joyce glanced up at Hopper, her eyes catching his with a quiet urgency. Do something, they said—without a word, without a plea. Just a truth too heavy for her hands alone.

From the table, Ursula’s voice broke through in shuddering gasps, muffled by her arms but sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

“I think… I think we’re fu-huh-hucked,” she sobbed. “And I don’t know what to do ne-heh-hext. And I’m tired, and I want to punch and hug my boy—” her voice caught on the word, splintered and wrecked, “fr-reh-hend. But I fu-fucked that up. And I want my mom, my grown up mom, and I AM fucking hu-hu-hungry.”

The words tumbled out like stones she’d been carrying too long—awkward, raw, real. And in the silence that followed, they just hung there, heavy as gravity.

And with that, Hopper got to work.

The cabin’s kitchen wasn’t fancy, but the kids had stocked it like a sugar-fueled apocalypse bunker. Candy piled high in baskets, Hershey’s syrup stacked beside Reddi-wip cans, and enough boxes of frozen Eggos stuffed into the freezer to stage a waffle-based coup. The kind of haul only a squad of panicked teenagers with a generous black-ops budget could amass.

If there was ever a kid who’d earned a triple decker Eggo Extravaganza, it was this one.

So he didn’t hesitate. Just pulled open the freezer, grabbed three boxes at random, and started building a monstrosity worthy of the meltdown echoing in the other room.

While he worked, Joyce stayed crouched beside Ursula, still curled up at the table, arms tucked over her head like maybe she could fold small enough to hide from the end of the world. Joyce’s hand never left her back. She rubbed slow, grounding circles, whispering the soft magic of moms everywhere.

“We’ve got you… It’s gonna be okay… We love you…”

Not promises—just anchors. Something to hold on to while the storm burned overhead.

So by the time Hopper dropped the plate in front of her—stacked high with three layers of toasted Eggos drowned in Hershey’s syrup, scattered with M&Ms, Reese’s chunks, and a shameful avalanche of butterscotch chips—Ursula’s tears were drying, and her breath had finally stopped hitching.

“Here, kid,” Hopper said, voice gruff but not unkind. “I made you something to eat. You gotta stay fed.”

She lifted her head just enough to see it, eyes red and glassy, a streak of pink-tinted snot trailing from one nostril she didn’t even bother to wipe. And there it was. The triple decker Eggo extravaganza.

Not just food. Not even close.

This was a sacred meal. A ritual reserved for the girls Jim Hopper had chosen to love and protect like his own.

Sara. Eleven. And now, for the first time in this timeline—Ursula.

It wasn’t just sugar and carbs and processed comfort. It was proof. Proof that she hadn’t lost everything coming back to 1986. That some things—some people—were still worth the weight she carried.

She blinked hard, staring down at the syrup-soaked monstrosity. “Are you fucking serious?” she whispered, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

Hopper didn’t say anything at first. Just turned back to the counter, grabbed the can of whipped cream he’d snagged from the stash, and gave it a good shake. The sound cut through the soft quiet like a signal—comfort incoming.

Then he stepped up beside her, leaned in, and drowned the syrup-drenched waffle monstrosity in towering puffs of whipped cream. He didn’t stop until the whole top was lost under fluffy sugar.

That was it.

Ursula broke again.

She launched herself at him, arms flung around his middle like she was holding on for dear life. “Thank you—thank you, Pop—this means—this means everything—” she choked out, voice crumbling under the weight of it all.

Hopper caught her in a full-body wrap, held her like he’d been waiting years for her to ask. Solid. Unmoving. Like a father.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured into her hair. “I got you. Now eat up before all that candy melts the waffles to mush. It’s kinda gro—”

“Gross if you let it get cold,” she sniffed, glancing up at him through red-rimmed eyes.

Hopper gave a small nod.

And Ursula, still crying but lighter now, dug in like it was the first warm meal she’d ever been allowed to keep.

From her place on Ursula’s other side, Joyce watched with soft eyes, then looked over at Jim and gave him the look. The love look. The I-see-what-you-just-did-and-somehow-I-love-you-even-more-because-of-it look.

And Ursula ate. 

Chapter Text

The light inside Hellfire Comms had shifted again. Not the sun—though that too had crept lower, casting long spears of gold across the nylon seams of the compound walls—but the rotation. Mike and Dustin had peeled off toward the weapons range for a late afternoon training block, leaving the nerve center in new hands.

Now it was Lucas, Max, and Murray holding down the fort, the three of them scattered across folding chairs and laptop glow. The hum of power bricks and the low tick of fans filled the space between them, a kind of white noise orchestra backed by the faint, rhythmic pop of gunfire from the far edge of the yard.

Opposite the main comms array, a new addition had taken root. Propped against the inner tent wall on a table that barely qualified as one—just a few weather-worn boards scavenged from the collapsed shed out back, balanced across milk crates like the world’s most apologetic altar—sat a Heathkit HW-101 ham radio. 

It didn’t look like much, with its boxy faceplate and forest of dials, but the metal was clean, the band meter sharp, and the whole thing seemed to hum with barely-contained potential. Old tech, maybe. But not outdated. Not in the hands of who sat before it.

Susie was cross-legged in front of it, her notebook already open, a pencil tucked behind one ear. Eddie sat beside her, hunched with elbows on knees, eyes scanning the dials like he was trying to read a new language. Which, to be fair, he kind of was.

She gestured up toward the ceiling with a little flick of her fingers. “The compact Cerebro unit’s already mounted and aligned on the roof. It’s acting as a local booster—it catches nearby signals and bounces them through the main relay tower Dustin built—”

“The big one Dustin built at Weathertop?” Eddie cut in.

Susie blinked. “I guess? I don’t know what Weathertop is though.”

“Highest point in Hawkins,” Eddie said, with a faint smile.

“Ah. That makes sense, yeah.” She nodded and tapped the notebook on her knee. “So, the big Cerebro at Weathertop is what gives us range across most of the country.”

Eddie let out a quiet, impressed breath. “And you and Dustin invented this at science camp?”

Susie nodded, just a little. “Pretty cool, huh?”

He nodded back, with more certainty than she’d expected. “It’s beyond cool. You two are a powerhouse.”

Susie smiled, warm and a little shy. “Thanks, Eddie.”

Susie adjusted her seat slightly, posture shifting into that familiar mode of hers—half tutor, half mad scientist with a chalkboard in her brain. She tapped the old Heathkit like it was a trusted friend.

“So this,” she said, “is the Heathkit. HW-101. It’s our main receiver now.”

Eddie leaned in, watching closely as she spun one of the dials slow and precise, like safe-cracking. “You want to sweep the band dial through the high twenty-sevens to low thirty megahertz range. Carefully—don’t skip too fast. If you go too quick, you’ll miss the weird ones.”

“Weird ones,” Eddie echoed.

Susie nodded, already twisting the dial again, eyes narrowing with focus. “We’re not listening for normal chatter. No one’s gonna say ‘we’re the bad guys, over.’ What we’re scanning for is way more subtle.”

She held up a hand and ticked off fingers as she spoke. “Military-style call signs—like ‘Sierra-Nine-Four’ or anything that sounds like a code name. Short encrypted bursts—those are usually quick static cracks that don’t sound like much. Patterned silence or static—like someone’s trying to hide signal traffic between blank noise. And then anything referencing movement, coordinates, or time-sensitive action. Think ‘transport inbound’ or ‘delta window confirmed.’ Stuff like that.”

Eddie sat back a little, absorbing it all. “Right,” he said, quiet. “Not words. Clues.”

“Exactly,” Susie said, shooting him a small grin before shifting gears back into focus. “Feds like to lurk on CB-adjacent channels—especially the ones that go dead after dark. They assume no one’s listening. But they don’t know about us.”

She flipped her notebook open to a clean page and started drawing three columns with quick, practiced lines.

“This is how we track,” she explained, labeling as she wrote. “Column one is Time plus Frequency. That’s your timestamp and which band it came through. Column two is What We Heard—word for word, or as close as you can get. Column three’s for Notes. That’s where you log guesses, weird patterns, vibes—anything.”

She passed him the notebook and nudged a freshly sharpened pencil his way.

“Don’t worry about spelling or grammar,” she added. “Just write fast and don’t assume something’s nothing. It’s only nothing until we match it twice.”

Eddie leaned in, eyes narrowing on the dials. “Okay, wait—so if we’re just scanning for patterns, how do we tell the difference between encrypted bursts and, like, just broken transmission?”

Susie blinked, impressed. That wasn’t a newbie question.

“You usually can’t at first,” she said. “But if the burst repeats with precise timing or sits inside a dead zone channel, that’s a red flag.”

Eddie nodded slowly, processing. “And what about those silence gaps you mentioned? You mean like rhythmic ones? Like if it’s pulsing, someone’s probably timing it?”

Susie hesitated, caught a little off guard. He wasn’t just listening—he was tracking. “Exactly,” she said, turning a little to study him. “That’s… actually really good.”

He shrugged, but his smirk was humble. “Just trying not to suck at this.”

Susie returned her gaze to the dial, though her thoughts lingered. How the hell has this guy been stuck in high school for seven years?

She showed him how to turn the dial slow—slower than he thought made sense at first. “The sneaky stuff doesn’t sit on top of the signal,” she explained. “It hides in the dead space. Right between the noise.”

Eddie nodded, carefully adjusting the dial just a hair at a time as the static hissed and popped softly through the speaker.

They passed a burst of trucker chatter, a gospel sermon bleeding in from somewhere west, and an eerie patch of nothing but clean silence.

Then—

“Wait,” Eddie said, hand lifting. “How do I go back.”

Susie’s fingers snapped to the dial without hesitation.

Susie spun the dial back with practiced fingers, landing just in time to catch the tail end of a message already halfway through its loop.

“…zero Zulu. Blacksite to receive.”

She inhaled sharply, eyes going wide. “Blacksite… Eddie,” she breathed, “I think you did it.”

He leaned closer, breath caught somewhere in his throat—and then the transmission kicked in again, clear and clipped, riding a wave of static.

“All handlers confirm phase pull-forward. Target zone AT-MU active. P-Nine assets en route. Sentinel Six manifest. Arrival window two-one-zero-zero Zulu. Blacksite to receive.”

Eddie’s pencil scraped hard across the page as he scribbled into the logbook, trying to get every word down before it disappeared again.

And then—nothing. Just white noise.

Across the tent, Murray lifted his head like a bloodhound catching scent. He stood, cracked his knuckles, and tilted his head toward Max and Lucas. “Go get Dustin,” he said, eyes already narrowing in focus. “Tell him to get his ass back on comms.”

He grinned. “Time to crack a cipher.”

Dustin returned with a kind of kinetic urgency, ushering in Robyn and Eden behind him like he was presenting the cavalry. Robyn already had her sleeves rolled up and a pen behind her ear, and Eden—of course—was cradling a thick, dog-eared volume of Cold War-era cipher manuals like it was a bedtime story she never got tired of.

“You rang?” Robyn said, eyeing the scribbled logbook like it was a challenge.

“We got a live one,” Murray said, already sliding over to make room.

The table turned into a hive of activity. Papers shuffled. Dials got adjusted. Eden spread open her codebook like a blackjack dealer laying down a kill hand.

They got to work fast—heads close, voices low. Paper scratched. Dials clicked. Fingers traced across Susie’s notes like they were divining runes.

“All handlers confirm phase pull-forward,” Robyn read aloud.

“Could be a schedule shift,” Murray said. “That’s ops-speak. Pull-forward means escalation. Something’s been moved up.”

“Okay, okay, what about this one—‘AT-MU’?” Eden asked, leaning in. “Could it be some kind of equipment tag? Like ‘Anti-Tank Munitions’ or something?”

Susie tapped the frequency band with her pencil. “‘Target zone AT-MU’… maybe it’s a call sign? Or a base designation?”

“Or even a codename for a site,” Eden said. “But it’s not in any of the open-source lists I’ve got.”

“‘P-Nine assets’,” Eddie muttered, scribbling it into the margin. “What the hell’s P-Nine? Some kind of drone unit? Or maybe a platoon?”

“Could be personnel,” Murray said. “Or project code. Government loves projects with vague alphanumeric tags. The less people understand, the more they fund it.”

Murray narrowed his eyes, scanning the phrase again. “‘Target zone AT-MU’… Wait.” He sat up straighter. “That’s not a standard callsign. That’s a compound. ‘AT’ for Atterbury. ‘MU’ for Muscatatuck. Camp Atterbury-Muscatatuck. That has to be it.”

Susie looked up. “You sure?”

“It makes sense,” Murray said, already flipping pages in one of Eden’s books. “It’s the closest base to us. And it’s remote enough to host something off-books.”

Eden, still scribbling notes beside Susie, tapped her pencil against the pad. “‘P-Nine assets’… It’s gotta be Project Nina. I was at the bunker—it fits. The name, phonetically… everything. It tracks.”

Everyone nodded, the pieces beginning to click.

“Two-one-zero-zero Zulu’s an easy one,” Susie said, already scribbling. “That’s 21:00 Zulu. We’re minus four… so five o’clock our time.”

Robyn blinked. “Susie, you’re a genius.”

Eden didn’t look up from her notes. “That’s less than two hours from now.”

A beat of silence passed as they all looked at one another. This wasn’t just bad. This was worse.

Eddie leaned in, eyes sharp. “‘Blacksite to receive’… That confirms it. They’re not going somewhere—they’re arriving. At a blacksite. And it’s gotta be Camp Atterbury-Muscatatuck.”

He was already halfway to his feet. “We gotta tell Ursula.”

Dustin didn’t wait—he was already lifting the walkie off the table. “I got it.”

He keyed the mic. “Thunderbird, this is DustBuster, over.”

There was a short crackle of static, then Ursula’s voice came through, half-muffled around a mouthful of something chewy. “What’s up, Dad?”

Dustin kept it clipped and urgent. “We need you out at the comms tent. Like, now.”

“10-4,” she replied. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

True to her word, less than a minute later the tent flap rustled and Ursula stepped in, brushing crumbs from her fingers, eyes sweeping across the cluster gathered around the Heathkit. She saw the tension instantly.

“What is it?” She asked. She looked like she had been crying. 

Susie didn’t waste a second. “We just intercepted a radio message. Eddie did, actually.” Her voice was tight. “Pretty sure we just lost our advantage.”

Ursula’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

Eddie stepped forward, notebook in hand. He didn’t speak—just flipped it open to the transcribed message and held it out. She took it without looking at him.

Didn’t even glance his way.

Susie saw it happen. Saw the way Eddie’s jaw tensed, how his nostrils flared as he blinked hard against the shine in his eyes. But he said nothing.

Ursula’s eyes scanned the page.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

Eden stepped in, calm and steady. “We think we decoded it.”

Ursula didn’t look up. “Okay. What do we got here?”

She read straight from the notebook, her voice low and clipped: “All handlers confirm phase pull-forward. Target zone AT-MU active. P-Nine assets en route. Sentinel Six manifest. Arrival window two-one-zero-zero Zulu. Blacksite to receive.”

Eden jumped in, steady and sure. “Phase pull-forward has got to be them moving the timeline up.”

Robyn followed. “Target zone AT-MU has got to be Camp Atterbury-Muscatatuck. It’s the closest base—so that one was easy.”

Ursula swore under her breath. “Okay, fuck. But good job. What else? P-Nine assets?”

Susie lifted her head slightly. “It could be Project Nina. And two-one-zero-zero Zulu is five o’clock our time.”

Murray added, “The only thing we couldn’t figure out was ‘Sentinel Six manifest.’”

Ursula finally looked up, eyes sharp. “Oh, I know that one. Sentinel Six—that’s Lieutenant Colonel Jack Sullivan’s call name.”

Eden’s expression darkened. “The guy who told the snipers to take out El?”

Ursula nodded. Not angry. Just focused. Which was strange. Because by all accounts she should’ve been spiraling. This was it—they’d officially run out of time. But instead of panic, she started to pace. One step, then another, boots quiet on the canvas floor. Eyes distant. Calculating.

Plotting.

And that was when everyone knew: this might not be the worst possible news after all.

Eddie clocked it immediately.

As nervous as he was, as gut-punched and exhausted and cracked down the middle as he’d felt for the past two days, watching her pace like that lit something up in him. Because he’d seen this before—this switch that flipped in her when the walls started closing in. It never came with panic. It came with fire. And brilliance. And that slow, sharp kind of resolve that always meant someone was about to get outplayed.

“You cookin’ up a plan, Urs?” he asked, voice soft but steady.

Ursula stopped pacing. Looked at him. Really looked at him. And she didn’t smile, didn’t speak, didn’t lay the plan out piece by piece like she usually would.

She just nodded.

And that was enough. She didn’t have to say anything. 

The general was back.