#beepfics

The beach stretched endlessly alongside them, a ribbon of dark stone pebbles and pale sand beneath the foggy, clouded sky that looked exactly like San Francisco's on a moody autumn afternoon. The resemblance was uncanny, deliberate, even. The Eridians had studied Earth's climates with meticulous care when designing the biodome, analyzing weather patterns and atmospheric conditions until they'd recreated the exact quality of light that filtered through the Bay Area's famous fog.

Even after years of living here on Erid, Bee still couldn't get over how beautiful it was. How much thought and detail the Eridians had put into every aspect of the biodome created for her and Ryland to feel at home. The temperature regulation, the moisture content in the air, even the particular shade of gray in the clouds, all of it carefully calibrated to match the climate data they'd gathered from Earth.

The ocean rolled lazily against the shoreline, waves glittering beneath the diffused light that managed to break through the cloud cover. Each wave caught the light differently, creating shifting patterns of silver and shadow across the water's surface. The air was cool enough to be comfortable, that perfect temperature where you needed a light jacket but didn't feel cold, where the breeze felt refreshing rather than biting. The kind of weather Bee had always loved back in California.

Though, predictably, Ryland had spent the entire walk complaining about it.

Bee smiled to herself as she listened to her husband and Rocky walking several feet ahead of her, their voices carrying back on the wind. She'd buried her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans, feeling the cool air prickle against her exposed forearms. The sand beneath her worn converse sneakers was a mixture of textures, smooth in some places, coarse with pebbles in others. Each step made a soft crunching sound that was oddly satisfying.

"Yesterday the water was boiling," Ryland was saying, shoving his hands into the pockets of his signature fox cardigan, the rust-colored one with the little embroidered fox on the chest that he wore all the time on Earth, and now Erid too. "Now it's freezing. Is there a middle ground?"

His tone was dripping with sarcasm, which Rocky and Adrian still didn't quite understand the concept of, but Rocky knew by now that this was just Ryland and his particular sense of humor. The way humans said things they didn't literally mean in order to express frustration or amusement or both simultaneously.

Rocky chirped quizzically, his carapace tilting slightly to the side in that particular gesture of confusion that Bee had learned to recognize. When he spoke, his voice came through the translator with its characteristic musical quality.

"How water freezing when water remain liquid, Question?"

"You know what I mean." Ryland rolled his eyes, and even from behind him Bee could see the way his shoulders moved with the gesture. He was pretending to be annoyed, but the little tilt in his smile gave him away. That tiny upward quirk at the corner of his mouth that meant he was actually enjoying himself.

"I do not," Rocky chimed in, his tone perfectly sincere.

"It was cold."

"Yesterday, Grace say water too hot."

"Because it was."

"Today water too cold."

"Yep."

Rocky paused mid-step, his carapace tilting in that particular way that meant he was processing something, running calculations or cross-referencing data or whatever it was that Rocky's brilliant mind did when confronted with human inconsistency.

"Is there temperature that does not cause human complaint, Question?"

Ryland sighed dramatically, throwing his head back like he was appealing to the cloudy sky itself for patience.

"No."

"Interesting," Rocky noted, though didn't quite understand how to fix the situation. 

"It really isn't."

"It is."

They walked in silence for approximately thirty seconds, Bee counted, amused at listening to both Rocky and Ryland bicker. She thought after all these years she would get used to it, she never did but it always did amuse her. Ryland spoke again, breaking the small amount of silence because he always had to fill the silence wirh something. She could practically see him building up to the next complaint, the way he did when he was on a roll.

"The wind is also terrible today."

"Wind speed identical to yesterday," Rocky replied immediately, probably because he'd actually measured it with some instrument built into his suit.

"Yesterday the wind was fine."

"Yesterday you complain wind too strong."

"That was different wind."

Rocky stopped walking entirely, his whole body going still in that way that meant he was genuinely baffled.

"How wind different, Question?"

"It just was."

"Wind is wind."

"Not all wind is created equal, Rocky."

"All wind created by atmospheric pressure differential."

Ryland threw his hands up in exasperation, his cardigan sleeves flapping slightly with the motion.

"You're impossible."

"I am possible. I standing here, Statement."

Bee had to bite her lip hard to keep from laughing out loud. She caught Ryland glancing back at her with an expression that clearly said 'are you hearing this?' His eyebrows were raised, his mouth slightly open in mock disbelief. She gave him her most innocent smile while she shrugged her shoulders, the universal gesture of 'don't look at me, you started this.'Even though the wind hadn't actually changed, Rocky was right about that, it somehow felt colder today than it did yesterday. Maybe it was the dampness in the air, or the way the breeze came in from a slightly different direction, carrying the salt-spray scent of the ocean more directly.

"Also," Ryland continued, apparently not done with his litany of complaints, "the sand is too soft here."

"Sand composition unchanged from previous walk."

"It feels different."

"Human perception unreliable."

"My perception is fine, thank you very much."

"Evidence suggest otherwise."

Ryland stopped walking and turned to face Rocky fully, gesturing at the beach around them.

"Okay, but yesterday the sand was firmer. Today it's all—" he stomped his foot slightly, demonstrating, "—squishy."

"Moisture content may vary based on tide schedule."

"See? So it IS different!"

"Sand still sand."

"But wetter sand!"

"Wet sand still sand. Same silicon dioxide composition."

Ryland made a frustrated noise and turned to continue walking.

"You're being deliberately obtuse."

"I being accurate."

"Same thing!"

"Not same thing."

Bee snorted quietly, unable to hold it in anymore. The sound made Ryland glance back again, and this time she couldn't hide her grin. He pointed at her accusingly.

"You're not helping."

She held up her hands in surrender, still smiling.

Some things never changed.

The fate of two planets had rested on their shoulders once. They were tasked with going to Tau Ceti E to figure out why the Astrophage wasn't diming that sun, that's when they met Rocky, who helped come up with plans for the mission. And now, here they were on Erid, living a new life away from Earth, but together. 

Now Ryland and Rocky spent most of their time arguing about weather patterns and sand consistency and whether clouds looked different on Tuesdays.

Bee wouldn't have it any other way.

Behind them, Adrian walked beside Bee at a leisurely pace, occasionally making soft clicking sounds that Bee had learned meant contentment. It was a different sound than Rocky's clicks, softer, more melodic, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Adrian's carapace caught the diffused light in interesting ways, the natural patterns on their shell creating subtle shifts of color as they moved.

Unlike Rocky, Adrian's interests had never revolved around engineering or science. They enjoyed creation for creation's sake. Specifically sculpture, architecture, music, and the Eridian version of decorative carvings. Bee had watched Adrian carve carefully into a piece of zeonite that Rocky had synthesized for them, and she'd been fascinated by the process, the way Adrian's claws moved with such precision, the way they seemed to see the finished piece inside the raw material before they even began.

The first time Bee had visited Rocky and Adrian's home, her eyes had lit up like a little kid's eyes on Christmas morning. She'd actually gasped when she walked through the entrance, her hand flying to her mouth.

Every wall had been covered in intricate carvings, geometric patterns that flowed seamlessly into organic shapes, abstract representations of Eridian history, tiny detailed scenes of daily life all interconnected like a massive visual story that wrapped around the entire dwelling. There were depictions of the ocean, of the stars, of Eridians gathering in groups, of the moment of first contact with humans. The level of detail was staggering. You could spend hours looking at a single wall and still discover new elements you'd missed before.

Beautiful things made simply because someone wanted them to exist.

It reminded her of Earth.

It reminded her of home.

And right now, walking beside Adrian while her husband argued about meteorology with a literal alien scientist, Bee felt that familiar warmth of belonging spreading through her chest. Different planet, different sky, but the same comfortable absurdity of people she loved. The same gentle teasing, the same easy companionship, the same sense that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Ahead, a cluster of Eridians were gathered near the edge of the shoreline, their carapaces forming a loose semicircle around something Bee couldn't quite see yet.

Several enormous zeonite blocks had been arranged in a semicircle, each one taller than either of them, probably eight or nine feet high, their surfaces still rough and unfinished. The zeonite had a strange black color, almost deep slate color in some lights, with veins of lighter material running through it like marble. Tools were scattered around the base of the stones, carving implements, measuring devices, what looked like some kind of polishing equipment.

Bee's attention immediately shifted, her art-history-professor instincts activating like a homing beacon. She could feel it happening, that familiar pull, that magnetic draw toward anything that even remotely resembled artistic creation.

"Oh."

She slowed to a stop, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. Her fingers twitched in her pockets, already itching to take notes, to document, to analyze.

Adrian noticed immediately, their carapace shifting to look at her.

"You interested, Question?"

Bee tilted her head, already cataloging details with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years studying art. The way the stones were positioned, not quite symmetrical, but deliberately arranged to create a sense of movement. The tools scattered nearby, different sizes, different purposes, suggesting multiple sculptors working on different aspects. The careful, deliberate movements of the sculptors themselves, the way they stepped back periodically to assess their work from different angles.

"What are they making?"

"Community sculpture."

Bee's eyes widened further, her pulse quickening.

"A public art project?"

"Yes. Represent historical event. Treaty of Seven Currents."

"That's—" Bee's brain was already spinning, making connections, drawing parallels to Earth's artistic traditions. "That's incredible. Collaborative public art, commemorative sculpture, community engagement—"

Immediately she was interested.

Interested was actually an understatement. Bee's pulse had quickened noticeably. Her fingers were already twitching like she wanted to take notes, to sketch, to document everything she was seeing. This was the kind of thing she would have spent an entire semester teaching back on Earth, public art as community expression, collaborative creation as social bonding, the intersection of history and artistic representation.

Ryland and Rocky continued walking ahead, now apparently debating whether clouds looked different on Tuesdays versus Thursdays, completely unaware that Bee had slowed to a complete stop several yards behind them.

Bee stepped closer, drawn like a moth to flame, her feet moving almost without conscious thought.

The sculpture wasn't finished yet, probably only about forty percent complete, if she had to guess, but she could already see the shape emerging from the stone. It was like watching something being born, the form slowly revealing itself as the sculptors carefully removed everything that wasn't part of the vision.

Flowing curves that suggested water, the way waves moved and curled.

Layered forms that built upon each other, creating depth and dimension.

An abstract representation of movement and unity, if she had to guess. Seven distinct elements that somehow formed a cohesive whole, probably representing the seven Eridian clans that had signed the treaty.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, and she meant it. The composition was already stunning even in its unfinished state.

Adrian's carapace shifted slightly with what Bee had learned was pride, a subtle change in posture, a particular angle of the head.

"You think so, Question?"

"Absolutely. The composition is stunning. And the way they're carving it, look at how they're working together, each one adding to the whole without overwhelming the other elements. It's like a visual conversation. Like they're all speaking the same language but with different dialects."

Adrian was quiet for a moment, watching Bee's face as she studied the sculpture. Bee was aware of being observed, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the emerging forms in the stone. The way the light hit the carved surfaces differently than the rough stone. The way you could see the individual tool marks, the evidence of hands, or claws, shaping the material.

Then Adrian chirped softly, a questioning sound.

"What Earth art like, Question?"

Bee froze.

The question hit every single part of her art-history-loving brain at once, like someone had just pressed every button on a control panel simultaneously.

It was like someone had just asked a sommelier to explain wine, or asked a musician to talk about their favorite song, or asked Ryland to explain microbiology. It was the kind of question that had no simple answer, that opened up into infinite branching paths of information and context and historical significance.

Adrian tilted their head, looking up at Bee as she froze, her eyes still not looking away from the various Eridians working hard to create the sculpture, their movements careful and deliberate.

"Question?"

Bee laughed, a slightly manic edge to it that she recognized as the sound she made when someone had just accidentally triggered a hyperfixation.

"That's... actually a really big question."

"I listening."

And that was all the encouragement she needed.

Bee took a breath, her hands already starting to gesture, pulling free from her pockets as if they had a mind of their own.

"Well, art on Earth goes back tens of thousands of years. Some of the earliest examples are cave paintings, people would paint animals and hunting scenes on cave walls using natural pigments. Ochre, charcoal, manganese oxide. They'd grind up rocks and minerals and mix them with animal fat or water to create paint."

Adrian immediately leaned forward, their whole body language shifting to indicate focused attention.

"Why?"

"Lots of theories. Some people think they were storytelling, like visual records of successful hunts. 'Hey, remember when we killed that mammoth? Let me paint it on this wall so we don't forget.' Some think they were spiritual or ritualistic, like asking the universe for good fortune before a hunt. Some think they were just... humans wanting to make marks, you know? To say 'I was here, I saw this, this mattered. I existed and I want to leave evidence of that existence.'"

Adrian made a thoughtful clicking noise, a sound Bee had learned meant they were processing something interesting.

"Interesting. Eridians also make marks in sacred caves."

"Really?" Bee's eyes lit up even more, practically glowing with excitement. "See, that's fascinating because it suggests a universal impulse toward, toward marking space as significant, toward using visual representation to communicate meaning across time. It's like—"

She caught herself, recognizing the familiar feeling of her thoughts spiraling outward into increasingly complex territory.

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Please continue," Adrian said, and their tone was genuinely encouraging.

And just like that, Bee was off.

"Okay, so then you have ancient Egypt. They made these incredible monuments and sculptures, pyramids, sphinxes, massive statues of pharaohs. Everything had symbolic meaning. The poses people stood in, the size of figures, even the colors they used. Like, if you were a pharaoh, you'd be depicted way bigger than everyone else. Not because you were actually giant, though imagine if they were, that would be terrifying, but because you were more important. Size equals significance."

One of the nearby Eridian sculptors had stopped working and was listening, their carving tool held motionless in their claw.

"Size indicate importance, Question?"

"Exactly! It's called hierarchical scale. It's like... okay, imagine if Rocky was drawn twice as tall as Ryland because Rocky is a better engineer."

"Rocky IS better engineer, Statement," Rocky chirped lowly from down the beach, just loud enough for his voice to carry back but quiet enough that Ryland wouldn't hear and start another argument.

Bee ignored him, staying focused on her explanation.

"The point is, it wasn't about realism. It wasn't about making things look exactly like they appeared in real life. It was about meaning. About communicating ideas and relationships and power structures through visual language."

Adrian's carapace rippled with what might have been understanding, a wave-like motion that traveled across their shell.

"Symbolic representation."

"Yes!" Bee was getting animated now, her hands moving more, gesturing to emphasize her points. "But then you've got Greece, and they went in a completely different direction. Like, completely opposite."

"What Greece?"

"Oh, a civilization from Earth. Ancient Greece. They were obsessed with anatomy and realism. They wanted sculptures to look exactly like people, every muscle, every tendon, perfect proportions. They studied the human body like it was a science project. They had these mathematical ratios for the ideal human form."

Adrian looked genuinely horrified, their carapace pulling back slightly.

"Exactly?"

Bee laughed at their reaction.

"Pretty close. They studied human bodies extensively. There's this concept called contrapposto where…Okay, imagine you're standing with all your weight on one leg."

She demonstrated, shifting her hip so her weight rested on her right leg, letting her left leg relax. Her whole body curved naturally with the shift.

"See how my body curves? One shoulder higher than the other? One hip jutting out? The Greeks figured out how to carve that into stone to make sculptures look alive and natural instead of stiff and rigid. Before that, most sculptures looked like they were standing at attention. But contrapposto makes them look like they're actually standing the way real people stand, with weight and balance and natural movement."

Two more Eridians had stopped working now, their attention drawn to the strange human explaining Earth art with increasingly animated gestures.

Adrian was completely focused, their eyes fixed on Bee.

"Why want look exactly like human. Question?"

"Because humans are weird and obsessed with ourselves?" Bee offered with a self-deprecating grin.

Adrian nodded seriously, as if this was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

"Acceptable explanation."

Bee grinned and kept going, her voice picking up speed as she warmed to her subject.

"So then you get to the Renaissance, that means 'rebirth' by the way, because they were trying to revive classical Greek and Roman ideals, and artists like Michelangelo are taking Greek realism and adding emotion and drama and religious significance. Michelangelo carved this sculpture called the Pietà, which is Mary holding Jesus after he died, and it's—"

She pressed her hand to her chest, right over her heart.

"—it's devastating. You can see the weight of grief in how she holds him. The fabric of her robes looks soft even though it's marble. He made stone look like fabric. Like, how do you even do that? How do you take something as hard and unyielding as marble and make it look like it would be soft to touch?"

Several minutes passed.

Bee had completely lost track of time, lost in the flow of information pouring out of her.

She was explaining Leonardo da Vinci now, talking about how he dissected corpses to understand anatomy better, actually cut open dead bodies to see how muscles and tendons connected, how bones fit together, which made several Eridians click with what might have been approval or horror. Bee wasn't entirely sure which, and she was too caught up in her explanation to stop and ask.

"And he invented sfumato, which is this technique where you blur the edges between colors so there's no harsh lines. It's like... okay, you know how when you look at something in fog, the edges get soft? Everything kind of blends together at the boundaries?"

Adrian nodded, probably thinking of the foggy sky above them right now.

"That's sfumato. It makes paintings look more realistic because that's how we actually see things. We don't see hard edges everywhere. Our vision is softer than that, more blended. The Mona Lisa uses it extensively, especially around her eyes and mouth, which is part of why her expression seems so mysterious."

"Mysterious how?"

"You can't tell if she's smiling or not! The soft edges make it ambiguous. Is she happy? Sad? Amused? Knowing? You can't quite tell, and that's intentional. Leonardo wanted that uncertainty."

"Why want ambiguous?"

"Because—" Bee gestured wildly, her hands cutting through the air. "—because art isn't always about answers! Sometimes it's about questions! Sometimes the point is to make you wonder, to make you think, to create space for interpretation!"

The crowd around her had grown to at least fifteen Eridians now. It kind of reminded her of her lectures back on Earth, many art majors crowded into a room, looking at projected images of paintings and sculptures while frantically taking notes as Bee talked animatedly, her voice echoing in the lecture hall.

Bee didn't notice the growing audience.

She was explaining perspective now, how Renaissance artists figured out mathematical systems to make flat paintings look three-dimensional, how they literally used geometry to trick the eye.

"It's all about vanishing points. Imagine you're standing on a long straight road. The sides of the road seem to get closer together the farther away they get, right? Even though the road is actually the same width the whole way. Artists figured out how to calculate that mathematically, how to use lines and angles to create the illusion of depth on a flat surface."

She grabbed a stick from the sand and started drawing, crouching down to sketch lines in the damp sand near the water's edge.

"See? All the lines converge here. This is the vanishing point. Everything in the painting follows these sight lines, so your brain interprets it as depth even though it's actually flat. It's literally a mathematical trick to hack human visual perception."

An Eridian sculptor clicked thoughtfully, leaning in to look at Bee's sand drawing.

"Trick brain, Question?"

"Exactly! It's an optical illusion based on how human vision works. Our brains are constantly interpreting visual information and making assumptions about depth and distance, and artists figured out how to exploit that."

"Clever."

"Right?" Bee was fully energized now, her voice getting louder, her gestures becoming more expansive. "And then Baroque artists took that and added drama and movement and intense lighting—"

She swept her arm dramatically, nearly hitting Adrian with the stick she was still holding.

"—like Caravaggio, who painted these intense religious scenes with stark shadows and bright highlights. It's called chiaroscuro, which literally means 'light-dark' in Italian. Everything is super dramatic. People are always in the middle of something intense happening. There's this painting called 'The Calling of Saint Matthew' where Jesus is pointing at Matthew, and there's this beam of light cutting through the darkness, and everyone's reacting with these huge dramatic gestures. It's like the visual equivalent of a dramatic movie scene with intense lighting."

At some point she had started pacing, walking back and forth in front of the sculpture.

At some point her hair had started falling out of its ponytail, loose strands whipping around her face in the wind.

At some point she had completely forgotten where Ryland was, forgotten that she'd been walking with anyone, forgotten everything except the flow of information and the attentive audience in front of her.

"And then you get Romanticism, which was all about emotion and nature and the sublime, that's the feeling of being overwhelmed by something vast and powerful. Like standing at the edge of a massive waterfall or in the middle of a storm. That feeling where you're awed and terrified at the same time."

She was gesturing with both hands now, the stick abandoned in the sand.

"Artists like Caspar David Friedrich painted these huge landscapes with tiny human figures to show how small we are compared to nature. It's about awe and terror and beauty all mixed together. There's this painting called 'Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog' where a man is standing on a mountain peak looking out over this sea of clouds, and he's so small compared to the vastness around him. It's about the human experience of confronting something bigger than yourself."

The crowd was at least twenty-five Eridians now, forming a loose semicircle around Bee.

Several were taking notes, with what, Bee wasn't exactly sure, but she was too caught up in her own rambling thoughts to ask. Some kind of recording device, probably, or maybe they were just memorizing everything. Did Eridians have eidetic memory? She should ask Rocky later.

"Then Impressionism!" Bee's voice had gone up half an octave, getting higher and faster as her excitement built. "Okay, so Impressionists were like 'what if we stopped trying to make everything look perfect and instead captured the impression of a moment?' They painted outside, quickly, with visible brushstrokes. You can see the individual marks of the brush. Claude Monet painted the same haystack like thirty times in different lighting conditions because he was obsessed with how light changes perception."

"Same haystack?" An Eridian asked, sounding genuinely baffled.

"Same haystack! Different times of day, different weather, different seasons. Because the light made it look completely different each time. Morning light versus afternoon light versus sunset. Sunny day versus cloudy day. Summer versus winter. It's not about the haystack, it's about the light! The haystack is just the excuse to study light!"

Adrian was utterly transfixed, their carapace completely still except for the slight movements that indicated breathing.

"And then Post-Impressionism, where artists like Van Gogh took Impressionism and made it even more emotional and expressive. Van Gogh painted with these thick, swirling brushstrokes, you can see the texture of the paint on the canvas. His paintings feel alive. They vibrate with energy. It's called impasto, when you apply paint so thickly that it has actual physical texture."

She was fully animated now, her whole body involved in the explanation, her hands tracing swirling patterns in the air.

"He painted sunflowers and starry nights and wheat fields, and everything feels intense and emotional because he wasn't just painting what he saw, he was painting what he felt. The world filtered through his emotional state. When he was manic, the paintings are bright and swirling and energetic. When he was depressed, they're darker and heavier."

-

Meanwhile...

Far ahead on the beach, Ryland had moved on to complaining about the angle of the sun, how it touched the water, casting the sky in a muted orange color. 

"It's too bright."

"Sun brightness unchanged," Rocky replied, probably because he'd measured it.

"It's in my eyes."

"Adjust position."

"I shouldn't have to adjust my position. The sun should adjust."

Rocky paused, his carapace tilting.

"That not how celestial mechanics work."

"Well it should be."

Rocky made a sound that might have been a sigh, a soft hiss of air, before he glanced back, noticing how Bee and Adrian were missing. 

"Where Bee, Question?"

Ryland frowned, looking around. He'd been so caught up in his complaints that he hadn't actually checked on his wife in... how long? Several minutes at least.

"She's right—"

He turned around, expecting to find Bee and Adrian a few yards behind them.

Instead, he found nothing. Empty beach. No Bee. No Adrian.

"—here?"

Rocky rotated slightly, his whole body turning to look back the way they'd come.

Both of them looked back down the beach.

Far behind them, much farther than Ryland had expected, Bee stood in front of a half-finished sculpture surrounded by Eridians. A crowd of them, actually. When had that happened?

She was waving her hands enthusiastically, her ponytail half-undone with strands of hair flying around her face, her voice carrying across the beach on the wind.

"—and then Van Gogh cut off part of his ear—"

Ryland blinked.

"Oh no."

Rocky chirped, tilting up at Ryland as he questioned what was happening.

"Bee making presentation, Question?"

"She's giving an art lecture." Ryland's voice was flat with recognition. He knew this pattern. He'd seen it before, many times where he would ask her some art related question, and hours later he still wouldn't get his answer and Bee was out of breath from talking so long.

Rocky paused, his carapace tilting as he observed the scene, probably running some kind of analysis.

"I count forty-three Eridians."

"What?"

"Audience. Forty-three individuals. Wait. Forty-four. Another approaching from north."

Ryland stared, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Sure enough, a small crowd had gathered around his wife. Some were sitting on the sand, their carapaces settled into comfortable positions. Several were taking notes with recording devices. One appeared to be sketching, actually drawing what Bee was describing, trying to visualize Earth art based on her explanations.

"How long has she been talking?"

Rocky checked something on his suit, probably accessing whatever internal chronometer he used.

"Forty-eight minutes, thirty-two seconds."

Ryland's voice went up, cracking slightly.

"You timed her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Scientific curiosity. Wanted measure duration of human hyperfocus state."

"Of course you did." Ryland pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of long-suffering patience. "Of course you're running experiments on my wife."

"Not experiment. Observation."

"That's the same thing!"

"It not. Experiment require controlled variables and hypothesis testing. This pure observation."

"Rocky—"

"Also taking notes on physical manifestations of hyperfocus. Hair dishevelment, increased gesture frequency, vocal pattern changes—"

Ryland started walking back quickly, his feet kicking up sand in the process.

Rocky followed behind, easily keeping pace as he was no longer in a ball like he was back on the Hail Mary with Ryland and Bee.

"How did we not notice she was gone for forty-eight minutes?"

"You complaining about sun."

"That doesn't—" Ryland gestured helplessly at the air. "We should have noticed! We should have realized she wasn't with us!"

"Bee very quiet normally. Easy to forget presence when not actively engaging."

"She's not quiet now!"

Indeed, as they got closer, Bee's voice became easier to hear. She'd moved on to the Arts and Crafts movement, her voice slightly hoarse but no less enthusiastic, no less energetic.

"—which eventually inspired the Arts and Crafts movement because many artists felt industrialization was removing the human element from creative work. William Morris believed craftsmanship had value beyond simple functionality, that beautiful things should be accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy! He wanted to democratize beauty!"

Ryland stopped beside her, slightly out of breath from the quick walk back.

She didn't even notice.

Her hair was definitely falling out of its ponytail now, the elastic barely holding on. She'd gestured so much that her jacket had slipped off one shoulder, hanging awkwardly. She looked slightly manic, her eyes bright and unfocused in that way that meant she was completely absorbed in her own thoughts.

Adrian immediately noticed Ryland's arrival, their carapace shifting to acknowledge him.

"Hello Ryland."

"Hi," Ryland said, slightly breathless.

Bee continued talking, completely oblivious to her husband's presence.

"—and Morris designed wallpapers and textiles with these intricate natural patterns. He wanted to bring beauty into everyday life. He said, 'Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful,' which I think is—"

"Bee."

Ryland spoke up, softly at first. She didn't respond, too caught up in her unprompted lecture.

"Bee."

He spoke a little more loudly, trying to get her attention... but that didn't work either. Ryland ran a hand through his slightly mussed blonde hair, sighing slightly in defeat. This was familiar territory. Once Bee got going on a topic she loved, it was like trying to stop a freight train.

"Bee."

She kept going, now explaining the philosophy behind handcrafted furniture, her hands tracing the shapes of imaginary chairs in the air.

Ryland looked at Adrian helplessly, his expression clearly asking 'how long has this been going on?'

Adrian seemed amused, their carapace moving with them as they did the familar gesture of excitement, similar to jazz hands. 

Rocky stepped forward and simply turned up the volume on his speaker to maximum.

"BEE."

The sound was loud enough to make several nearby Eridians startle.

Finally she turned towards him looked up, blinking like she'd just woken up from a deep sleep, her eyes taking a moment to focus.

"Oh!"

She smiled brightly, slightly breathless, her chest rising and falling from talking non-stop for nearly an hour.

"When did you get here?"

Ryland stared at her, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"You've been lecturing an entire crowd for almost an hour."

Bee looked around, her head turning slowly as if seeing her surroundings for the first time.

Only then did she realize dozens of Eridians had gathered around them. Some were sitting on the sand, their carapaces settled into comfortable positions. Others were perched on the stone blocks of the unfinished sculpture. All of them were watching her with rapt attention, their eyes fixed on her face.

"Oh."

She paused, glancing around her, and her eyes went wider as the full scope of the situation registered.

"Oh."

Her hand went to her hair, discovering the disaster of her ponytail, the elastic barely hanging on, strands everywhere, probably looking like she'd been in a windstorm.

"Oh no."

Rocky stepped forward, his carapace tilting in that particular way that meant he was about to say something he found very logical and everyone else would find very awkward.

"Question."

Bee immediately looked at him, still trying to fix her hair, attempting to gather the loose strands and re-do her ponytail, which was easier said than done in the wind.

"What?"

Rocky's tone remained completely serious, clinical even.

"Is this human mating behavior?"

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

Ryland blinked, his eyes widening slightly in shock at Rocky's sudden question. Ryland glanced over at Bee, whose eyes were also wide with shock, her hands frozen in her hair. Both of their faces were turning red from embarrassment, the color creeping up from their necks.

Several Eridians in the crowd clicked with interest, leaning forward slightly.

"What?" Bee's voice came out slightly strangled, higher than normal.

Rocky gestured toward her with one claw, his movement precise and deliberate.

"Bee displaying extensive knowledge in attempt impress mate. Classic mating display behavior observed in multiple Earth species. Peacock show feathers. Bower bird build elaborate nest. Human give lecture about dead artists."

Ryland made a sound like he was choking on air.

"ROCKY!"

"What?" Rocky's tone was genuinely confused.

"NO!"

Adrian tilted their head thoughtfully, considering Rocky's hypothesis.

"This not correct, Question?"

Bee's entire face turned red. Not just her cheeks, her whole face, up to her hairline, down her neck, probably down to her collarbones under her shirt.

"I wasn't trying to impress anybody!"

Her voice had gone up a full octave, nearly squeaking.

Rocky looked genuinely confused, his carapace tilting as he processed her denial.

"You talk for one hour, twelve minutes."

"That doesn't mean—"

"You become louder when Ryland arrive. Volume increased by approximately fifteen decibels."

"I did NOT—"

Bee made an absolutely horrified noise, somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze, her hands flying to cover her face.

Ryland was laughing so hard he had to bend over, hands on his knees, his shoulders shaking.

"Okay," he gasped between laughs, trying to catch his breath. "Maybe Rocky has a point."

"RYLAND!"

"You did get louder! And you definitely kept looking at me!"

"I was just…I was excited about the Arts and Crafts movement! You know I love that movement!"

Bee scrambled, trying to defend herself, her words tumbling over each other.

"Sure you were." Ryland couldn't help the small but amused smirk that began to form on his face at Bee's reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I WAS!"

Rocky seemed pleased with himself, his carapace settling into a satisfied position.

"Hypothesis confirmed. Human mating display successful. Mate appears amused and affectionate."

"It is NOT confirmed!" Bee's voice cracked slightly, breaking on the last word.

Ryland was still laughing, now wiping tears of amusement from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Rocky, buddy, I'm already married to her. She doesn't need to impress me with William Morris facts."

"Then why she do it?"

"Because she can't help herself!"

Bee covered her face with both hands, her voice muffled.

"I hate both of you."

"No you don't," Ryland said, still grinning, his voice warm with affection despite the teasing.

"I'm considering it!"

Adrian watched this entire exchange with what appeared to be fascination, their carapace shifting slightly as they observed the human interaction. Then they spoke, their voice thoughtful and perfectly innocent.

"Bee never explain artist named Van Gogh, Statement." Adrian interjected. 

Bee's hands slowly lowered from her face.

Ryland's laughter stopped abruptly, his smile fading.

"No."

Adrian continued, completely innocent, as if they had no idea what they were about to unleash.

"What happen after ear? You say he cut off ear, but then stop talking. Very unsatisfying ending."

Bee's eyes lit up, the embarrassment of the mating display accusation immediately forgotten.

The horror was replaced by the irresistible pull of an unfinished art history lecture, the need to complete the story, to provide context and closure.

"Oh! Well, Van Gogh was a Dutch Post-Impressionist painter who—"

Ryland pointed accusingly at Adrian, his finger jabbing the air.

"Don't encourage her."

He warned, glaring down at Adrian with mock severity.

"—struggled with mental illness his entire life—"

Adrian didn't stop Bee. Like Bee, Adrian was interested in knowledge of art, especially sculpture, and Adrian wanted to learn about art of Earth and what it was like. They settled in to listen, their carapace shifting into an attentive position.

"Adrian, I'm serious."

"—and the ear incident happened after an argument with Paul Gauguin—"

"She's going to talk for another hour!"

"—who was staying with him in Arles—"

Too late.

Bee had already turned back toward the sculpture, her hands gesturing again, her voice regaining its enthusiastic energy despite the hoarseness, despite having been talking for nearly an hour already.

"So Van Gogh and Gauguin were both Post-Impressionist painters, but they had very different styles and philosophies, and they were living together in this yellow house in southern France—"

Ryland sighed deeply, but he was smiling, his expression soft with affection.

Rocky clicked happily, a sound of satisfaction.

"Mating display continuing."

"Rocky, I swear—"

"Very persistent. Admirable trait in potential mate."

"We're already married!"

"Still admirable."

Adrian settled in to listen, their carapace shifting into a comfortable position.

The crowd of Eridians, which had started to disperse when Bee stopped talking, immediately gathered again, reforming their semicircle around her.

Bee was fully back in lecture mode now, explaining the complex relationship between Van Gogh and Gauguin, the artistic tensions, the personal conflicts, the famous yellow house, the ear incident, the aftermath, Van Gogh's time in the asylum at Saint-Rémy, the paintings he created there.

"—and even while he was in the asylum, he was painting these incredible works. The Starry Night, which is probably his most famous painting, was painted from his asylum window. Those swirling stars, that cypress tree reaching up like a flame—"

Her voice was definitely hoarse now, rough around the edges, but she didn't seem to notice or care. The words kept flowing, unstoppable.

Ryland sat down in the sand with a soft thump, accepting his fate.

Rocky sat beside him, his carapace settling into the sand.

"How long this time, Question?" Adrian asked, their tone genuinely curious.

Rocky checked his suit, running calculations.

"Estimating sixty to ninety minutes based on previous data and current speech patterns."

Ryland leaned back on his hands, looking up at the cloudy sky which was starting to dim as the sun began to dip below the horizon, the light taking on that particular quality of twlight.

"Might as well get comfortable."

And together they settled in for another hour, watching Bee gesture wildly while explaining the tragic beauty of Vincent van Gogh's final years, her voice carrying across the beach, her passion undimmed, her audience completely captivated.

Some things, Ryland thought with affection, would never change.

And honestly? He wouldn't want them to.

𝓜𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓽:

𝓞𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓼:

ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ

The Sun Will Rise and We Will Try Again - Twenty One Pilots and Stranger Things Crossover

-

ʀʏʟᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇ

The Persistence of Lecture

𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼:

Patient Zero: Hawkins, Indiana- Resident Evil and Stranger Things Crossover

The first thing Bee noticed about Hawkins again was the quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet people romanticized when they talked about small towns. Not the comforting quiet of late summer evenings or slow Sunday mornings.

This quiet felt… heavier.

Like the town had learned how to hold its breath.

The sign appeared just as the sun began to dip low enough to stain the sky orange.

“Welcome to Hawkins, Indiana. A Great Place to Call Home.”

Population: 30,412.

She knew that number wasn’t right.

Half the town had left after the Starcourt “fire” in the summer of 1986. 

Bee hadn’t seen the sign in nearly seven years. She graduated high school in 84, got an art scholarship in Chicago and hadn’t returned to her hometown ever since then. 

The paint had been redone since she left, it was cleaner, brighter now, but the words still felt strangely hollow. Like the town was desperately still trying to cover up its dark past and trying too hard to look like a normal town. She slowed the car slightly as she passed it, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

The road beyond the sign stretched ahead in the same familiar way she remembered, two quiet lanes cutting through endless farmland, telephone poles marching into the distance, trees beginning to darken with the coming evening.

Indiana hadn’t changed, but she had.

The engine of her old Honda hummed softly beneath her along with whatever pop song was playing on the radio that she was too lazy to change because the music provided some entertainment as the town slowly came into view. Small houses, water towers, the distant outline of downtown Hawkins rising from the trees.

Bee let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “You can do this.”

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. That was the promise she’d made to herself when she packed up her Chicago apartment three days ago. She was just staying in Hawkins for a while, just until Mom wasn’t so lonely.

Dustin leaving for college had hit their mother harder than Bee expected. The house had always been loud growing up with Dustin’s endless talking, the sound of science experiments going wrong in the basement, their mom yelling about burnt waffles or unfinished homework, but after Dustin graduated high school in 89 valedictorian and he was accepted into Oglethorpe University in Brookhaven, Georgia, the house had been quiet, silent for the first time in 25 years. 

Bee had left too, before the fire or the earthquake, only she hadn’t been running from Hawkins. She’d been running toward something else.

Chicago had seemed enormous when she first arrived for college. Tall buildings, trains rattling overhead, crowded sidewalks where no one noticed if you kept your head down and minded your own business. It was definitely different from Hawkins, Indiana, which was all she had known before. Hawkins, Indiana where everyone knew your mother’s maiden name or your weekend schedule. 

For someone like Bee, Chicago had been perfect. She could keep to herself, not having to worry about her neighbors coming in unexpectedly at the worst times. Most people in Chicago were too busy worrying about their own lives to be invested in someone else's. 

She’d always been quiet, even when she was a kid. 

Where Dustin moved through the world like a storm of enthusiasm, Bee had always been the opposite. Careful. Observant. The kind of person who listened more than she spoke. Teachers used to say she was thoughtful. Her mother used to say she was shy.

Bee had never really minded.

High school had been easier that way. While Dustin built entire friend groups out of sheer personality and nerdy activities such as D&D, Bee kept her circle small. Very small.

There had only really been one person in it, Robin Buckley. 

Bee smiled faintly as she turned onto a familiar stretch of road. Back in high school, Robin had been the loud one in their friendship, the one who talked fast, joked faster, and filled every silence Bee left behind. Somehow it had worked. Bee grounded Robin when she spiraled into anxious tangents, which were often, and Robin pulled Bee out of her shell just enough to keep the world from passing her by.

They’d spent long afternoons studying together, trading music recommendations, whispering sarcastic commentary about teachers during class.

Robin had once described their friendship as “the human version of a balanced chemical equation.”

Bee still wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but years later, she missed talking so easily with her best friend. She wondered if Robin still was in Hawkins, or if her and her mother moved away after everything that happened. She had a feeling her mom would know. 

The car rolled past the edge of downtown Hawkins, and Bee noticed something else had changed.

There were more people.

More cars parked along the street. Storefronts that had once been empty now displayed fresh paint and new signs. A diner she vaguely remembered being boarded up was open again, the windows glowing warmly in the afternoon light.

Hawkins looked… alive. That was new.

A lot had changed since she’d left after graduation.

The biggest difference had come three years ago in 1990, when a massive new pharmaceutical company had opened a research facility just outside town. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. Bee had seen their logo plastered on billboards along the highway during the drive in.

Apparently they’d brought jobs, and new people.

And apparently they’d brought Hawkins back from the edge of becoming a ghost town.

Bee wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Her car turned onto Maple Street almost automatically, muscle memory guiding her through the neighborhood she’d grown up in.

The houses looked smaller than she remembered.

That was the strange thing about coming home as an adult, places that once felt enormous shrank into something manageable, familiar in a way that made your chest ache a little.

Her mother’s house came into view at the end of the block.

Same pale yellow siding. Same crooked mailbox Dustin had accidentally backed his bike into when he was ten.

Bee pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. For a moment, she didn’t move, reminiscing in the silence of her car. 

Chicago suddenly felt very far away.

Her apartment there had been small but comfortable. A fourth-floor walk-up with a view of the street below and a coffee shop on the corner. She’d liked her job, liked the quiet independence of living in a city where no one knew her history.

Leaving it behind had felt… strange, but every time she’d called home over the past year, something in her mother’s voice had been different. She wasn’t sad, in fact she insisted that she was proud both of her kids found their way in life, but she was… quieter.

Ever since Dustin had left for college, the house had gotten too big for one person.

Her mother had insisted everything was fine, of course.

“I’m not lonely, honey.”

“You focus on your life.”

But Bee knew better.

Their mother wasn’t as young as she used to be. Simple things such as yard work, errands, keeping the house in order had started becoming harder.

And Dustin wouldn’t be able to help until summer when he was home for longer than a week.

So Bee had made the decision that felt inevitable the moment the thought appeared in her head.

She’d packed up her apartment in Chicago, quit her job, and moved back to Hawkins for the time being, until she knew her mother would be okay on her own or until she could find someone to help out around the house.

The driver’s door creaked open as she stepped out into the cool March air. The scent of damp earth and early spring drifted through the neighborhood. The air was fresher than Chicago, probably because of the agriculture industry that gave Hawkins most of its money. 

Bee grabbed a box from the trunk of her car before walking toward the front door. The porch boards creaked under her weight in the exact same way they always had.

Some things never changed.

She raised her hand to knock and the door swung open before she could.

Her mother stood there, eyes wide for half a second before softening with relief.

“Bee?”

Bee set the box down immediately.

“Hi, Mom.”

The next thing she knew, her mother’s arms were around her in a tight hug.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were busy with your new job.” her mother asked quietly, not daring to let go of her daughter. 

“I was worried about you, mom. I know things haven’t been the same since Dusty left for college.” She responded, pulling back slightly to look down at her mother who had shrunk over the years. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” her mother said quickly, even as she held on. “I told you I was fine—”

“I know, but I want to.” Bee replied gently.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, enjoying the comfortable silence settling between the two of them. 

Then her mother smiled.

“Well,” she said, wiping quickly at the corner of one eye. “You picked a good time to come back. Dustin and his friends will all be home next week for spring break.”

Bee laughed softly.

“Already?”

“College kids,” her mother said with a shrug. “They get more vacations than anyone.”

Bee carried the box inside, setting it down in her old bedroom, down the hallway as familiar surroundings wrapped around her like a memory. Glancing around, the house looked exactly the same as she remembered it when she was 18, leaving to start her new life. The house might be considered ‘dated’ now, but it still had that same cozy feeling she got whenever she was young. 

Spring break. That meant Dustin would be back soon, which also meant his friends would be back too. It had been a while since Bee saw his friends, she remembered when they were 11, all sweet and innocent and cared more about D&D rather than relationships. 

Bee’s mind drifted briefly through half-forgotten faces from high school hallways, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Billy Hargrove, Barb..And Steve Harrington.

Bee frowned slightly at the thought.

They’d technically shared a few classes once or twice, but that was about it. Steve had existed in an entirely different world back then. The popular and loud one. Back in the day, he was known as “The King of Hawkins High”.

Bee had always kept her distance from people like that, she preferred it that way. She didn’t want to have to change herself just to fit in with superficial people who cared more about the clothes you wore than the contents of your brain. 

She wondered if he was still the same. She shook those thoughts away, leaving to go back out to her car to get the rest of her things she tightly packed into her car. 

Outside, the wind rustled softly through the trees lining the street.

Hawkins looked peaceful, normal even .

By the time Bee finished unpacking the last of her boxes, the sun had already dipped low behind the trees. The sky outside her bedroom window had turned the muted lavender color that always came just before nightfall in early spring. Hawkins evenings still arrived the same way she remembered, slow and quiet, the air cooling quickly as the day slipped away. There were less stars than she remembered when she was a kid, probably from the growing light pollution from the new businesses in Hawkins. 

Bee stepped back from the dresser and stretched, rolling her shoulders as the faint ache of the long day settled into her muscles. Moving was exhausting even under the best circumstances, and she’d driven nearly four hours from Chicago before hauling half her belongings up the front porch steps.

Her old bedroom looked… different.

Not dramatically so. Her mother had kept most of it the same over the years. The same pale green walls, same bookshelf against the far corner, same desk beneath the window where Bee used to spend hours doing homework or sketching absentmindedly in her beat up sketchbook.

But it felt smaller now, or maybe she’d just gotten used to living somewhere that didn’t carry so many memories in every corner.

She sat briefly on the edge of the bed, letting the quiet settle around her. From somewhere downstairs she could hear the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of the kitchen radio her mother always left on while cooking.

The smell reached her a moment later. Garlic, tomatoes, it was something warm and familiar and made her smile faintly.

Her mother must’ve started dinner while Bee was unpacking.

She pushed herself up and headed toward the door, stepping into the hallway just as the house lights flickered on below.

The staircase creaked in the same places it always had. Bee found herself stepping around the third stair from the bottom automatically, muscle memory from years of sneaking downstairs late at night when she and Dustin were kids.

The kitchen looked exactly the same.

Same yellow curtains above the sink, same worn wooden table in the center of the room, same refrigerator door covered in old magnets and faded photos Dustin had insisted on putting there over the years.

Bee paused when she noticed something new, though.

A photograph pinned near the corner of the fridge.Dustin, standing between Lucas Sinclar and Will Byers, all three of them wearing college sweatshirts and grinning at the camera.

She walked closer, studying it.

Dustin looked older, of course. His hair was still curly and unkempt, but shorter now, his face less round than it had been when he left for college. But the same bright, unmistakable enthusiasm still seemed to radiate from the picture.

Bee felt a small tug of affection in her chest. Her little brother had always filled every room he walked into.

“Dinner’s ready,” her mother called from the stove.

Bee turned. Her mother was placing two plates on the table, steam rising from a large bowl of pasta between them.

“Spaghetti?” Bee asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her mother laughed softly. “I figured after moving all day you deserved something better than sandwiches.”

Bee pulled out a chair and sat down, grateful for the warmth of the kitchen.

For a while, neither of them spoke much. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, it rarely was between them. Bee had always been content with peaceful silence, and her mother had learned long ago that conversations didn’t always need to fill every second.

Bee twirled pasta around her fork before finally glancing up.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat slightly, “how’s Dustin been?”

Her mother smiled immediately.

“Oh, busy. Always busy. You know how he is.”

Bee huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That hasn’t changed.”

“He calls at least once a week,” her mother continued. “Sometimes more if he’s excited about something. Classes, his friends, some science project he’s working on…”

Bee couldn’t help the corners of her mouth tilting up slightly at the mention of ‘science project’, though Dustin was about to be 21, he hadn’t changed much from that scrawny teenager she remembered. She could practically hear Dustin’s voice in her head already, talking too fast, jumping from topic to topic without stopping for breath.

“He and the others are coming home next week for spring break,” her mother added.

“Right,” Bee said. “You mentioned that earlier.”

“They’re all doing well, from what I hear. Lucas is still at school out in California, Max transferred somewhere closer after last year… Jonathan’s in New York with Nancy, I think.”

Bee nodded slowly as she listened.

It had been a long time since she’d seen most of Dustin’s friends. Back when they were younger they used to fill the house constantly, bikes scattered across the lawn, loud conversations drifting through open windows during summer afternoons in the basement, conversations about what spell was the best, the usual.

The house had felt much louder back then.

Bee took another bite before something else crossed her mind.

“Have you heard from Robin lately?”

Her mother looked up from her plate.

“Robin Buckley?”

Bee nodded.

“She’s finishing her master’s degree,” her mother said. “English degree, I believe. At Smith College.”

Bee blinked in mild surprise.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. She visited a few months ago, actually. Stopped by to say hello.”

Bee felt a small warmth at the thought. Robin had always been the ambitious one between the two of them, full of ideas, always chasing the next thing that interested her.

“Is she staying out there after she finishes?” Bee asked.

“I’m not sure,” her mother admitted. “She mentioned maybe teaching eventually.”

Bee smiled to herself. That sounded exactly like Robin.

The conversation drifted again for a moment, the quiet punctuated only by the clink of silverware against plates. Then her mother spoke again.

“Oh…and you might run into Steve Harrington while you’re back.”

Bee paused mid-bite, her eyes glancing up briefly from her pasta.

“Steve?”

Her mother nodded casually. “Yes. He stayed in Hawkins.”

Bee leaned back slightly in her chair. That… she hadn’t expected.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“He teaches at the high school now,” her mother said. “Health class, I believe. And he coaches middle school baseball.”

Bee blinked. For a moment she couldn’t quite picture it.

Steve Harrington. The same Steve Harrington who had once walked through the halls of Hawkins High like he owned them. The one with the perfect hair, the expensive car, the crowd of friends constantly orbiting him like planets.

A teacher? A baseball coach?

“That’s… surprising,” Bee admitted.

Her mother chuckled softly.

“People grow up, Bee.”

Bee looked down at her plate again, twirling her fork absentmindedly. Yeah right, people may change but do people like Steve Harrington change? 

In her mind, Steve Harrington still looked exactly the way he had in high school, leaning against lockers without a care in the world, laughing loudly with his friends with his stupidly perfect hair. 

She wondered if he’d changed at all.

The Henderson house was louder than usual.

Not in the way most houses got loud, no television blaring in the background, no music drifting through the walls, but in a more specific, uneven rhythm. The kind of noise that came from Dustin working on something he was way too excited about.

Tools clinked together in sharp bursts. Something on his desk buzzed intermittently, rising and falling like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Every so often, there was a frustrated mutter.

“No, no, no—that’s not right—”

Then, was followed by the scrape of metal, the click of adjustment, the soft hum of something being tested again.

It filled the house in waves. Quiet. Rhythmic. Oddly calming in a way.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The three soft knocks interrupted the quietness of the house. Dustin’s head snapped up immediately, curls bouncing slightly with the motion. For a second, he just stood there, like his brain had to catch up with the interruption. Then recognition hit, and his entire expression lit up.

“Steve!”

He dropped the screwdriver onto his desk without a second thought and practically bolted out of his room, his footsteps thudding loudly down the hallway as he rushed toward the front door.

He yanked it open.

And there he was.

Steve Harrington, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just been standing there waiting, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket, the other lifting slightly in a half-wave.

“Hey.”

The familiar scent of burnt sugar hit him the second the door opened.

Steve barely reacted to it anymore. It had become part of the Henderson house in his mind, similar to the clutter or the noise. Claudia Henderson always seemed to be baking something in her free time, usually while reading, somehow managing both at once without setting the place on fire.

“Okay,” Dustin said immediately, grabbing Steve by the sleeve and pulling him inside before he could even finish stepping through the doorway. “But you have to promise not to touch anything unless I say so.”

Steve barely had time to shut the door behind him before Dustin was already halfway down the hallway again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve muttered, dragging a hand through his hair as he followed at a much slower pace. “What is it this time? Another…what was it, radio tower thing?”

“It’s not a radio tower, that was last summer.” Dustin called back, offended on instinct. “It’s an electromagnetic frequency amplifier. And no, this is different.”

“That’s exactly what you said last time.”

Dustin ignored him completely, pushing his bedroom door open with unnecessary force.

Steve stepped inside, and stopped, blinking slightly in surprise as he looked at Dustin's room, or what little left of it there was.

“…Jesus.”

The room looked like a science lab had exploded and then been very loosely put back together by someone who believed in chaos more than organization. Wires stretched across the desk in tangled clusters, looping around half-assembled devices that looked like they could either revolutionize something or electrocute someone. Notebooks were stacked in uneven piles, pages sticking out at odd angles, filled with tight, messy handwriting and diagrams that meant absolutely nothing to him.

Steve stepped carefully over something that looked like it might spark if he breathed wrong near it.

“You sure this is safe?” he asked, eyeing a blinking light with suspicion.

“Yes,” Dustin said immediately, far too confident for a fourteen-year-old.

Then, without missing a beat.

“…Probably.”

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“You’re gonna blow up your house one of these days.”

“No, I’m not,” Dustin shot back, already digging through a drawer, metal clinking against metal. “I’ve calculated everything.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Dustin straightened, holding up what looked like a mess of wires wrapped around a small circuit board, his eyes bright with excitement.

“Okay, so, this is the core component. If I can stabilize the output, it should—”

Steve watched him for a second, sitting down on a small patch of carpet that wasn't covered by scrap metal or wires.

“…Remind me again why I’m here?”

Dustin didn’t even look up. “Because you volunteered.”

“I absolutely did not volunteer.”

“You did,” Dustin insisted, twisting something with a screwdriver. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’ve got nothing better to do.’”

“That’s not volunteering,” Steve said flatly. “That’s boredom.”

“Same thing.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

“…What is that?” he asked instead, nodding toward the thing in Dustin’s hands.

“It’s a prototype.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It detects fluctuations in electromagnetic fields,” Dustin said, like that should be obvious.

Steve blinked.

“…So it’s a box.”

“It’s not a box, it’s a device.”

“Looks like a box.”

Dustin rolled his eyes so hard it was almost impressive. “You’re unbelievable.”

Steve smirked faintly, but his attention had already started to drift.

Not because he didn’t care. Just…because he knew how this went.

When Dustin got like this, it was easier to let him run with it. Ask too many questions, and you’d get a twenty-minute explanation that somehow raised more questions than it answered, or even worse, Dustin would just glare, offended that you didn't know what he was talking about.

So instead, Steve let his gaze wander.

The glanced around the room, taking in the posters, the mess of dirty clothes stacked high on his bed, and the scattered pieces of Dustin’s life.

It felt…real.

Messy, lived-in, like people actually existed here.

Nothing like his house. His house always felt cold, almost similar to a museum, that feeling only increased more when his parents were out of town on some business trip.

That’s when he noticed the photo.

It sat on the dresser, slightly angled like it had been moved recently and not quite put back right.

Steve pushed off the doorframe without thinking, stepping closer.

Dustin kept talking behind him, something about voltage, something about calibration, but it faded into the background.

The photo was older.

Dustin stood in the middle, younger, gap-toothed grin wide and unselfconscious. Claudia stood beside him, smiling warmly.

And on the other side…

Her.

They were at Disneyland, he could tell from the oversized mouse ears all three of them wore. Dustin looked like he was vibrating with excitement. Claudia looked amused.

The girl looked…different. Almost Quieter.

She stood just slightly off-center, shoulders drawn in just a little, like she wasn’t entirely comfortable being the focus. But she was smiling, soft, a little shy, and holding up a small peace sign like she wasn’t sure what else to do with her hands.

Her hair caught the light in the photo, her red hair shifting into copper under the Californian light.

Steve frowned slightly.

“…Huh.”

Behind him, Dustin finally noticed the silence.

“What?”

Steve didn’t look away. “Who’s this?”

“Who—” Dustin glanced up, following Steve’s line of sight.

“Oh. That’s Bee.”

Steve blinked.

“…Bee?”

“My sister,” Dustin said, already turning back to his project.

Steve stared at the photo for a second longer. Nodding slightly in acknowledgment before the fact hit him. His best friend, the person he thought he knew everything about had a sister? And he never told him?!

“…You have a sister?”

Dustin paused, looking up at him like that was the weird part. “Yes, Steve. I have a sister.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked back at the photo.

“I’ve just…never seen her before.”

“Yeah, well,” Dustin said, adjusting something on his device, “that’s because she left for Chicago.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Chicago?”

“For college. She graduated a couple years ago.”

Steve nodded slowly, his eyes still looking down at the photo in his hands.

There was something about her that felt familiar. Not enough to place, just enough to linger and let him question, racking his brain to figure out why she seemed familiar.

“…I feel like I’ve seen her before,” Steve muttered, more to himself than to Dustin, his eyes still fixed on the photo.

Dustin snorted from across the room, the sound quick and dismissive. “Probably. She went to Hawkins High.”

“Yeah, but—” Steve hesitated, squinting slightly like if he looked hard enough, the answer might just come to him. “I feel like I’d remember.”

Dustin finally glanced up from his project, one eyebrow lifting. “You don’t remember everyone, Steve.”

“I remember most people,” Steve shot back automatically, though there was less confidence behind it than usual.

Dustin’s grin crept in, slow and knowing. “That’s because you only paid attention to people in your…like, five-foot social radius.”

Steve dragged his gaze away from the photo just long enough to shoot him a look. “That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true,” Dustin said, turning slightly in his chair so he could face him more fully. “You know, popular people, party people, anyone who showed up to whatever thing you were going to that weekend.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue again, something instinctive rising up, and then he stopped.

Because there wasn’t really a good argument.

“…Okay, that’s—” he started, then exhaled softly through his nose, shaking his head. “That’s a little exaggerated.”

“It’s not,” Dustin said easily. “Bee didn’t hang out with your crowd.”

That…made sense.

Steve’s attention drifted back to the photo, his thumb tapping lightly against the edge of the frame, slower this time.

“She just…looks familiar,” he repeated, quieter now.

Dustin shrugged. “She kept to herself mostly. Had her own group of friends. Not the whole—” he gestured vaguely, waving his hand in a loose circle, like he couldn’t even begin to summarize it.

Steve huffed faintly. “Popularity contest?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, unapologetic.

Steve let out a quiet breath, something thoughtful settling in as he studied the picture again, the way she stood just slightly apart, like she was there but not trying to be seen.

“…She doesn’t look like she’d like me,” he said, half-joking, though there was something more honest buried under it.

Dustin didn’t hesitate. He let out a short laugh. “Oh, she didn’t.”

Steve blinked, thrown off by how fast that came. “Wow. Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Dustin went on, pushing off the desk now, clearly entertained by this. “She used to complain about you all the time.”

Steve turned fully this time, eyebrows lifting. “Excuse me?”

Dustin grinned wider. “Too loud, too cocky, always talking about your hair or whatever party was going on.”

Steve let out a short, incredulous laugh, already gearing up to argue. Ready to tell Dustin that it wasn't true, and then stopped.

Because…yeah. That sounded about right.

The words hung there for a second longer than either of them expected.

“…Alright,” Steve admitted finally, quieter, the edge of humor softening into something more self-aware. “Fair.”

Dustin folded his arms, rocking back slightly on his heels. “She thought you didn’t take anything seriously.”

That one landed differently.

The room seemed to shift around it, the air settling heavier than before. The buzzing of Dustin’s machine filled the silence, low and steady, like it was the only thing keeping the moment from going completely still.

Steve looked back at the photo.

At her.

At the version of himself reflected in someone else’s perspective.

“…She wasn’t wrong,” he said.

There was no joke in it this time. No deflection, just quiet honesty.

Dustin blinked, caught off guard by the tone, like he hadn’t expected Steve to agree so easily, or at all.

Steve’s thumb moved absently along the edge of the frame, tracing the worn corner like he hadn’t quite realized he was doing it. His expression shifted, something quieter settling in where there’d been easy humor just a moment before.

It was strange.

He knew, knew, who he’d been back in high school. Loud, arrogant, too focused on things that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t exactly news to him. But hearing it like that…he didn’t know. It landed differently.

Not from someone who hated him.

Not from some guy he’d shoved in the hallway or someone who already had a reason to see the worst in him.

But from someone who’d just…watched.

From the outside.

Seen him clearly, without ever really being part of it, and decided that was enough.

That he wasn’t worth getting to know.

Steve exhaled quietly through his nose, his grip on the frame loosening as that thought settled in a little deeper than he expected.

He couldn’t even blame her.

If anything, it made sense.

Back then, he probably would’ve overlooked her completely, or worse, said something careless, something stupid, just to get a laugh out of someone else. The kind of thing he wouldn’t have thought twice about at the time.

The kind of thing that stuck with people anyway.

His jaw tightened slightly at that before he carefully set the frame back in its place, adjusting it without really thinking so it sat a little straighter than before.

He stepped back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, a quiet breath leaving him.

“Well,” he said, tone light like he could brush it off, even if something softer lingered underneath, “guess I’ll have to work on my reputation.”

Dustin snorted immediately. “Good luck with that.”

Steve huffed out a small laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling into that familiar, crooked smile, easy, automatic, the kind he’d worn for years.

But it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

Because as he turned away, his gaze drifted back to the photo.

Just for a second, long enough for something to settle there.

There was a time when the people of Hawkins believed the worst was behind them. Many people believed Hawkins was cursed ever since the Starcourt mall “burned down” in that unusually hot summer in 1985, but others believed it all began in November of 1983, when Will Byers went missing. It shook the town to its core, and maybe it was never the same since then. 

Years had passed since the gruesome murders, since the ground cracked open, splitting the town into 4 in spring of 1986 with ash flooding the air they breathed in. Years later the military settled into Hawkins and forced the citizens to live with constant military surveillance because of the weird “earthquake” they called it, but only a few individuals knew what was really happening. Even after that strange spring break, the ground remained scarred, black veins splitting roads and fields like something rotten beneath the surface had tried to claw its way out. Government trucks came and went. Officials spoke in calm, rehearsed voices to keep the people of Hawkins, Indiana calm. Eventually, in 1987, the gates sealed, the strange storms stopped, and the darkness that had once swallowed Hawkins disappeared.

At least, that was what people were told.

For a long time the town never truly recovered. Houses stood empty along Mulberry Street. Storefront windows on Main Street gathered dust. Families packed their lives into trucks and drove as far away as they could, determined to put as much distance between themselves and Hawkins, Indiana as possible.

For years, the town remained a ghost of what it had once been. Stores that once were filled with the latest clothing or tools are now collecting dust and untouched except for the occasional high schoolers who would trash the place with their aluminium beer cans and whatever cheap alcohol they could get their hands on. Though a few individuals stayed, a lot of the “normal” people decided it wasn’t worth risking their lives to live in a small town that was believed to be safe. 

But towns have a way of reinventing themselves.

By the early 1990s, the cracks in the earth had been paved over, the ruined buildings demolished or quietly rebuilt. The government presence slowly faded until only whispers remained. New families began arriving, drawn by cheap property and quiet neighborhoods. Hawkins once again looked like what it had always tried to be before the events that snowballed everything in 1983, an ordinary Midwestern town tucked between forests and farmland.

The thing that truly brought Hawkins back to life, however, arrived on the outskirts of town.

A new corporation, a pharmaceutical company. They called themselves Umbrella.

The announcement came with promises such as jobs, investment, progress. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals would build a research and manufacturing facility just outside Hawkins, bringing economic opportunity back to a struggling community. Local papers praised the decision. Politicians shook hands with smiling executives in pressed suits. Construction crews worked day and night for nearly a year until a sleek white complex rose from the woods like something transplanted from a much larger city.

To the people moving into Hawkins, Umbrella was a miracle. A symbol that the town had finally escaped its strange past.

Most of the new people who moved didn’t know what had happened in 1986, and even if they did, most of them didn’t want to mention it. 

And Umbrella preferred it that way.

Behind polished glass and carefully guarded gates, the corporation was not interested in medicine the way it claimed to be. Their research stretched far beyond vaccines or treatments. Beneath the facility, hidden behind layers of security and silence, scientists worked on something far more ambitious.

They called it the Wesker Project, created by Oswell E. Spencer who was a scientist working under Umbrella.The project was named after the first director of the project, Dr. Wesker. 

The official goal, written in classified reports few people would ever see, was simple enough. The virus was meant to be the foundation of a new kind of weapon, one that could eliminate the need for a large conventional army. A force that required no training, no payment, and no loyalty. It would create a “superior” human race. 

If perfected, it would change the balance of power across the world. It would also generate enormous profits for Umbrella’s deeper ambitions.

The virus was meant to remain contained, controlled, studied within reinforced laboratories and sealed testing chambers.

But viruses rarely cared about the intentions of the people who created them.

The first mistake was small. A cracked containment vial, then a filtration system that failed for less than two minutes. A technician who noticed something wrong…but noticed too late.

At first no one outside the facility realized anything had happened.

Umbrella handled the situation quietly, isolating laboratories and sending contaminated materials down disposal systems designed to erase evidence. Wastewater treatment units processed what remained, sending harmless-looking runoff into underground channels far from the main building.

From there, the water flowed into Hawkins.

Through aging sewer pipes that ran beneath quiet neighborhoods, into reservoirs and drainage tunnels built decades earlier.

The virus spread slowly at first…So slowly that no one noticed.

Small animals in the forest began to behave strangely. Deer wandered into roads in the middle of the night, eyes clouded and bodies trembling. Stray dogs became aggressive without warning. Hunters reported finding carcasses deep in the woods that looked… wrong. Rotting, but still warm. As if the decay had forgotten how to finish its work.

Most people blamed disease, or the chemicals factories sometimes leaked into rivers.

Hawkins had always been surrounded by woods. Strange things occasionally happened in the woods, that’s where it began.

The town moved on.

Children rode bikes through quiet streets again. Families returned to the local diner on Friday nights. New houses appeared along the outskirts where empty lots once sat untouched.

To outsiders, Hawkins looked peaceful. A normal, small mid western town where the most exciting thing was when a new stop light was installed .

But beneath the streets, something moved through the dark tunnels of the sewer system. Something alive.

The virus crept through water lines and drainage pipes, spreading deeper into the town with every passing week. It seeped into the soil, into the forest floor, into the places no one ever thought to check. It began to flow into the drinking water in ordinary Hawkin’s homes

Umbrella monitored the situation carefully from within their facility.

They told themselves the outbreak was contained, believing they still had control.

But Hawkins had already proven once before that control was an illusion, even Umbrella couldn’t deny that this town had a history of hiding things beneath its surface.

And whatever had once lived beyond the cracks in reality was not the only nightmare capable of finding its way into Hawkins, Indiana.

Not anymore.

The basement smelled exactly the same.

A mix of old carpet, dust, and whatever snacks had been abandoned down there sometime in 1989 after graduation, when everything had shifted and everyone had slowly started drifting in different directions for college. It never really changed. Karen and Ted Wheeler rarely came down here anymore, only when Holly had friends over or when dinner was ready, their voices echoing halfway down the stairs before disappearing again.

The same mismatched chairs still circled the small fold-out table, worn and uneven from years of use. The same old posters clung stubbornly to the walls, their corners curling with age. Even the faint hum of the house above, the TV, the pipes, the quiet rhythm of normal life, filtered through the ceiling just like it always had.

Even years later, some things didn’t change.

And somehow… neither had they.

Mike Wheeler stood at the head of the table, hands planted firmly against the wood, his Dungeon Master screen propped up in front of him like a shield. His hair was longer now, curls falling more naturally around his face, and there was a steadiness to him that hadn’t been there before, but the intensity in his eyes was exactly the same.

“Alright,” he said, already halfway into control mode as Dustin and Lucas talked over each other. “Can you guys please just—just sit down so we can start?”

“I am sitting down,” Dustin shot back immediately, dropping into his chair with a dramatic thud. His metal dice clattered loudly against the table as he set them down like they were sacred objects. “You’re the one taking ten years to explain the rules.”

“They haven’t played in months!” Mike gestured wildly toward Max and El, his voice rising. “I have to recap!”

Max leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that familiar, unimpressed way. “Pretty sure hitting things with a weapon still works the same.”

Lucas snorted beside her, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “She’s got a point.”

There was an ease between them now, something steady and lived-in, the kind of comfort that didn’t come naturally, it had been built, piece by piece, over years of things no one their age should have had to survive. Back in middle school, they had been kids playing D&D in this very basement, arguing over dice rolls and character sheets, completely unaware that monsters existed beyond imagination.

Somewhere between all of that, between the fear, the loss, the near misses, and the nights they didn’t think they’d make it out, they grew up. The sharp edges between them wore down, replaced by something quieter, something unspoken but solid. What they had now wasn’t just friendship. It was trust, forged in the kind of chaos that either breaks people apart…or binds them together for good.

Mike opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, then stopped himself, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Okay. Fine,” he muttered. “But when you all die because you didn’t listen to the setup, that’s on you.”

“El doesn’t die,” Dustin muttered under his breath, not even trying to hide it.

El, sitting beside Max, tilted her head slightly, dark eyes curious.

“I don’t?”

Dustin grinned at her. “Not in this campaign.”

Max smirked faintly at that, nudging El’s arm. “See? You’re the favorite.”

El didn’t quite get the joke, but she smiled anyway.

Will, who had been quietly organizing his binder, carefully flipping between his character sheet, spell list, and pages filled with sketches from campaigns they’d played years ago, glanced up.

He’d always been quieter, more observant. But here, in this room, with all of them together again… there was something softer in his expression. Something at ease.

“Can we just start?” he asked gently.

That, more than anything, worked.

Mike straightened immediately, slipping fully into his role. His posture shifted, his voice dropping into something more controlled, more deliberate, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, which he had.

“You’re driving,” he began, his tone lowering as the room slowly settled. “Late at night. Middle of nowhere. The road is empty. No other cars for miles.”

Dustin leaned forward instantly, hooked.

“What kind of car?”

Mike didn’t miss a beat. “A piece of crap. Barely holding together.”

“Rude,” Lucas muttered.

Max smirked. “Accurate.”

A few quiet laughs passed around the table before Mike continued.

“Once you’re close enough, you see a sign,” he said. “Worn down. Flickering slightly in your headlights.”

He paused just long enough to build it.

“Welcome to Raccoon City.”

The group went quiet, not completely, but enough that the shift was noticeable. A mix of excitement and something just slightly uneasy.

“You’ve been on the road for hours,” Mike continued, “when you finally see it, a gas station. Lights flickering. Open sign barely hanging on.”

Will’s pencil paused mid-note.

“Does it look…normal?” he asked.

Mike tilted his head slightly.

“…No,” he said. “Not really.”

That was all it took.

“El pulls over,” Dustin said immediately, pointing at her like it was obvious.

El blinked. “I’m driving?”

“You are now,” Max said, nudging her lightly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Mike nodded. “You pull into the station. The parking lot is empty. No cars. No people.”

Lucas frowned. “That’s already bad.”

Dustin grinned. “Or it’s free supplies.”

“Of course that’s what you think,” Max muttered, just under her breath.

Mike leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“The lights inside flicker. You can see movement…just barely…through the windows.”

Will shifted in his seat, something tightening in his chest.

“What kind of movement?” he asked quietly.

Mike didn’t answer right away.

“…Slow,” he said finally. “Unsteady.”

A small silence settled over the table.

El tilted her head slightly, her voice softer now.

“Is someone hurt?”

Mike met her eyes for just a second.

“You don’t know from here.”

Dustin slapped his hand on the table. “We go inside.”

“Obviously,” Lucas agreed, though more cautiously.

Max sighed. “Yeah, sure, let’s walk directly into whatever horror situation this is.”

“You approach the door,” Mike continued. “The bell above it is broken…so when you push it open…”

He tapped the table once.

“…there’s no sound.”

Will swallowed.

“You step inside. The shelves are half-empty. Things are knocked over. Food scattered across the floor like someone dropped it and never came back.”

Lucas leaned forward. “Okay, now it’s bad.”

Dustin was practically glowing. “This is awesome.”

Mike’s eyes flicked between them before continuing.

“At the counter, there’s a man.”

El sat up straighter.

“Is he okay?”

Mike hesitated.

“He’s…standing there,” he said slowly. “But he’s not moving. Not really.”

Max frowned. “What does that mean?”

Mike rolled a die behind the screen. The sound echoed softly.

“…He sways,” Mike said. “Like he can’t quite stay upright.”

Will’s grip tightened around his pencil.

“I call out to him,” he said. “Ask if he needs help.”

Mike nodded.

“You speak.”

A pause.

“…He doesn’t answer.”

Another pause.

“…But his head turns.”

Dustin leaned forward. “Normal turn or—”

Mike tilted his head.

“…Too slow.”

Lucas leaned back. “Nope. Don’t like that.”

Max crossed her arms. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

El stayed focused, her voice steady.

“What do we do?”

“That’s up to you.”

Dustin grinned. “We get closer.”

Will hesitated, glancing at El, who looked just as unsure, before nodding anyway.

“…Okay.”

Mike leaned in slightly.

“As you step closer…you notice something.”

He rolled again.

“…There’s blood.”

Lucas sat back. “Okay, yeah, now we’re leaving.”

Dustin shook his head. “No way. This is where it gets good.”

Max pointed at him. “You are going to get us killed.”

Mike ignored them.

“The man stumbles forward,” he continued. “His hand slams against the counter, hard.”

Mike slammed his hands on the table causing everyone to jump.

El grabbed onto Max’s arm instinctively, and Max didn’t pull away, just let her, steady and grounding.

“And when he looks up—”

Mike paused.

“…his eyes don’t look right.”

Will’s voice dropped.

“…How not right?”

“…Clouded,” Mike said. “Like he can’t see you.”

El’s expression shifted slightly, something uneasy flickering behind her eyes.

Upstairs, faintly, a pipe creaked.

She glanced toward the ceiling.

“…Mike,” she said softly.

But Mike kept going.

“The man opens his mouth—”

He leaned forward.

“—and instead of speaking…”

A beat.

“…he lunges with an inhuman growl.”

Dice exploded across the table.

Everyone started talking at once, shouting actions, arguing, laughing, overlapping in that chaotic, familiar way that felt like it belonged to a different time.

-

Dice clattered across the table, voices overlapping in a chaotic burst of panic and laughter.

“I attack it—no, wait, do I have advantage?!” Dustin shouted, already grabbing another die.

“We should run!” Max cut in, pointing at him like that should’ve been obvious.

“You always say run!”

“Because you always want to stay and die!”

“El, use your powers!” Dustin added quickly, turning to her.

El blinked, slightly overwhelmed. “What powers?”

“Your a mage.” Max explains dryly. “I think that's what he means."

“I cast…uh—” Will started, flipping frantically through his notes.

“Guys, guys—” Mike tried to regain control, but no one was listening.

“WAIT.”

Lucas’ voice cut through everything.

Not loud, but firm enough that it worked.

Everyone stopped, the noise dropping off into scattered muttering and the soft clink of dice settling.

Lucas leaned forward, hands planted on the table, looking between all of them.

“Can we not immediately fall apart for like, two seconds?” he said. “We need a plan.”

Dustin opened his mouth.

Lucas pointed at him. “A real plan.”

That earned a small, reluctant pause.

Max leaned back slightly, nodding. “Okay, yeah. He’s right. We’re in a tiny gas station with…whatever that is.”

Will swallowed. “And possibly more.”

Mike nodded behind the screen, already shifting gears. “Correct.”

El glanced between them, quieter now but focused. “We leave?”

Lucas snapped his fingers. “Exactly. We don’t fight it, we get out.”

Dustin frowned. “But what if it follows us?”

“Then we deal with it outside,” Max said. “Where we’re not trapped.”

Will nodded slowly. “We could distract it…”

Mike leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “How?”

Will hesitated, then pointed to the map Mike had sketched.

“The shelves,” he said. “They’re knocked over already. We could push them, make noise, draw it away from the door.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up. “Oh! And I can throw something, like a can or whatever, to make it look the other way.”

Lucas nodded. “Yeah. That works.”

El looked at Mike. “And then we run?”

Mike smiled faintly, but there was something more focused behind it now, something deliberate.

“…Roll for it.”

The words landed differently this time.

Not chaotic, or panicked like it was before.

Dice hit the table again, but instead of scattering wildly, they landed in controlled arcs, each roll purposeful. The sharp clatter of plastic against wood echoed through the basement, but now it felt rhythmic, like a system falling into place.

“Thirteen,” Lucas said, leaning forward, eyes locked on the table.

Mike nodded once, already calculating. “That works.”

Behind his screen, he rolled again, slower this time. The dice tumbled against each other with a muted sound, and he watched the result carefully, his expression deliberately neutral. Years ago, he would’ve reacted instantly, groaned, grinned, given something away.

Not anymore.

Across the table, Dustin narrowed his eyes. “That’s either really good or really bad.”

Mike didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“That’s exactly what you say when it’s bad.”

Max snorted under her breath. “He’s right.”

Will leaned slightly closer, pencil hovering above his notes, waiting. El’s gaze stayed fixed on Mike, quiet but intense, like she was trying to read something deeper than just the game.

Mike finally looked up.

“You knock over the shelves,” he said. “The sound echoes through the store, loud.”

He tapped the table once.

“The man turns, slow, unnatural, but toward the noise.”

Dustin grinned. “I throw something. Hard.”

“Roll.”

The die rolls carefully. Natural 20.

“…Nice,” Mike said, nodding with a small smile on his face. “It hits the wall behind him. He lunges, away from you.”

Max leaned forward. “Go, go, go—”

Mike continued.

“You make it to the back exit,” he said, voice steady. “The door is jammed, swollen wood, maybe from moisture. Make a athletics check."

Lucas reached for his dice before anyone else could, fingers quick and certain. Out of everyone at the table, he had the highest strength, this was his roll.

He gave the die a short shake in his palm, just enough to feel it, but not too long. He’d always been a little superstitious about that, roll it too much, and your luck ran out before it even hit the table.

With a quiet breath, he let it fall.

The die bounced once, twice, then settled.

“…Ten.”

Mike nodded, already leaning into the moment.

“It’s not easy,” he said, voice steady. “The door resists at first—wood swollen, frame warped—but with enough force…”

He glanced toward Lucas, giving a small, approving tilt of his head.

“…it gives.”

Lucas let out a small breath, shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“But—” Mike added quickly.

Dustin groaned. “There it is.”

Mike ignored him, continuing smoothly. “As it bursts open, it slams against the wall. Loud.”

He tapped the table once.

“Too loud.”

Will’s grip tightened slightly on his pencil.

“You hear movement again. Inside the store.”

A pause.

“…More than one this time.”

That shifted the energy instantly.

Max leaned forward, all sarcasm gone now. “Okay. We need to move. Fast.”

“Agreed,” Lucas said, already thinking ahead. “We don’t stay and fight, we get out, put distance between us and…whatever that is.”

Dustin nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, regroup, find better gear, maybe figure out what the hell is going on.”

El tilted her head slightly. “Where do we go?”

Mike didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to pull them in again.

“You step outside,” he said. “The night air hits you immediately, cold, quiet as you all run back to your car.”

He glanced between them, making sure he had their attention.

“The road stretches out ahead…leading into the city.”

Will swallowed slightly, writing quickly as he spoke. “We stick together.”

Lucas nodded. “No splitting up.”

“Obviously,” Max added.

Dustin pointed at Mike. “You better not pull some ‘you hear something in the distance, roll perception’ crap and separate us.”

Mike smirked just a little. “No promises.”

A few quiet laughs broke through, but they didn’t last long.

Mike continued.

“As you move down the road, the city comes into view. Streetlights flicker, Some are out completely. Roads to various alleyways are blocked by some cars. The buildings…feel off…"

El frowned slightly. “Off how?”

Mike met her eyes.

“…Too quiet.”

That did it.

Even Dustin, the one whose earliest memories was watching horror movies with his sister as she babysat him, shifted slightly in his seat.

“You pass abandoned cars,” Mike went on. “Doors left open. Luggage still inside. Like people left in a hurry.”

Will’s pencil slowed.

“…That’s not good.”

“No,” Lucas muttered. “It’s really not.”

Mike nodded once.

“And then—”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough.

“…you see it.”

Mike reached behind his screen and slid a rough sketch onto the table. He leaned forward slightly, voice low, deliberate, slipping fully into 'spooky Dungeon Master mode.' “You approach the building, and even from the street, it feels…off. A large structure, made of heavy, gray stone. The walls rise high above you, the kind of stone that looks like it’s seen centuries pass. The gates are tall, wrought iron, rusted in places but still standing, like they’ve been waiting…for someone, or something, to arrive.”

He gestured with his hands, emphasizing the size. “Windows are tall too, with those narrow, vertical panes, some cracked, some completely missing. You can see shadows moving inside, but nothing concrete, just shapes shifting in the dim light.”

“The roof is steep, like a classic old municipal building, slanted sharply and lined with chimneys. You notice the clock tower at the front, frozen at some long-past hour. It creaks faintly as the wind brushes against it.”

Mike paused for effect, letting the group absorb the details. “There’s a wide stone staircase leading up to the main doors. Each step worn and uneven, like hundreds of people have passed over them over the years. The doors themselves are heavy wood, reinforced with iron bands, looking like they might withstand a small siege.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes sweeping across the table. “From the street, it feels almost welcoming…in a haunted sort of way. But there’s an undeniable sense that whatever went on here, whatever is inside now…it’s not normal.”

Dustin leaned forward, voice hushed. “It looks…like it belongs in a horror movie.”

Mike smirked slightly. “Exactly. And you’re about to walk right in.” She leaned forward slightly as she glanced over at Mike.

“What is it?”

Mike’s voice dropped just a little, something almost cinematic in the way he said it.

“The Raccoon City Police Station.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, that’s sick.”

Lucas nodded, already thinking tactically. “There might be supplies, maybe answers.”

Will glanced at El. “And maybe people.”

El nodded softly.

“…Maybe.”

Mike leaned back slightly, watching all of them, the way they leaned in, the way they started thinking together instead of over each other.

The way they always did when it mattered.

“…What do you do?” he asked quietly.

"We go inside." Dustin piped up.

Mike leaned forward again, lowering his voice so the words seemed to echo against invisible walls. “You push open the doors. They groan on rusty hinges, the sound scraping through the empty hall. Inside… it’s dark. The air hits you first, stale, musty, like it hasn’t been disturbed in ages. Dust motes float in the shafts of light spilling from the high windows, and there’s a faint metallic tang, like blood, lingering underneath.”

He swept his hand in a slow arc, as if guiding them through the building. “The main lobby is cavernous. The floor is checkered tile, cracked in places, worn from countless footsteps. Old desks are scattered around, some tipped over, papers fluttering in the drafts from broken windows. Filing cabinets lean at odd angles, their drawers hanging open. And—” he paused, letting his gaze drift around the table, “—the shadows move. You’re not sure what’s casting them, but you know you’re not alone.”

Dustin leaned closer, whispering, “This is insane… why is it so creepy?”

Mike grinned. “Because it’s supposed to be. The police station has a history, this place used to be bustling, before a police station, it was actually an art museum, but now…” He let his voice trail, letting the tension thicken. “Now it’s almost alive with… something else.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Something else like… what?”

Mike’s eyes flicked to him. “You’re about to find out.” He began detailing the layout. “The front desk is to your left, half-broken, papers strewn across the floor. A grand staircase leads up to the second floor. To your right, a hallway stretches into darkness, doors lining either side. One of them has signs of forced entry… deep scratches on the wood, gouges like claws.”

El leaned forward, eyes wide. “Claws?”

Mike nodded, slowly rolling a die behind the Dungeon Master screen. “Yes. Something sharp, fast… dangerous.”

He gestured around the table, letting each player imagine their position. “You move carefully, weapons ready, feet barely making a sound against the tiles. Every creak, every shift of paper in the wind makes your heart beat faster. And then, you hear it. A low, wet scraping from above, near the ceiling, coming down the staircase.”

Dustin froze, whispering, “Nope. Nope. Not okay.”

Mike’s smirk widened. “And as you look up, a figure detaches from the shadows. Long limbs, glistening, pale skin stretched tight over muscle, a brain exposed but with no eyes, a tongue flicking, almost tasting the air. It lumbers down toward you, head tilted unnaturally, moving too fast for you to track."

He pauses, watching everyone's face shift in horror.

" A Licker.”

The dice sat ready in front of them. The room was silent except for their shallow breathing, tension tight as a wire.

Mike leaned back, voice calm but sharp. “Roll for initiative.”

"What the hell." Lucas cursed under his breath as he reluctantly grabbed his dice.

-

The basement was finally settling down. Dice had stopped clattering, character sheets were tucked back into binders, and the chaos of shouted strategies and laughter was replaced by the soft shuffle of papers and chairs being pushed back. Max stretched her arms above her head with a yawn, Dustin was still grinning over some ridiculous stunt his character had pulled, and El sat quietly, fiddling with a small figurine from the game.

Mike leaned back in his chair, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Alright, alright, good work today. Survived the gas station, escaped Raccoon City… for now.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. “Barely survived. But yeah, good game.”

Will carefully closed his binder and started organizing his dice. “I think everyone’s character leveled up pretty well,” he said softly, glancing around the table.

Dustin shot him a quick grin. “Hey, we crushed it. Totally crushed it.”

Outside, the distant rumble of an engine rolled through the street, faint but familiar. The sound carried a different weight now, steady, deliberate, older. It wasn’t a kid driving home after school, it was someone who had returned to Hawkins for a reason.

Jonathan Byers shut the car engine off before getting out, camera bag slung over one shoulder, dust from the road still clinging to his boots. He had come back to town, quietly, to work on his new indie film, a project capturing the quieter corners of Hawkins, the city that had shaped him. The air smelled faintly of spring, and for a moment, he just let himself watch the familiar street, feeling the pull of old memories and the small, stubborn pulse of home.

Jonathan adjusted the strap of his bag and walked up the driveway, keys jingling in his hand, ready to pick up Will from their D&D session. Hawkins had changed in some ways, stayed the same in others, but it felt…right, being back.

Jonathan lifted his hand to knock on the Wheeler house door, expecting the familiar warmth of Mrs. Wheeler greeting him. It had been years since he’d done this, back when he’d come over to pick up Will after school, when the chaos of middle school felt overwhelming and the Wheeler basement had been their fortress of imagination.

The door swung open, but it wasn’t Mrs. Wheeler standing there. Nancy stood in the doorway instead, framed by the warm light of the living room. Her hair was short now, just like how it was after he saw her last on graduation, and her expression was a mix of surprise and curiosity.

“Uh…hey,” Jonathan said, a small, awkward smile tugging at his lips. “I-I was just here to pick up Will.”

Nancy froze for a moment, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Jonathan?!” she exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “What…what are you doing back in Hawkins?”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up in return, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “Wait, what about you? I didn’t expect to see you here either. What are you doing back in town?”

Nancy blinked, still catching her breath from the surprise. “I’m…working on a story. Talking about the new pharmaceutical company, Umbrella Corporation. Figured I’d poke around while I was here.”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up, a mixture of curiosity and his old protective instincts kicking in. “Umbrella Corporation, huh? That sounds…heavy. You going solo on this?”

Nancy nodded, a hint of determination in her expression. “For now. I want to see what’s really happening before anyone else notices. Maybe I’ll have a full article by the time I leave.” She crossed her arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “Hawkins isn’t the same quiet little town it used to be. And if there’s something shady going on, someone has to write it down.”

Jonathan smiled faintly, remembering their past teamwork on stories and investigations, the times they had faced danger together and somehow come out the other side. “Sounds like you’ve still got that fire. I like that.” He ran a hand through his hair, shifting slightly. “I’m just glad to be back here, doing something creative. Maybe I’ll check out the spots I used to shoot around town, see what new inspiration I can find.”

Nancy glanced at him, her expression softening. “Well, I guess we’ll both be back in Hawkins for a little while, then. Keep each other company in the chaos.”

Jonathan chuckled, glancing down the street as he waited for Will. “Yeah. Chaos is an old friend.”

The moment was brief but familiar, a reminder that even with time and distance, some things in Hawkins, friendships, curiosity, the pull of home, never really changed.

Jonathan set down his bag and gave a small, nostalgic smile. “Feels weird, being back here. Reminds me of… well, all of us sneaking into your room years ago, trying not to get caught by your mom or dad.”

Nancy chuckled softly. “Some things don’t change. Hawkins has a way of keeping history alive, doesn’t it?”

Jonathan glanced down the street, then back at her, a flicker of nostalgia in his expression. “So…we’re both here at the same time, digging into our own things. Weird how life works.”

Nancy smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah… Hawkins has always had a knack for throwing weird things at people. But it’s nice to see life moving forward, at least a little.”

Jonathan glanced toward the stairs leading up from the basement, catching the faint chatter of Will and his friends as they said their goodbyes. It was nice, quietly bittersweet, to see his little brother and his friends growing up. They carried that familiar spark, that mix of curiosity and innocence, a childish quality he hoped they would never lose, no matter how much the world tried to change them.

Nancy tilted her head slightly, a small smirk playing on her lips as she looked at him. “Still making films?” she asked, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity and just a hint of nostalgia.

Jonathan chuckled softly, shifting his weight. “Yeah…trying to. Just a small indie project back here in Hawkins. Nothing fancy, but…it’s good to be back, you know?”

Nancy nodded approvingly. “Good. Keep at it.”

Jonathan looked around the Wheeler house, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Feels… familiar. Safe. Strange, considering everything that’s happened here.”

Nancy gave him a small, knowing smile in return. “That’s Hawkins for you.”

Once Will had said his final goodbyes, he made his way up the stairs, pausing to thank Mrs. Wheeler, who was tucked into a chair in the kitchen with a book, and Mr. Wheeler, who looked as if he was ready to retreat to bed. Then, with a small, familiar grin, Will approached the front door, where Jonathan and Nancy stood.

“You ready?”

Will nodded his head in response. “Yeah! Let’s go.”

Jonathan slung his bag over his shoulder, glancing once more at Nancy. “Thanks for… letting me in. Appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Nancy said warmly. “Take care.”

Jonathan waved, following Will out the door, a little piece of their shared past lingering in the hallway behind him. Inside, Nancy watched for a moment, listening to the fading sounds of laughter from the basement and the quiet hum of the Wheeler house. Hawkins might be the same town, but somehow it felt like the people within it were finding their way again.

The phone rang twice against her ear.

Bee held her breath without realizing it, fingers tightening around the receiver as if that alone might steady the sudden, nervous energy rushing through her.

Three rings. Her heart thudded a little louder inside her chest, so loud that if anyone was in the room with her she was sure they would hear it. 

She sucked in a breath when she heard a small click, a part of her hoping it was Steve but then another part dreading if it was. Instead, she was met with his voicemail. 

She sighed, shoulders slumped as she stared at the phone in her hands for a second too long before placing it down. 

“…What was I thinking?” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face, her fingers catching briefly in her curls as she let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

God.

Of all the things she could have done tonight like unpack another box, apply to one of the jobs she’d circled, go to bed like a normal, responsible adult, she had chosen to call Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington of all people. 

The name alone felt strange sitting in her chest like that.

Bee leaned back against the side of her bed, shifting underneath her weight with her feet dangling off the side. She stared up at the ceiling as if it might offer some kind of explanation.

“We weren’t even friends,” she muttered. “We barely even talked.”

So why did it feel like something she needed to do?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, exhaling slowly through her nose.

Maybe it was Robin. Maybe it was hearing about how much he’d changed, how different he was now. 

Or maybe…Maybe it was just the past catching up with her.

Bee turned her head slightly, glancing back at the yearbook resting beside her.

Familiar faces. Old versions of people who probably weren’t those people anymore. Including her.

“…Still,” she muttered, pushing herself upright. “That was stupid.”

She pressed her lips together, crossing her arms loosely like she could physically hold the embarrassment in place.

“He probably didn’t even notice,” she added quickly, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

She hung up before she could leave a message, so there was no proof it had even been her. And honestly, that was probably for the best. 

'Better that way, right?' 

Bee stood, brushing her hands against her ripped jeans as she moved back toward the mess of boxes scattered around her room. The music still played softly in the background, but now it felt a little too loud, a little too present like it was filling in the silence she didn’t want to sit with.

She picked up a stack of papers, flipping through them without really seeing them.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself again moving back to unpack her room, hoping it would take her mind off of Steve Harrington. 

And eventually, It didn’t. Or at least, that’s what she tried to believe.

-

Steve didn’t notice right away.

It was late by the time he got back to his apartment, the kind of late where everything felt slightly dulled at the edges, like the day had stretched just a little too long. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, tossing his keys onto the counter without much thought. The familiar clatter echoed through the quiet space as he kicked off his shoes near the door.

The apartment felt still.

Not empty, not like his parents’ house used to feel when he was sixteen when they were on one of their various business trips, all cold silence and distance, but quiet in a way that lingered. Lived-in, settled.

Steve ran a hand through his hair as he moved toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He leaned against the counter as he took a long drink, like it might wash the day out of his system.

Practice had been rough.

The kids were getting better, sure, but they were still kids. Loud, distracted, chaotic. Half the time they were paying more attention to each other than the game. It reminded him, annoyingly enough, of himself back when he was their age.

He huffed out a quiet laugh under his breath.

For a moment, he let himself drift there, back to those careless, loud years. Parties, bad decisions, thinking he had everything figured out when he really didn’t know anything at all.

Then the exhaustion caught up with him again.

Steve pushed himself off the counter, setting the empty glass in the sink before turning toward the living room, and paused.

A small blinking light on the answering machine caught his attention.

He frowned slightly.

“…Huh.”

Steve stepped closer, pressing the button.

A soft click. A burst of static.

Then, Nothing.

No voice. No message. Just silence.

His frown deepened as his eyes dropped to the small digital display.

One missed call.

He stared at the number a second too long.

Something about it tugged at him, not in a clear, obvious way, but like a memory just out of reach. Familiar, but not enough to place. It sat there, scratching at the back of his mind, refusing to fully surface.

“…Do I know that?” he muttered.

His fingers hovered near the machine, like if he stared long enough, it might suddenly make sense.

It didn’t.

For a brief moment, he considered calling it back.

His hand even drifted toward the phone before he stopped.

It was late.

And if it mattered, they would’ve left a message…right?

Steve exhaled, shaking his head as he stepped back. “Probably just some kids messing around,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. 

Still, something in the back of his mind nagged at him

His eyes flicked back to the number one more time before he turned away. He could leave that for later, now he had more pressing issue. 

Tomorrow, he had something else to focus on, picking up Dustin.

A small smile tugged at his mouth as he rubbed the back of his neck, already thinking about it.

The kid had called him a few days ago, rambling a mile a minute about how he wanted to surprise his mom by coming home a couple of days early. Apparently, that meant dragging Steve into the plan as his personal chauffeur.

“Don’t tell her, okay? I wanna just show up. It’ll be awesome.”

Steve had rolled his eyes at the time, but he’d agreed anyway.

Of course he had.

There was something about the idea that made him…lighter, in a way he hadn’t expected. Excited, even though he’d never actually admit that out loud.

Dustin coming home meant noise again. Chaos, and stories he’d only half understand. It meant things feeling a little less quiet.

Steve shook his head slightly, a small, amused huff escaping him.

-

A few days later, the Hawkins bus station felt…different.

Not busy, exactly but alive.

Steve leaned against the hood of his truck, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses pushed up into his hair as he scanned the small crowd gathering near the bus.

Spring break had just started, and people were filtering back into town, students, families, travelers passing through. It gave the place a kind of restless energy, like everything was shifting again, even if only for a little while.

But Steve was only looking for one person.

Dustin Henderson.

He still wasn’t used to it, Dustin being in college. It didn’t sit right in his brain.

Not because the kid wasn’t smart, hell, Dustin had graduated valedictorian, but because, in Steve’s mind, Dustin was still that scrawny kid with curly hair and a gap-toothed grin, riding around on a bike and talking a mile a minute about science he barely understood.

Back then, Steve drove him everywhere.

And now…Now Dustin was almost nineteen, living two states away, doing…whatever college kids did.

And somehow, Steve was still picking him up from the bus station.

He shook his head slightly, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Some things really don’t change.”

The bus pulled in with a low rumble, brakes hissing as it came to a stop.

The doors folded open.

People spilled out in clusters, students laughing, families greeting each other, others stretching like they’d just escaped something. Bags dragged along the pavement, voices overlapping in that chaotic, energetic way that only came with being young and temporarily free.

Steve straightened slightly, scanning the crowd.

And then—

“STEVE!”

He barely had time to react before Dustin came barreling toward him, backpack bouncing wildly as he ran quickly to Steve. Nearly knocking Steve into the side of the truck full force. 

Dustin wrapped Steve up in a hug, like he hadn't seen him in years, which it definitely felt like it. Steve couldn't help the small smile that began to form on his face as he wrapped his arms around Dustin in a warm and inviting hug. 

“Woah, hey! Jesus—” Steve stumbled back a step, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady both of them. 

Dustin grinned up at him, completely unfazed.

“Miss me?”

Steve huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. Not even a little.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Get your stuff."

Dustin saluted, before grabbing his small beat up roll suitcase that had various stickers from Camp Knowhere, the summer camp Dustin always went to when he was a teenager. 

Steve raised an eyebrow, he knew Dustin would be here for a week but he thought he would have more luggage. 

"That's all? You look like you own two shirts now.”

“I do own more than two shirts,” Dustin shot back, already turning to grab his bag. “They’re just…rotating.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth behind it, something easy and familiar settling in his chest.

Some things didn’t change.

Dustin haphazardly through his suitcase into the bed of Steve's truck and slung his bag over his shoulder and immediately launched into a story as he climbed into the passenger seat, something about a professor, or a roommate, or both, words spilling out faster than Steve could keep up with.

Steve leaned back against the truck, only half-listening, as he drove. 

It felt normal, easy.

Like stepping back into something he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was right in front of him again.

Steve eased the truck onto the highway, the low rumble of the engine and the faint hum of the radio filling the space between them. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the early spring air outside smelled faintly of wet pavement and budding grass. Dustin sat in the passenger seat, backpack resting on the floor, legs swinging lightly as he looked out the window, occasionally tapping his fingers on the dashboard in a rhythm that seemed entirely his own.

“So,” Steve began, trying to sound casual, “how’s college treating you? Surviving all the papers and lectures?”

Dustin laughed, leaning back against the seat. “Surviving is the right word. Classes are…well, classes. Some professors are great, some barely show up. Cafeteria food is questionable. And don’t get me started on laundry. I think I’ve developed a hatred for my washing machine.”

Steve smiled, glancing at him in the corner of his eye. “Sounds about right. But hey, you’re still standing, so that’s something.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, grinning. “And you know, I figured a little homecoming might fix the chaos. Mom’s gonna freak when she sees me.” He paused, his grin softening a little. “I really wanted to surprise her, get home a few days early.”

Steve shook his head, a small laugh escaping him. “Some things never change. You’re still the same little whirlwind who barged into my life.”

Dustin nudged him playfully with his shoulder. “Hey! Some things are better left mysterious, you know.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. The memory of Dustin as a curly-haired, mischievous little kid flashed in his mind—the gummy smile, the way he used to drop questions on him out of nowhere, the stubborn streak that somehow always reminded him of himself. Even now, at nineteen, some of that hadn’t changed.

"So what's different here? Besides there being more people now?" Dustin asked, glancing out the window as he took in his surroundings, it seemed so familiar yet also different. 

"A few things have changed while you’ve been away.” Steve answered, intentionally leaving things out to intrigue Dustin. 

Dustin perked up immediately, eyes wide. “Oh? Like what? Tell me everything.”

“Well, Robin’s back in town. She’s trying to get a job at Hawkins High.” Steve kept his tone casual. He didn't mention Bee, he assumed that was part of his plan and Dustin would want the surprise to play out on his own.

Dustin’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Robin? Wait…Robin Buckley? The girl you refused to date?”

Steve grimaced slightly hen Dustin mentioned that, he didn't refuse to date her, she just…wasn't interested in him for obvious reasons. Dustin had always tried to play match matcher with Steve and Robin, because before Steve knew he had a big crush on Robin. Of course, Dustin didn't know about Robin's secret. 

Steve laughed trying to take his mind off of the past, steering the truck around a stoplight. “Yep, shes still sarcastic by the way."

"What is she doing here? I thought she was getting her masters at Smith?"

"She did, She’s looking to teach at the high school as an English teacher."

Dustin’s grin grew, mischievous. “Wow. That’s…actually kind of awesome. Can you imagine her trying to survive a staff meeting with Principal Higgins?"

Steve shook his head, smiling at the thought. “She’d definitely find a way. She’s clever.”

A small but comfortable silence fell between the two, that's when Steve noticed the new billboard on the highway. 

'Umbrella Corporation'

“Oh,” Steve added, a half-smirk forming, “there’s a new business in town. Umbrella Corporation.”

Dustin leaned forward, eyes wide in mock horror. “Umbrella Corporation? Steve…that sounds like a front for some secret government experiment. Mutants, secret labs, maybe monsters in the basement!”

Steve laughed loudly, the sound rolling easily through the cab. “Dustin…you read too many science fiction books.”

“Never too many,” Dustin shot back with a grin. 

"Besides, I think Hawkins has had enough of monsters." Steve pointed out. It had been years since the murders, Vecna, the Upside Down, Hawkins was a normal town now. 

"You don't know that Steve, what if Hawkins is a hot spot for weird shit?" Dustin animatedly shouted. “You never know when the truth’s going to sneak up on you. One day you think it’s all normal, and then bam! Monster in the basement.”

Steve rolled his eyes, still smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

For the next few miles, Dustin rambled about classes, roommates, and the minor catastrophes of college life, sometimes pausing to ask Steve random questions about Hawkins. Steve mostly half-listened, content to watch him talk, listening to the familiar cadence of his voice and the energy that hadn’t dimmed even with age.

Finally, the familiar streets of Hawkins appeared, dimly lit by streetlights and the faint glow from the windows of houses. Steve slowed the truck as they turned onto Dustin’s street.

“You’re home,” Steve said quietly, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulled into the driveway of the familiar Henderson house. 

Dustin grabbed his bag, hoisting it over his shoulder with exaggerated effort. “Yeah! And I was thinking maybe I can convince Mom to make those tacos I love. Or maybe something new. Who knows?”

Steve shook his head, grinning. “Alright, alright. Keep your energy. You’ve got your homecoming moment coming up.”

Dustin grinned mischievously. “Hey…you want to come in? Mom’s making dinner. You could say hi…”

Steve hesitated for a beat before shaking his head politely. “I’ll pass this time. Don’t want to intrude.”

Dustin pouted playfully but nodded. “Alright, fine. You’ll survive without my mom’s cooking this once.”

He grabbed the door handle and knocked, expecting the familiar, cheerful voice of his mom, Claudia Henderson, to answer. 'Hey, honey!' and maybe even with a question about how his classes were going while she hugged him so tight his back popped. 

Instead, the door swung open to reveal someone else entirely.

Bee.

“Bee?!” Dustin’s voice shot out, a mixture of shock and delight. He froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, staring at his sister. For a moment, it was like the world around him didn’t exist, just her, standing there, slightly disheveled from unpacking boxes, her eyes wide with shock. 

“Dustin?” he stammered, completely thrown off. Then, without thinking, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. Must be Dustin's knew way of saying hi. Bee blinked, startled at first, then relaxed, pressing back against him.

“Dusty! What—?” Bee started, her own surprise evident in her voice.

“I didn’t expect you to be here!” Dustin exclaimed, muffled slightly against her shoulder. “I mean, I knew Mom would be home… but you? Here? Now?”

Bee laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “And I didn’t expect you to come home early either. Two days early, huh? Spring break’s catching everyone off guard.”

Dustin pulled back just enough to look at her, a grin spreading across his face. “I wanted to surprise Mom,” he said, shrugging innocently. “Figured I’d sneak in before she got home and, bam! be here when she least expected it.”

Bee’s eyebrows shot up. “You planned this?” she asked, half-amused, half-impressed. “And here I was thinking I’d have the house to myself for a quiet evening of unpacking.”

“Well,” Dustin said, chuckling, “I might have underestimated the chaos factor of having you back. Surprise! Bee’s home too!” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully, gesturing toward her boxes and the half-unpacked room she had been working on.

Bee shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I guess this is officially not my quiet evening anymore.” She ruffled his hair lightly. “But I’m glad you’re here. Really. It’s…nice to see you.”

Dustin leaned back slightly, still holding onto her arms, his grin softening. “Glad you’re here too. I mean, it’s weird. You’re actually home, I feel like it's been forever."

Bee laughed again, a little breathless from his energy. "It has been…" She muttered softly, she hadn't been back in Hawkins after her graduation. 

“But, it’s nice to be back. Mom said you were coming home Monday.”

“I like surprises,” Dustin said with a sly grin, stepping back but still looking at her with that same mixture of excitement and admiration that only little brothers, or in this case, grown-up little brothers, can give. “Also, it gives me bragging rights when Mom sees us both. ‘Look who’s home already!’”

Steve leaned against the truck in the driveway, watching quietly, a faint tug at his chest as he observed the reunion. He let himself linger just long enough to take in the way Dustin’s curly hair caught the streetlight, the way Bee’s smile softened as she laughed, the way the two of them just fit together in that familiar, chaotic, affectionate way.

Their eyes met briefly, Bee blinking slightly, caught off guard by his presence before giving him a small, almost shy wave. Steve returned it with a soft smile, letting her have this little moment with Dustin. He didn’t need to interfere, this was theirs.

Finally, Dustin glanced back at the truck, grinning. “C’mon, sis. Let’s go before Mom sees us both and freaks out."

Bee laughed, shaking her head, as she followed him inside. Steve watched them disappear into the house, the soft glow of the lights from inside the house spilling into the street, and he felt that rare, quiet warmth again.

Everything, Hawkins, homecomings, old friends, seemed exactly where it was supposed to be.

-

The living room was warm, bathed in the soft glow of the table lamp and the fading light spilling in from the window. Outside, the early evening sky was a muted shade of purple, hinting at the coming night. The TV in the corner played an old rerun of "Cheers", muted. Bee followed Dustin inside, still grinning at the chaos of his energy as he tossed his backpack onto the couch and collapsed beside it with a sigh of relief.

“You really pulled it off, huh?” Bee said, flopping into the armchair across from him. “Two days early. Mom’s gonna be so surprised.”

Dustin leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, his toes tapping idly on the carpet. “Yeah, well, I had to. Thought I’d get ahead of her expectations for once. You know Mom, always thinks she’s on top of everything.”

“Ya know, you are the same also,” Bee teased, a small, knowing smirk on her face.

“Shut up,” Dustin grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Bee chuckled softly. “It’s true, and you know it. But seriously…why’re you here so early? This isn’t just to surprise Mom, is it?”

Dustin blinked at her, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

“You’re college-aged now,” Bee said, tilting her head slightly. “You didn’t have to come home yet. I just—” she hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I didn’t expect you. Thought you’d stay a little longer.”

Dustin shrugged, grinning, but there was a hint of softness in his eyes. “Wanted to surprise her. Also…missed home, I guess.” He exhaled lightly, a small, wistful sound.

“And besides, I missed my old gang,” Bee said, a small smile tugging at her lips. She knew exactly who he meant, Mike, Will, Max, Lucas, and El, the crew who had spent so many nights around the table with dice clattering across maps, swapping stories, arguing over rules of Dungeons and Dragons, and laughing until their sides hurt. They had been through so much together, it made sense why they were still so close. “You mean…D&D nights?” she teased.

“Exactly,” Dustin said, his eyes lighting up. “Though I missed you too.”

Bee’s eyes softened. “Missed me? You mean, after all these years of being the annoying little brother?”

“Hey!” Dustin protested with a laugh, shaking his head. “I wasn’t always annoying. Sometimes I was just…curious. And okay, maybe I’m still curious.”

Bee laughed, shaking her head. “Fair enough. So, I guess you’re just gonna keep surprising everyone then?”

Dustin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his hands. “Maybe. But seriously…why’re you back? Chicago seemed…good. You looked happy there.”

Bee exhaled slowly, a small shadow passing over her face. She picked at the edge of the armchair cushion, gathering her thoughts. “I was happy in Chicago, yeah. But…Mom. She’s getting older, and I noticed she’s been…a little lonely. I didn’t want to worry about her—not when she might need me. So I decided to stay for a while. Make sure she’s okay.”

Dustin’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah…that makes sense. Mom’s lucky to have you.”

Bee smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks. I just…want to be here for her while I can. That’s all.”

There was a pause, filled only by the distant chirping of birds settling in for night. Bee’s curiosity nudged her forward. She knew Dustin and Steve were close, but she hadn’t expected that closeness to endure after college began. “So…how’s Steve? You guys still…close?”

Dustin’s grin returned, tinged with nostalgia. “Yeah. Still close. He’s still…Steve But…he’s good. He cares.”

Bee nodded thoughtfully, letting that sink in. Everyone seemed to say the same thing about Steve, how he's changed, how he's more mature and caring. It must be true if everyone says it. 

Her gaze drifted to Dustin’s forearm and caught on a line of small bat tattoos winding along his skin. She blinked, impressed. “Since when do you have these?”

Dustin flexed slightly, wiggling the inked shapes for her. “College thing. Thought they were cool. Don’t worry, they’re harmless. Just bats.”

“I’m starting to think you’re copying me,” she teased, lifting the sleeve of her flannel to show off her own scattered tattoos.

Dustin’s eyes went wide, scanning the ink on her arms. “Holy shit! I didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“College thing,” she repeated, mimicking his words with a small laugh. The warmth of shared humor filled the room.

Bee reached out, lightly tapping the edge of his tattoo. “Looks good on you, though.”

“Thanks,” Dustin said, his grin softening, a little shy now.

Their laughter lingered in the room for a moment longer before the sound of keys jingling at the front door cut through the calm. Both of them turned, anticipation curling in the pit of their stomachs.

“Dustin?!” came the familiar voice of Claudia Henderson, their mom, stepping in, arms heavy with grocery bags. “I thought you weren’t coming home for another two days!”

Dustin jumped up, eyes wide, still grinning. “Surprise!”

Claudia’s hands shot down, setting her bags on the counter before pulling Dustin into a bone-crushing hug. Bee watched quietly, her lips twitching with amusement at the scene.

Claudia pulled back slightly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well…this is a surprise all around. Both of my kids, home. I don’t know whether to cook or just sit and stare.”

Dustin laughed, leaning against the couch. “Maybe both?”

Bee smiled, glancing first at Dustin, then toward their mom. “I think both sounds perfect.”

The three of them shared a soft, quiet moment in the glow of the living room. Outside, the night deepened, but inside, laughter and warmth filled the space, bridging the distance of years and miles. For a moment, the house felt alive in the way it always had, a small haven of family, chaos, and memories, grounding Bee in a way Chicago hadn’t been able to.

-

The night hung heavy over Hawkins, thick with fog that clung to the trees and draped the empty streets like a ghostly veil. Chris Nolan, a hunter from the outskirts of town, trudged through the underbrush, boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. His coat was streaked with mud, and his breath came out in white clouds that vanished too quickly in the chill of early March.

Chris had been tracking a deer all afternoon, following the rutting calls and the faint rustle of antlers in the brush. But as darkness fell, the animal had disappeared, leaving only the crunch of his own footsteps and the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures in the undergrowth. His stomach growled, throat parched from hours of effort, and finally, relief came in the form of a small, secluded spring he had passed many times before but never actually used.

The spring shimmered faintly under the silver light of the moon, deceptively clear. Chris knelt at its edge, scooping the cold water into his hands and drinking deeply. The icy rush hit his throat, refreshing and sharp. He drank again, slower this time, savoring the relief.

But the water was not innocent. Upstream, was the Umbrella Corporation with a dark secret. They had been secretly working on a project to create a more powerful human race by creating bio-weapons. One of their strands, the T-virus was loose. The vial holding the blue liquid had been broken by someone, causing the infection to take hold and spread. Rats, slick and black-eyed, had scavenged the bodies of cockroaches that carried a parasitic pathogen unlike anything Hawkins had seen. The rats had spread it through the spring . Chris had no way of knowing that the simple act of drinking had exposed him to something ancient, something insidious, something that had been waiting for the right host.

At first, nothing seemed unusual. Chris stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, brushing damp hair from his forehead. But within minutes, a strange warmth began to spread through his chest. It was not the heat of exertion but a slow, crawling fever that made his limbs feel oddly heavy. He leaned against a tree, blinking as the moonlight seemed to waver in his vision. A cold shiver ran down his spine despite the warmth.

“Uh…what the hell…” he muttered, swaying slightly. His voice sounded distant to him, hollow in the silence of the woods. He tried to shake it off, telling himself he was just tired, dehydrated, maybe even imagining it. But the unease didn’t fade. It grew, a gnawing sensation beneath his ribs, twisting his stomach and pricking at his skin like invisible insects.

By the time he returned to his small hunting cabin on the edge of town, the first physical changes had begun. His fingers twitched unnaturally, the skin under nails darkened and become brittle. His eyes, usually a warm brown, now carried a strange glassiness, a reflective sheen that made the shadows of his cabin seem sharper, darker. He moved stiffly, almost puppet-like, each step awkward, uncoordinated.

Chris tried to shrug it off as exhaustion, but the hunger gnawing at him was no longer for food. It was raw, primal, a compulsion that made him snap at the air when his cat, Muffin, hissed and darted away. He didn’t understand it, and yet it guided him, shaping his actions.

Hours passed. Chris alternated between pacing the cabin and staring at his own reflection in the window. His skin tingled with every movement, every breath sending shivers that were not entirely caused by the cold. Every instinct he had screamed at him that something was wrong, that he should flee or fight, but fight what? The reflection staring back at him was still him, and yet it wasn’t.

When dawn crept over the horizon, Chris was no longer fully human. His movements had become stiff and jerky, each step uneven, as if his body was learning to move on its own. The hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, sharp and insistent, drowning out everything else. His hands twitched, claws almost forming at the tips of his fingers, and his vision seemed sharper yet somehow tunneled, focusing on movement and warmth.

He stumbled toward the outskirts of town, guided by impulses he didn’t understand but couldn’t resist. Birds exploded from the trees at his approach, wings beating in frantic bursts, and loose branches snapped underfoot, the sound sharp and echoing in the quiet morning. The fog clung to the ground like a living thing, curling around his legs as he moved, swallowing the soft light of dawn.

Back in Hawkins, the first signs were subtle, nearly invisible. A faint, strange odor lingered near the spring, unnoticed by the few early risers. Rats moved with an unusual boldness along the banks, their eyes glinting oddly in the morning light. No one connected the dots, yet.

Chris’s instincts drove him further, deeper into the woods, and the gnawing hunger became unbearable. His ears twitched at the sound of small movements, his eyes locked on a twitching shape in the brush. A rabbit, white and soft, froze for a moment before realizing it was too late to escape. Chris lunged. There was a frantic flurry of movement, a sharp snap of branches, and then silence except for the sound of him tearing into his prey. The hunger, satiated only temporarily, made him shiver in relief and anticipation, his body vibrating with a perverse satisfaction as he consumed the small animal.

Even after the bunny, he still was hungry. 

The newspaper crinkled softly in Bee's hands as she circled another listing with a pen that was starting to run out of ink.

“Administrative assistant… three years experience required,” she muttered under her breath, sighing softly in annoyance. “Cool. Great. Love that.” she responded, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Most of these jobs weren't graphic design focused, but beggars couldn't be choosers. 

Her bedroom still felt like a space in transition. A few cardboard boxes sat stacked near the wall, half unpacked and labeled in faded marker from when she’d first moved back. Some things had found their way into drawers and shelves again, but others lingered in limbo with old notebooks, framed photos, a stack of college textbooks she wasn’t quite ready to deal with yet.

The desk in front of her had become a small island of paperwork. Printed resumes, notes scribbled in the margins of job listings, a her mug filled with tea that had long since gone cold.

Bee sighed and dropped the pen onto the newspaper.

Outside her window, the afternoon sky hung pale and gray over Hawkins, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t quite decide if winter was actually over yet.

From downstairs, she could hear the quiet sounds of the house moving through its usual rhythm. The faint hum of the television. The clink of dishes being stacked in the kitchen. The low creak of the floorboards that had been there for as long as she could remember.

It was strange how familiar everything felt.

Moving back to Hawkins had been like stepping into a photograph you hadn’t looked at in years. Everything was recognizable, but somehow slightly out of place.

Bee had been back for a few days now, and she still wasn’t sure if she felt settled or just… temporarily paused.A knock came at her door before it creaked open.

“Bee?” her mother’s voice called gently.

Bee glanced over. “Yeah?”

Her mom stepped inside, already halfway into her coat, a familiar tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“I’m heading out to book club,” she said. “We’re finally discussing Flowers from the Storm. Joyce says it’s her favorite, so I’m expecting strong opinions.”

Bee smiled faintly.

“That sounds about right.”

Her mom hesitated for a moment, then lifted a small stack of books in her hands.

“Do you think you could drop these off at the library for me? I meant to return them earlier this week, but you know how things get.”

Bee glanced at the books, then at the newspaper spread across her desk before glancing at the titles of the books that her mother placed on her desk. 

She recognized them immediately.

“Mom,” she said slowly, “these are really overdue.”

Her mom waved a hand dismissively. “Marsha likes me. It’ll be fine.”

Bee huffed out a quiet laugh. 

“Yeah…I can return these to the library for you.”

Her mom’s face brightened immediately. “Thank you, honey.”

Bee took the books from off her desk, adjusting the stack in her arms before the two headed down the hallway.

As they moved toward the hallway together, Bee paused.

“How is everyone, by the way?” she asked. “Joyce, Karen, Sue… I haven’t really seen anyone since I got back.”

Her mom smiled as they reached the small entryway of their house

“Oh, you know them,” she said fondly. “Joyce is still Joyce. Always busy with something. Sue’s been helping her husband at the shop again, and Karen…” she shrugged slightly.

Bee smiled knowingly.

“Still dramatic?”

“Still dramatic.”

Bee laughed.

“I might stop by for a minute if the library isn’t too busy.”

“You should,” her mom said. “Joyce would love to see you. She’s been asking about you ever since you got back.”

That didn’t surprise Bee.

Joyce Byers had always been one of the warmest people in Hawkins.

Still, Bee wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. It had been a long time since she’d really been part of anything here. Long enough that she wasn’t sure where she fit anymore, or even if she fit at all.

“Well,” her mom added lightly, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, “you could always come tonight.”

Bee let out a quiet laugh.

“I think I’d bring down the average age too much.”

Her mom smiled.

“Nonsense. Joyce says it might be nice to have someone new there with a different opinion.”

Bee shifted the books in her arms, considering it for a moment.

She didn’t really have any other plans.

“…Maybe,” she said finally.

Her mom beamed like that was a victory anyway.

“I’ll tell them you said that.”

“Don’t do that,” Bee said quickly, though there was no real heat behind it. Her mom just laughed, already heading for the front door.

“Lock up if you leave!”

“I will!”

The door shut behind her, and the house fell quiet again.

Bee stood there for a moment, the books resting against her chest, the weight of them grounding.

Then she glanced back toward her room, remembering the scattered resumes, the half-finished plans, the uncertainty.

She exhaled, already feeling a little overwhelmed by the idea of having to find a new job.

“Library first,” she murmured to herself.

One thing at a time.

The walk to the Hawkins Public Library only took about ten minutes.

Bee had made the trip hundreds of times growing up, though it had been years since she’d done it regularly. The sidewalks were still uneven in places, the same familiar cracks weaving through the concrete like little maps she remembered without thinking.

Spring hadn’t fully arrived yet. The air was cool, and the trees lining the street were still mostly bare, their branches rattling faintly in the breeze.

As the library building came into view, Bee slowed slightly.

The exterior still looked mostly the same. Brick walls, tall windows, and the familiar carved sign above the doors. It had taken a while to rebuild after everything the town had gone through, but someone had clearly worked hard to make sure it felt like the same place it had always been.

Bee adjusted the stack of books in her arms and pushed open the door.

The small bell above it chimed softly.

Warm air greeted her immediately, along with the unmistakable smell of paper and dust and old wood. Libraries always smelled the same, no matter where you went.

Quiet. Comfortable.

Bee stepped inside and walked toward the front desk.

Behind it sat Marsha Holland, the town’s longtime librarian, who looked up from a stack of returned books the moment Bee approached.

“Well, well,” Marsha said, peering over her glasses. “If it isn’t Bee Henderson.”

Bee smiled politely as she set the stack of books down on the counter.

“Hi, Marsha.”

The librarian eyed the books, then slowly flipped open the top one.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“These are… impressive.”

Bee winced a little.

“Yeah. My mom asked me to return them.”

Marsha hummed thoughtfully as she checked the dates.

“Afternoon, Bee.”

Bee looked up to see Marsha Holland, the longtime librarian, peering over her glasses from behind the desk.

Bee smiled politely and set the stack of books down.

“Sorry these are… incredibly late.”

Marsha waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh honey, these have been overdue since Reagan was still in office. I think we’ll survive.”

Bee laughed softly.

“That bad?”

“Your mother checked them out,” Marsha said, flipping open the first cover, checking the dates even though she knew they were at least a couple of months due. “Which means I already assumed they’d come back eventually."

“Though,” she said finally, sliding them into the return pile before turning back to Bee, “tell your mother she owes the library approximately twelve dollars and my eternal disappointment.”

Bee laughed quietly.

“I’ll let her know.”

Marsha softened a little as she studied Bee for a moment.

“It’s good to see you back in town.”

Bee nodded.

“Yeah… it’s good to be back.”

Even if she wasn’t completely sure what that meant yet.

After a few more polite words, Bee turned and wandered a few steps toward the shelves, she wondered past the usual sections she liked, horror, mystery, thriller. Her fingers trail lightly along the spines of the books as she lingered in the aisle with a sudden sense of nostalgia.

For a moment, she simply enjoyed the quiet.

Then the bell above the front door chimed again, though she barely noticed. 

Robin Buckley stepped into the library, pausing just inside the doorway as her eyes scanned the room.

She knew Bee was in the library, but she wasn't exactly sure. She wondered to the horror section, hoping that Bee's taste in movies and books hadn't changed since high school. 

And sure enough, there she was.

Bee stood near one of the shelves, reading the back of a book with the same thoughtful expression Robin remembered from high school.

Robin grinned slightly to herself. Her best friend hadn't changed in all these years. 

She walked quietly across the room, stopping just a few feet behind her.

“You know,” Robin said casually, “most people don't spend their free time in the library unless they work here.”

Bee froze. Slowly, she turned around. Her eyes widened.

“…Robin?”

Robin spread her arms in a dramatic gesture.

“The one and only.”

For a second Bee just stared at her, clearly caught off guard.

Then she laughed.

“Holy shit.”

Robin clutched her chest in mock offense.

“Wow. What to greet your best friend.”

Bee shook her head, still smiling in disbelief.

“I just.. I didn’t know you were back. I thought you would still be at Smith. ”

“Technically I just got back last night,” Robin said. “Interview at the high school.”

Bee blinked.

“Seriously?”

“Yep. English department. Terrifying concept, I know.”

Bee laughed again, the surprise slowly giving way to something warmer.

“Well… welcome back to Hawkins, I guess.”

Robin glanced around the library.

“Yeah, I figured I’d start my grand return with the most exciting location possible.”

Bee held up the empty space where the books had been.

“I was just returning my mom’s extremely overdue reading list.” she muttered, "I swear, some of the books I think were from the 70's."

“Ah,” Robin snorted softly, causing one disgruntled librarian to shush her. Robin muttered out a small 'sorry' with a sheepish smile on her face. “A noble mission.”

For a moment they just looked at each other, the years between them settling into something surprisingly comfortable.

Robin tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “How long have you been back?”

“Just a few days.”

“I guess that means we’re both technically in the ‘pretending we have our lives together’ phase.”

Bee smiled softly at that.

“Yeah… something like that.”

Robin shoved her hands into her black jean jacket pockets and rocked back on her heels slightly.

“Wanna walk?” she asked. “We can catch up before Joyce kidnaps you for book club.”

Bee blinked.

“How do you already know about that?”

Robin grinned.

"I have my ways," she wickedly grinned. "My mother is also a part of the reading group now, also invited me."

Bee had to bite back a laugh as she watched her friend's expression shift to a frown. 

-

"Wait, you're saying you're actually  friends with Steve Harrington? Of all people." 

Bee almost spit out her soda, coughing slightly as the carbonation entered her lungs. Robin Buckley, the sarcastic, clever girl who had spent most of high school rolling her eyes at everyone, and almost outed herself so many times to Tammy Thompson, was friends with Steve of all people.

Robin leaned back in her booth, smirking at Bee’s reaction.

“Yeah,” she said, taking a sip of her own cola. “Surprised?”

“Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Bee said, shaking her head. “I mean… Steve Harrington? The guy who—”

“—threw the worst parties in Hawkins High history and dated half the cheerleading squad?” Robin finished for her, rolling her eyes. “Yep. That Steve. But… look, he’s not exactly the same guy you remember.”

Bee frowned, leaning back against the worn vinyl of the booth, the faint squeak grounding her as she tried to process it. She remembered Steve—really remembered him—and nothing about that version of him made sense alongside someone like Robin. In high school, they existed in completely different worlds. Different tables, different conversations, different lives. The idea of them choosing to spend time together—let alone trusting each other—felt almost unreal. Especially after Mrs. Click’s class… after everything that had happened in that room, all the tension and unspoken things Robin had carried.

“Does he know?” Bee asked quietly, her voice dropping as she leaned in across the table.

Robin blinked, caught off guard. “Know what?”

Bee hesitated for half a second, then lowered her voice even more. “About Tammy Thompson… Vickie.”

There was a brief pause. Then something in Robin’s expression shifted, confusion melting into recognition.

“Oh.” She exhaled softly. “Yeah… he knows.”

Bee leaned back again, her thoughts tangling over themselves. It felt like her brain couldn’t quite catch up. Steve knew? Steve Harrington, who used to orbit the very people Robin had to pretend to like, pretend to be like, knew she was a lesbian… and was still in her life?

It didn’t add up.

Robin used to hate Steve Harrington. Bee remembered it vividly, late nights on the phone, Robin’s voice muffled as she screamed into a pillow, ranting about Tammy Thompson and how unfair it all felt. Tammy was obviously head over heels for Steve and Steve never even looked at Tammy, especially not the way Robin looked at her. She would always rant about how Steve always seemed to be right there, existing in a space Robin could never step into. Back then, Steve hadn’t just been a person, he’d been part of the problem.

And now…

Now, somehow, six years later, he was her friend.

Bee let out a quiet, disbelieving huff of air. “That’s… insane.”

Robin gave a small, almost amused shrug, but there was something softer underneath it.

Bee studied her for a moment before asking, “Did he—” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “—did he say anything to anyone?”

Robin shook her head immediately.

“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “Not a word.”

There was no hesitation in her voice, and somehow, that made it even harder to reconcile.

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she chuckled softly at her friend trying to wrap her head around the news. “Honestly? I didn’t think I’d ever like him. High school Steve was… something else."

"You can say that again." Bee hushed under her breath. 

" But after the Russians, all that weird town chaos, the ups and downs, the people he cares about? He’s… actually decent. And he’s loyal, which is more than I expected.”

Bee laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I mean, I’d like to believe that, but it’s hard. Steve Harrington, decent? That’s a hard sell.”

Robin shrugged. “Believe what you want, Henderson. But the guy’s grown. He’s coaching baseball now. Middle school kids. Can you imagine?”

"Yeah…My mom mentioned that." She could somewhat picture it, Steve always seemed to take care of Dustin like he was his own brother, and with how close the two were and how much they bickered over the stupidest things, they might as well be. Still, something in the back of Bee's mind still remembered the Steve from junior year. 

“I mean… I guess someone’s gotta keep the little monsters alive, right?” Bee chuckled. 

“Exactly,” Robin said, smirking. “And yes, I begrudgingly admit it… he’s good at it.”

"That's high praise coming from you." 

There was a comfortable pause as they both sipped their drinks, the hum of the diner quiet around them. Florescent lights flickered faintly over the booth, the same booths they used to sit in after bad days in high school, sharing fries and venting about the world they didn’t yet understand.

Bee glanced around, letting nostalgia wash over her. The diner looked almost frozen in time, from the cracked linoleum to the Formica tables with those faux-wood grains, the jukebox in the corner still set on some oldies station.

“You know,” Robin said suddenly, breaking the silence, “it’s weird seeing you back here. You’ve changed… or maybe it’s just Hawkins that feels smaller now.” She paused. 

"Well, not all of you has changed. You still love horror books." Robin teased. Bee rolled her eyes with an affectionate smile on her face. 

Bee smiled faintly. “A little of both, I think. It’s strange being back. Everything’s familiar… but it also feels like I’ve been gone forever.”

Robin leaned back again, folding her arms. “Yeah. I get that. I felt the same when I came back. And honestly… it’s nice having someone here who remembers the old chaos, who knows what it used to be like.”

Bee tilted her head, studying Robin. “So… this friendship thing with Steve… does he actually know what kind of chaos you’re capable of?”

Robin laughed, a low, easy sound. “Oh, he knows. And he’s survived it, somehow. Honestly, he might even… like it a little.”

Bee raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Like it?”

Robin shrugged, smirking. “Maybe. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Bee laughed, shaking her head. For the first time since she’d returned to Hawkins, the tight knot of anxiety she’d carried about the town—or about running into people from her past—felt a little looser. Somehow, Robin’s easy confidence made it seem like maybe she could find her place here again.

“And… you really think I should talk to him?” Bee asked quietly.

Robin’s smirk softened. “If you want to, yeah. He’s… different. Better. And honestly? You might be surprised what you missed while you were gone.”

Bee’s eyes lingered on Robin for a moment before she took another sip of her soda. The bubbles fizzed against the rim, and she smiled softly. Maybe coming back to Hawkins wasn’t going to be as strange as she’d feared.

"Wait, did you say Russians?!" Bee's eyebrows shot up which only caused Robin to cackle, some people shooting them dirty looks. How did she possibly gloss over the fact about Robin and Steve possibly getting into trouble with the Russian government? 

"Oh there's so much to tell you."

-

After hours of catching up with multiple sodas, shared fries, and stories that seemed to tumble out faster the longer they sat there. It felt like nothing had changed between the two of them, even after years of being apart. The staff moved around them in a quiet, practiced rhythm, wiping down counters and flipping chairs onto tables, carefully working everywhere except the booth Robin and Bee had claimed for themselves.

Bee barely noticed until a waitress gave them a gentle, apologetic smile as she passed.

“Alright, ladies,” she said kindly, “we’re about to lock up.”

Robin blinked, glancing around like she’d just been pulled out of a different world. “Wait, seriously?”

Bee checked the clock above the counter and let out a small, surprised laugh. “Oh my god… we’ve been here for hours.”

Robin groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay, wow. That’s… mildly embarrassing.”

Bee slid out of the booth, grabbing her jacket. “A little.”

“But worth it,” Robin added quickly, nudging her shoulder teasingly. 

Bee smiled. “Yeah. Worth it.”

-

Outside, the air had grown colder after the sun set, the kind of early March chill that clung to your skin and slipped easily through the seams of your clothes. It made Bee instinctively pull her jacket tighter around herself, her fingers curling into the sleeves for warmth. The warmth from the diner faded quickly, replaced by the crisp bite of the night.

Hawkins had settled into that familiar stillness, the kind that only came after everything shut down for the day. No distant traffic, no voices carrying across the street. Just quiet. The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting soft pools of yellow light onto the pavement, stretching their shadows long across the empty parking lot.

Robin shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, shoulders hunching slightly against the cold. “You need a ride?”

Bee hesitated for a second out of habit, the automatic instinct to say 'no, I’m fine' rising to the surface.

Then she nodded. “Yeah… actually, that’d be nice.”

Robin’s grin was immediate. “Look at that. Full circle moment. I finally get to be the one driving you home.”

Bee huffed out a quiet laugh as they started toward the parking lot. “I still can’t believe you have a license.”

“Rude,” Robin shot back, nudging her lightly with her shoulder. “I am a very responsible driver now. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Bee raised an eyebrow, glancing at her.

Robin pointed a finger at her without missing a beat. “You don’t get to question it. You accepted the ride.”

Bee laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m putting my life in your hands. No pressure.”

“Exactly,” Robin said, unlocking her car. “Try to relax.”

-

The drive was easy.

Robin’s car wasn’t anything fancy, but it reflected her personality, lived-in in a way that made it feel comfortable. A couple of cassette tapes sat scattered in the center console, a jacket thrown over the backseat, and a faint smell of something citrusy mixed with old upholstery.

Music played softly through the speakers, something low and melodic. Bee didn’t recognize it immediately, but it had that slightly offbeat, indie feel that screamed Robin. It made her smile to herself.

“Let me guess,” Bee said, glancing over. “Some obscure band no one’s ever heard of?”

Robin gasped dramatically. “Excuse you. 'Neutral Milk Hotel' is going to be huge someday.”

"That's the name of the band?" Bee raised her eyebrow, confusion crossing her face. 

"Yep."

“I’ll remember that when they’re still playing to five people in a basement.” She teased. 

Robin scoffed, but she was smiling.

The conversation drifted after that, slower, softer, the kind that came easily when there was nothing left to prove. They talked about little things. Classes, jobs, people they haven't talked to in forever. The silence between those conversations never felt heavy, just… comfortable.

They passed through the same streets they’d grown up on, the houses glowing softly from within, curtains drawn, televisions flickering behind windows. It felt like driving through a memory, familiar, unchanged in some ways, and completely different in others.

Bee rested her head lightly against the window, watching it all pass by.

When Robin pulled up in front of Bee’s house, the engine idled softly for a moment before she shifted into park.

“We should do this again,” Robin said, glancing over.

Bee nodded as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Robin smiled, softer this time, something more genuine settling in her expression. “Don’t disappear on me again, Henderson.”

Bee paused, her hand resting on the door handle.

Then she smiled back. “I won’t.”

She stepped out of the car, the cold air wrapping around her again as she closed the door with a quiet click. She gave a small wave as Robin pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

-

The house was quiet when Bee stepped inside.

Not silent, it never completely silent, but the kind of quiet that came from years of familiarity. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The distant tick of the clock on the wall. The soft, rhythmic breathing of her mom’s cat, Tews, curled up somewhere out of sight.

Bee smiled faintly at that.

“Hey, Tews,” she murmured, even if she didn’t see him.

She slipped off her beat-up Converse and dropped them by the door, setting her keys into the small ceramic bowl beside it. 

As she made her way down the hallway, she pushed open her bedroom door and immediately groaned.

“Jesus…”

It looked like a tornado had passed through and decided to settle there permanently. Boxes stacked unevenly against the walls, clothes draped over chairs, half-open drawers, loose papers scattered across nearly every surface.

She stepped carefully around a pile of clothes, shaking her head.

“Okay… yeah. This is getting out of hand.”

Crossing the room, she made her way to the corner where her old vinyl player sat. It was one of the few things that hadn’t moved, still resting in the exact same spot it always had.

Bee flipped through the small stack of records, her fingers brushing over familiar covers before landing on one without much thought.

Depeche Mode, 'Violator'.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That feels right.”

She set the record onto the turntable and lowered the needle.

A soft crackle filled the room before the music began, low and steady.

It wasn’t loud, just enough to fill the space, to make the quiet feel less… heavy.

Bee exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she turned back to the boxes.

This had become her routine. Come home. Put on music. Try to make sense of the mess.

Every night, a little unpacking. A little sorting. A slow, quiet attempt to make this space feel like hers again.

She knelt down beside one of the boxes, pulling it open and beginning to sift through its contents. Her fingers brushing past old sketchbooks, loose papers, scraps of designs she barely remembered making. Her fingers lingered on a few of them before setting them aside.

At the bottom, tucked beneath everything else, was something thicker.

Bee paused.

Carefully, she pulled it out.

Her Hawkins High yearbook, Class of 1984.

The cover was worn, the edges softened with time, but it was unmistakable. For a moment, she just stared at it, her thumb brushing lightly across the surface.

“…Wow,” she murmured softly.

She shifted, sitting back against the side of her bed as she opened it.

The pages crinkled faintly as she flipped through them, one after another.

Faces she hadn’t seen in years stared back at her some instantly recognizable like Eddie Munson and everyone in the "Hellfire Club", others distant, like names on the tip of her tongue she couldn’t quite recall. Notes scribbled in margins. Messy signatures. Little messages that once felt so important.

Stay cool. Don’t forget me! See you this summer!

Bee smiled faintly.

God… they’d all been so young.

She turned another page.

And then, she paused.

Steve.

It wasn’t even a particularly special photo. Just his senior portrait, but it was unmistakably him. Perfect hair, that easy confidence, that effortless charm. The kind of look that said he thought the world would unfold exactly the way he expected it to.

Bee stared at it longer than she meant to.

It felt… different now.

After everything Robin had said. The version of him in this picture didn’t quite match the person Robin had described.

Or maybe… she didn’t match the version of herself in these pages anymore either.

Bee exhaled slowly, closing the yearbook just enough to rest her hand against it.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then, before she could overthink it, she reached for the old phone on her nightstand.

Her fingers hovered over the numbers, then moved almost automatically. She knew his number by heart, even now. Years of him calling the house, asking for Dustin, had burned it into her memory.

Her fingers traced the cord absentmindedly before dialing.

“…Okay,” she muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a call. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Bee pressed the final number.

The line began to ring.