October ca with cold rain and the start of basketball tryouts.
I'd been in this body for three weeks now, and the initial shock had crystallized into sothing more useful: determination. The compass sat hidden in my closet, untouched since that first night. I wanted to test it more, wanted to understand the Dinsional Backpack's rules, but caution won out. If I pulled too many items too quickly, if I acted too strange, people would notice.
And the last thing I needed was attention.
So instead, I focused on the one power I could train in secret: my body itself.
Sothing was different about —about Steve's body, technically, but it was mine now. I'd noticed it during gym class when I'd executed a layup I definitely hadn't practiced. The movent felt natural, instinctive, like my body knew what to do even if my mind didn't.
I tested it that night in my basent, following along with a martial arts VHS tape I'd checked out from the library. A basic karate instructional, grainy and dated. The instructor demonstrated a punch, and I mimicked it.
Perfect form. First try.
I did it again. The motion felt locked into my muscles, permanent, like I'd practiced it a thousand tis. By the end of the hour-long tape, I'd absorbed techniques that should have taken weeks to learn.
Fight Master, I thought, rembering the terminology from the power docunts I'd read in the void. Or maybe I'd just sohow known it, information downloaded into my brain along with everything else. An ability to master any fighting technique with minimal practice. My body adapted and learned at three tis the normal rate.
Which ant I had three years to beco very, very dangerous.
Hawkins High School was smaller than I rembered from the show, but that made sense—fewer students in the early eighties. The social hierarchy was already established: jocks at the top, nerds at the bottom, everyone else fighting for position in between.
I needed to be at the top. Not because I enjoyed it—watching Tommy H. and his friends mock a freshman for his clothes made want to break soone's nose—but because King Steve had resources. Money, influence, a house empty for months at a ti. If I was going to prepare for the Upside Down, I needed those advantages.
But I could be a different kind of King Steve.
"Harrington!" Tommy H. jogged up to after practice, all confident swagger. Carol hung on his arm, smirking at sothing. "You're trying out for varsity, right?"
I was a freshman. Varsity was mostly juniors and seniors. But this body had skills, and more importantly, I had knowledge from the void giving edge.
"Maybe," I said, adjusting my gym bag. "Coach seems interested."
"Dude, you're killing it out there." Tommy clapped my shoulder. "Stick with us, you'll be running this school by junior year."
Carol giggled. "He's already got the look. Just needs the attitude."
They wanted in their circle. I could see the calculation behind Tommy's friendly tone—he was sizing up future competition, deciding if I was useful or a threat.
Neither, I thought. You're just a placeholder until I find people who matter.
"Cool," I said aloud, giving them a grin that felt plastic. "Hey, I'm grabbing food at the diner. You guys want in?"
They did. Of course they did. And as we walked toward Tommy's car, I caught sight of Jonathan Byers heading toward the parking lot, cara bag over his shoulder, completely ignored by everyone around him.
Three years. In three years, Jonathan would be in the thick of fighting monsters alongside Nancy Wheeler. Right now, he was just the quiet kid nobody noticed.
I filed that information away and climbed into Tommy's backseat, already planning my next move.
The library beca my second ho.
Mrs. Crane, the librarian, barely acknowledged anymore. I'd beco a fixture at the back table near the reference section, always with notebooks and borrowed books spread around . Most days I was alone.
But not today.
I heard them before I saw them—the distinctive rattle of dice, hushed voices trying to stay quiet. I looked up from my notes on dinsional theory (disguised as a physics textbook) and spotted three guys huddled in the corner behind the nonfiction stacks.
One of them was Eddie Munson.
He was running a D&D ga, judging by the makeshift DM screen and character sheets spread across their table. Two other guys I didn't recognize were completely absorbed in whatever scenario Eddie was weaving. His voice carried just enough for to catch fragnts:
"...the dragon's shadow falls across the village. What do you do?"
I should have gone back to my reading. Should have ignored them. But I'd watched Eddie die in Season 4, watched him sacrifice himself while playing Master of Puppets in the Upside Down, and sothing in my chest twisted.
He was just a kid. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, already labeled a freak by everyone who mattered. In seven years, he'd be dead because this town refused to see past his leather jacket and long hair.
Not if I can help it.
I stood, grabbed my notebook, and walked over. Eddie noticed first—his eyes went wide, and he quickly started gathering the ga materials like he was expecting trouble.
"Relax," I said, pulling up a chair. "I'm just watching."
"You're... watching?" Eddie repeated slowly, like I'd spoken a foreign language.
"Yeah. It's D&D, right? I've heard of it." I hadn't actually played—too nerdy for my old friend group—but I'd watched Stranger Things enough to know the basics. "How does it work?"
Eddie stared at . So did his friends. One of them—a stocky guy with glasses—started, "Dude, are you ssing with us?"
"No." I leaned back in my chair, deliberately casual. "I'm bored. You guys look like you're having fun. I want to know why."
The library door burst open, and three seniors swaggered in. I recognized them—basketball players, the kind who thought their letterman jackets made them invincible. They spotted Eddie's group and started heading over with predatory grins.
Here we go.
I stood before they got within ten feet, moving to intercept. "Hey, Henderson," I called to one of them—Mark Henderson, no relation to Dustin. "Coach is looking for you. Sothing about your eligibility for Friday's ga?"
Henderson stopped. "What? I haven't heard anything."
"Yeah, well, he ntioned it in the locker room." I shrugged. "Probably nothing, but you might want to check."
It was complete bullshit. But Henderson's face paled—he was barely maintaining his GPA anyway—and his friends exchanged glances. The mont of potential violence passed as they turned and headed for the gym instead.
Crisis averted.
I sat back down. Eddie was staring at like I'd grown a second head.
"Why did you do that?" he asked quietly.
"Do what? I just told Henderson about Coach." I picked up one of his character sheets, studying it. "This is pretty complex. How long does a campaign usually take?"
Eddie's friend nudged him. "Dude, I think he's serious."
"I am." I looked at Eddie. "Continue the ga. I want to see how this works."
He hesitated for another mont, then slowly picked up his dice. "Okay... so, the dragon's shadow falls across the village..."
I watched them play for the next forty minutes. Eddie was a natural DM—dramatic, engaging, pulling his players into the story with vivid descriptions and clever challenges. His voice changed for different NPCs, his hands gesticulated wildly, and despite the school's opinion of him, he was clearly brilliant at this.
When the session ended, I stood to leave. Eddie caught my arm.
"Hey, uh... thanks. For earlier."
"No problem." I glanced at his friends, who were packing up ga materials. "You guys play here every week?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays," Eddie said cautiously. "Why?"
"Just curious." I headed for the door, then paused. "The dragon thing? Cool idea. But if I were the players, I'd try to parley with it instead of fighting. Dragons are usually intelligent, right? Might be useful to have one as an ally instead of an enemy."
Eddie's mouth fell open. "That's... actually a really good point."
I grinned and left.
Behind , I heard one of his friends whisper, "Did Steve Harrington just give Eddie Munson campaign advice?"
The basent of my house beca my training ground.
My parents were in Tokyo for another five weeks, then they'd be ho for maybe ten days before jetting off to London. The pattern was established: they'd be gone more than they were here, and when they were ho, they barely noticed anyway.
Which gave all the ti in the world to train.
I'd cleared out half the basent, pushing storage boxes and old furniture to one corner. The concrete floor was perfect for martial arts practice, and the exposed support beams gave sothing to work with for upper body conditioning.
I started simple. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups on the beams. My body responded faster than it should have—muscles developing definition after just a few weeks that should have taken months. The Fight Master ability wasn't just about technique; it was enhancing my physical developnt too.
Then I moved to the VHS tapes. I'd collected five so far from the library: basic karate, boxing fundantals, knife fighting (labeled as "stage combat" but the techniques were real enough), and two generic martial arts instructionals.
Two hours of watching, two hours of practice. Every night.
The karate forms locked into my muscle mory within days. The boxing footwork beca second nature. The knife techniques—practiced with a wooden dowel I'd carved into a rough blade shape—felt instinctive after a week.
I was learning at an impossible rate, and my body was keeping pace.
By the ti November arrived, I could move through combinations that would have taken years to master. My reaction ti had improved noticeably. My balance was perfect. The skinny fourteen-year-old body I'd inherited was starting to show real definition.
Three tis faster than normal, I thought, executing a spinning kick that would have been impossible a month ago. That's the power. My body adapts and learns, permanently storing everything.
I had 1,065 days until Will vanished.
If I kept this pace, I'd be deadly by then.
December brought snow and an unexpected complication: people started noticing .
Not in a bad way—I'd been careful to maintain the popular jock facade, hanging with Tommy and Carol just enough to stay in their orbit without getting too close. I made the varsity basketball team as a freshman, which earned respect from the upperclassn. My grades were solid without being suspiciously perfect.
But Eddie Munson kept nodding at in the hallways. Mrs. Crane smiled when I checked out books. Jonathan Byers once t my eyes across the cafeteria and gave a tiny, confused nod, like he couldn't figure out why the jock hadn't mocked him yet.
I was building sothing. Not the King Steve from the original tiline—that version had been cruel and shallow. This Steve protected kids from bullies. This Steve returned library books on ti. This Steve didn't join in when Tommy mocked the AV Club.
Tommy noticed. "You're going soft, Harrington," he said one day after practice. "Used to be fun. Now you're all... I don't know. Different."
"Just tired," I lied. "My parents are gone again. Gets old."
"Yeah, that sucks." Tommy's sympathy was brief. "But seriously, you need to loosen up. We're hitting a party Friday. You in?"
"Maybe." I grabbed my gym bag. "I'll let you know."
I wouldn't go. Parties ant drinking, drinking ant losing control, and I couldn't afford to lose control. Not when I was training every night. Not when I was laying the groundwork for alliances that wouldn't pay off for years.
Not when I had monsters to prepare for.
January marked the end of my first sester in this new life and the beginning of systematic preparation.
My journal had grown to three notebooks, all hidden behind the loose board in my closet. Page after page of coded observations: who to trust, who to watch, what changes I dared make to the tiline.
Eddie Munson: Build friendship slowly. He's key to many things.
Robin Buckley: Haven't t yet. Find her.
The Party: Too young to approach now. Wait until closer to events.
Nancy Wheeler & Barb Holland: Barb dies in Season 1. PREVENT THIS.
The list went on. Dozens of nas, hundreds of plot points, all carefully catalogued and cross-referenced.
The compass stayed hidden. My Dinsional Backpack was recharging—1% per day, I'd calculated, based on nothing but instinct. In another seventy days, I'd hit 100% and could test extraction again. Could see what other items might appear.
But that was future planning. Present Steve had to maintain his cover, continue training, and build the foundation for everything that would co.
I stood in my basent that night, going through knife forms with my wooden practice blade, and caught my reflection in the window. Sweat dripped down my face. My muscles burned with good exhaustion. My hands moved with deadly precision through strikes and parries I'd learned in less than a month.
You're not Steve Harrington, I thought. Not the real one. But you're wearing his face, living his life, and in three years, you'll use everything he has to save people he never knew he could save.
I executed a final combination—thrust, twist, slash—and stopped. Breathing hard. Centered.
Eddie had started nodding at in hallways. That was progress. Baby steps toward the alliance I'd need when November 1983 rolled around.
Tommy complained I was getting soft, but he still invited to parties. The jock facade held.
My body was transforming day by day, becoming sothing more than it had been. Sothing dangerous.
1,034 days until Will Byers vanished.
I had work to do.
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