The record store slled like dust and vinyl dreams.
I pushed through the door in February, bell chiming overhead, with a specific target in mind. Robin Buckley. Band geek. Future best friend. Currently arguing with the owner about David Bowie's artistic evolution in a voice that carried across the entire shop.
"—Ziggy Stardust was a persona," she was saying, gesturing with both hands at a record she'd pulled from the shelf. "The whole point was the theatrical death and rebirth. You can't just dismiss it as glam rock posturing when it's literally about the performance of identity."
The owner—grey-haired guy with a ZZ Top beard—rolled his eyes. "Kid, it's a guy in makeup singing about space. You're overthinking it."
"I'm thinking about it the exact right amount." Robin's grip tightened on the record sleeve. "The Spiders from Mars weren't just a backing band, they were—"
"They were part of the largest musical statent of the seventies," I cut in, walking up to the counter. "The album's a concept piece about fa consuming identity. The Ziggy character becos the mask he wears until there's nothing underneath."
Robin's head whipped toward . Brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Shit. Too much?
The store owner grunted. "Harrington. Didn't know you listened to anything besides top forty garbage."
"I contain multitudes." I picked up another Bowie album—Hunky Dory—and studied the track listing like I hadn't already morized it from a dozen listens in my old life. "Changes is about transformation. Life on Mars is about escape from mundane reality. The whole album's about becoming soone else."
Robin set down Ziggy Stardust slowly. "Why are you here?"
Valid question. Steve Harrington—King Steve in training—had no business in a record store discussing Bowie's artistic vision with the weird band girl. But I'd been planning this for weeks, ever since I'd spotted her in the school hallway carrying a French horn case covered in sarcastic stickers.
"Needed new music." I shrugged, all casual confidence. "Basketball practice playlist is getting stale."
"So you ca here to discuss the philosophical implications of glam rock personas?" Her tone dripped skepticism.
"I ca here because Tommy Henderson told this place only sells 'loser music' and I wanted to see what he ant." I t her eyes directly. "Turns out he's an idiot. Who knew?"
The store owner laughed. Robin's expression shifted—still suspicious, but now with a flicker of curiosity.
"You're seriously trying to tell you care about David Bowie's artistic evolution?" she asked.
"Station to Station is better than Ziggy Stardust," I said. "Fight ."
Her jaw dropped. "That is objectively wrong."
"Is it though? Station to Station has Golden Years. It's got the title track that's literally ten minutes of cocaine-fueled genius. Ziggy's great, don't get wrong, but—"
"But nothing. Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is a complete narrative arc with thematic resonance and cultural impact that Station to Station, while excellent, doesn't match."
We argued for twenty minutes. The store owner gave up and retreated to the back room. Robin grabbed albums to support her points. I countered with references to chord progressions and production choices I definitely shouldn't know about.
And sowhere in the middle of debating whether Scary Monsters was Bowie's last great album or just great compared to his eighties output, Robin smiled.
Actually smiled.
"You're kind of weird, Harrington," she said finally.
"Yeah." I bought the Hunky Dory record because I could, because Steve's parents left enough money that a ten-dollar album was nothing. "You're pretty weird too."
"That's not an insult coming from you, is it?"
"Nope." I headed for the door. "See you around, Buckley."
Behind , I heard her say to the store owner, "Did Steve Harrington just out-music-nerd ?"
"Appears so."
"Huh."
Robin
Steve Harrington was weird, and Robin didn't trust weird.
She'd seen him around school—hard not to, he was everywhere lately. Basketball star in the making. Friends with Tommy H., who was objectively the worst. Part of that whole jock circle that made freshman year miserable for anyone who didn't fit their narrow definition of cool.
But then he'd shown up at her record store. Defended Bowie. Made argunts about artistic vision that suggested he actually gave a shit about music beyond whatever played on Casey Kasem's countdown.
"It's a trap," she muttered to herself in band class the next day. "Rich jock pretends to be interesting, then humiliates the weird girl. Classic."
Except Steve didn't humiliate her. He nodded when they passed in the hallway—not the mocking kind of acknowledgnt, just a genuine "hey." He didn't make fun of her French horn case. He didn't laugh when she dropped her books in the parking lot and sheet music went everywhere.
He helped pick them up.
"Holst," he said, reading one of the pieces. "The Planets suite?"
"Jupiter movent." Robin grabbed the sheets back. "Why do you know Holst?"
"Docuntary on PBS." He handed over the last page. "Space music. Pretty cool."
Then he left. Just walked away like helping the band geek pick up scattered music was completely normal behavior for King Steve in training.
Robin stared after him, utterly confused.
The next week, he showed up at the record store again. Bought a Talking Heads album. Made a joke about how Psycho Killer was "relatable" in a way that was either concerning or hilarious.
"You keep coming back," Robin said.
"Music's good here."
"There are three record stores in Hawkins. This is the smallest."
Steve looked at her for a long mont. "The other ones don't have soone who'll argue with about whether punk's dead or just evolving."
"Punk's not dead, it's just—" She stopped. "Wait. You want to argue with you?"
"Yeah." He grinned, and it looked almost real. "You're smart. It's refreshing."
Nobody called Robin smart except her teachers, and that was always qualified with "but lacks focus" or "needs to apply herself better."
She found herself smiling back.
Steve
March brought horror movie nights and the slow construction of actual friendship.
Robin's house was small but lived-in, the kind of place where family photos crowded every surface and her mom baked cookies without being asked. Mrs. Buckley eyed with suspicion the first ti I showed up—rich kid from the hill coming to watch movies with her weird daughter probably set off alarm bells.
"We're just watching The Thing," Robin explained. "Steve claims Carpenter's overrated."
"I said Halloween was overrated," I corrected. "The Thing is a masterpiece."
Mrs. Buckley relaxed slightly. "You kids want popcorn?"
We watched practical effects and paranoia on Robin's tiny TV, and I had to bite back comnts about how the prequel would ruin the mystery in thirty years. Robin provided running comntary about the cinematography and creature design. She knew everything about how effects were made, how shots were composed, how Carpenter built tension.
"You could do this," I said during a quiet mont. "Film stuff. You're good at analysis."
"Right, because Hawkins, Indiana is such a hub for film careers." But her tone wasn't bitter, just realistic.
"So leave." I grabbed more popcorn. "After graduation. Go sowhere that matters."
Robin looked at with those sharp, calculating eyes. "Why do you care?"
Because I'd watched her kick ass in a Soviet bunker. Because I knew she'd help save the world multiple tis while never getting the credit she deserved. Because she was going to be the best friend I'd ever have, and that bond needed to start sowhere.
"Because you're interesting," I said instead. "Most people here are boring as hell."
"Even your basketball friends?"
"Especially them." The truth ca easier than expected. "Tommy's an asshole. Carol's worse. I hang out with them because... I don't know. It's easier than explaining why I don't want to."
Robin paused the movie. "You feel disconnected."
"Yeah." The vulnerability felt dangerous but necessary. "Like I'm playing a part. Going through motions. Waiting for sothing real to happen."
"That's called being fifteen, Steve."
"Maybe." I t her eyes. "Or maybe so of us can see that this—" I gestured at the window, at Hawkins beyond it, "—isn't enough. Isn't real. Like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Sothing shifted in Robin's expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just the realization that King Steve in training was as lost as she was.
"Okay," she said quietly. "We can keep doing this. Movie nights. But you have to promise sothing."
"What?"
"Don't turn into an asshole. You're walking a dangerous line with Tommy and those guys. Don't cross it."
I thought about the original Steve—cruel to Nancy, dismissive of everyone outside his circle, wasting years before finally becoming soone worth knowing.
"I won't," I promised. "That's not who I want to be."
Robin studied for another mont, then unpaused the movie. "Good. Because I will absolutely kick your ass if you go full jock-asshole."
"Noted."
We watched Kurt Russell fight aliens in Antarctica, and I felt sothing settle in my chest. Real friendship. The first genuinely good thing I'd built in this new life.
May arrived with unseasonable warmth and an unexpected encounter.
The school career fair was mandatory for freshn—endless booths of local businesses trying to convince teenagers that Hawkins had opportunities beyond the factory or farm work. I wandered past displays for lvald's General Store and the police departnt, barely paying attention.
Then I spotted Joyce Byers.
She was at the hospital booth, looking exhausted in blue scrubs. Her hair was pulled back, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. The divorce was hitting her hard—even from across the fair, you could see the weight she carried.
I shouldn't interfere. Joyce's life was complicated enough without my ddling. But Bob Newby kept haunting my thoughts—the kindest man in Hawkins, destined to die in a lab full of demo-dogs while buying ti for everyone else to escape.
Every ti I've tried to save him, sothing worse happens.
The thought ca from nowhere and everywhere. A mory that wasn't mine, knowledge I shouldn't have. Other tilines? Other attempts?
Focus. Present mont.
"—really need soone who knows electronics," a voice was saying nearby. "The new inventory system is killing ."
I turned. Two guys from the RadioShack booth were talking, and one of them was describing their manager—"Bob sothing, super nice guy but absolutely useless with computers."
Perfect.
"Bob Newby," I said casually, walking past them toward another booth. "RadioShack manager. Really into tech but old-school. Probably needs soone patient to teach him the new systems."
The RadioShack guy blinked. "You know Bob?"
"Bought cables from him last week. Seed like a good guy." I shrugged. "Very... earnest. The kind of person who'd help anyone with anything."
I kept walking, but the seed was planted. Soone at this fair would ntion to Joyce how nice RadioShack Bob was. Maybe she'd stop by the store soti. Maybe their paths would cross earlier, stronger, differently.
Maybe Bob would survive.
Or maybe I'd doom him worse than before.
Stop. You can't control everything.
But I could try.
Robin found behind the school after the fair ended, sitting on the concrete steps and staring at nothing.
"You okay?" She dropped onto the step beside . "You look like soone killed your dog."
"Don't have a dog."
"taphorical dog murder, then."
I smiled despite everything. "Just thinking. Too many variables. Not enough information."
"That's cryptic."
"Yeah." I stood, brushing off my jeans. "You free this weekend? My parents left for London yesterday. House is empty for six weeks."
Robin raised an eyebrow. "Is this you propositioning ? Because I should warn you, Harrington, I'm not interested in—"
"Movie marathon," I interrupted. "Horror, sci-fi, whatever. No pressure. Just figured having an empty house ans we could actually turn the volu up without worrying about parents."
Her expression softened. "You really are lonely up there in that big house, aren't you?"
"It's quieter than I'd like," I admitted.
"Okay. This weekend. But I'm picking the movies, and you're providing the snacks."
"Deal."
Robin headed for her bike, and I watched her go—sharp, cynical, secretly kind Robin Buckley, who had no idea how important she'd beco.
Two real friends now. Eddie ward up slowly, cautious and surprised by any kindness. Robin challenged , kept honest, made sure I didn't disappear into the role I was playing.
I headed ho to an empty mansion and a basent full of training equipnt, already planning the next phase.
The Dinsional Backpack was at 60% charge—forty more days until I could test extraction again. Fight Master progressed steadily, my body learning to weaponize anything I touched. The compass sat hidden in my closet, waiting.
And sowhere in Hawkins, Bob Newby went about his life, unaware that I'd just tried to nudge fate in his favor.
Please let it work this ti, I thought. Please let him live.
But hope was dangerous. Hope ant caring about outcos I couldn't control.
I locked the front door behind and descended into the basent, where certainty waited in the form of training dummies and heavy bags and the steady progression of becoming dangerous enough to matter.
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