Chapter Text
Reese always, always walked the halls of Hawkins High alone after lunch.
Not for any anti-social reason. She had friends—or rather a friend, of course. In fact, the desolate corridors spooked her a little.
Maybe it was because she’d only arrived in this quaint Indiana town a couple of months ago, right as the trees gave their final burst of green and the marigolds withered down into slumber for the autumn, as old men often do. She wasn’t accustomed to the place yet, and unfamiliar spaces tended to feel a little eerie.
Or maybe it was because the halls felt hollow during this liminal time. The noise left a draft, like the space had forgotten what to do with silence.
But she braved the deserted walkways nonetheless, by her lonesome.
From behind her, someone shrieked with laughter. Reese turned to look: a group of three, a couple of girls, and a guy. He’d just tried to scoop one of them up, and now the trio was babbling on with giggles and commentary about a moment she wasn’t a part of.
She smiled at the girl who caught her eye.
Not just a polite smile, the kind one gave to break tension, but something smaller. Warmer. A little open. The kind that said That sounded funny—I’m not judging. I’m just watching. Thinking about saying something but... oh.
The girl wasn’t smiling back. Not in a rude way, just like she hadn’t meant to make eye contact in the first place. She was already laughing with her friends again.
Reese turned her head back around, taking in the way the hallway was streaked with sunlight and floor wax, like maybe a giant snail had raced through the place. Not like the schools back home—those schools were always set outside.
She stepped into the more secluded stretch at the end of the senior wing where her locker waited. She hadn’t seen what, or rather who she was looking for, not yet. So rather than idle like a lost kitten, she decided to make busy at her locker.
Three turns clockwise, then entering the combination: twenty, twenty-five, twenty. So simple, the lock-makers must’ve thought. Nobody would guess it.
Her locker creaked open like a small portal. Books stared back at her in judgmental little rows:
Advanced Geometry, Second Edition.
HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
A bruised copy of The Scarlet Letter.
Her Bible, NIV, cracked at the spine.
Six notebooks.
One pencil pouch.
On the inside of the door hung a patchwork of her own making: My Little Pony stickers. A unicorn magnet. A notecard with Psalm 139 carefully penned in fine blue ink. A newspaper clipping from her old hometown in Monterey—an article about a dolphin born at the local aquarium.
She remembered the small things about California. The way it felt to see a palm tree rise out of the haze on a long drive back home—tall and becoming, like a steeple.
But regardless of her fondness, to Hawkins they came. Her father, her mother, her younger brother. Her mother had joked they were like reverse pioneers.
“Inheritors,” Reese had added helpfully.
That felt accurate now. Inheritors. Walking into a town already laced with its own folklore. Stories of missing people, chemical spills, mall fires. They hadn’t started the narrative. Just showed up partway through.
Still, she thought, it’s never too late to add something to the story.
And it helped that she had longed, secretly, for something quieter.
She reached for The Scarlet Letter, tucking it on top of her notebook and pencil pouch. The locker door clicked shut behind her.
And when she turned—there he was again. Exactly who she denied she had been looking for.
Tall, though not in a way that filled the room. Hair the color of wet oak leaves, wild as if it had argued with him and won. A swagger that said he couldn’t care less about... anything.
His reputation had preceded him, even with her short time at Hawkins. People whispered: freak. Burnout. Druggie. The double-repeat senior who played the “cult” game.
But the world painted people in red Xs all the time. Reese had seen real danger before. Her father had been a fire chief back home; she knew the kinds of fires that burned slow, the ones that didn’t always look like flames.
He struck her more like a feral puppy with a mean bark than any kind of monster.
He passed her locker. Glanced. Expression unreadable, stormy even.
She smiled—quiet, closed-mouth, warm. It reached her eyes.
He didn’t smile back.
Just looked for a second too long, then dipped his head and walked past, pocket chain clinking.
Reese exhaled, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. Golly, get a hold of yourself. He probably thinks you’re crazy.
But recently?
Recently he had started to look back.
Not smile.
Not even nod.
But he looked.
The clatter of dice filled the corners of the drama room like static. It wasn’t much—peeling paint, an old stage curtain bunched up like a sleeping dragon in one corner —but for Eddie Munson, this was sacred ground.
The Hellfire Club’s Friday night campaign meeting had begun in the usual way: sarcastic banter, half-eaten chips, and Dustin trying to evangelize someone into playing Dungeons & Dragons like his life depended on it.
Today, the target wasn’t even in the room.
“I’m telling you,” Dustin said, arms flailing like a prophet mid-sermon, “we need to invite her. She’d actually get it. Like—character sheets, lore, voices—”
He clenched a fist dramatically. “She does voices, I heard her doing this little Elvish thing for Robin in Spanish class, and it was freakin’ sick.”
Across the table, Mike snorted. “Yeah, man, we get it. You have an obsession.”
Lucas raised his eyebrows over his Coke. “Wait, the new girl? Reese?” He looked at Dustin like he was either onto something… or about to crash and burn. “I dunno, man. Are you sure she’d be into this kind of... thing?”
“Dustin, blink twice if you’ve been bewitched,” Gareth smiled wry, sipping from his drink like it was wine in a crystal goblet.
Kevin, never one to show enthusiasm for anything but dice damage and chocolate milk, raised his Yoo-hoo mid-sip.
“So what, the little wide-eyed-church-doll’s gonna come play wizard with us? Between Sunday school and ballet or whatever?”
Jeff smirked. “And, pray tell, voices makes her campaign material? Besides the fact that you talk about her like she’s Galadriel with a Lisa Frank binder.”
Eddie hadn’t said much yet. He sat sprawled across his folding chair like a wolf in flannel armor, rings glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. But at that, he sighed—dramatically, of course—and leaned back.
“Alright—alright." he squawked. "Enough. This is Hellfire. Not new girl fanclub. Unless she’s here rolling dice, she’s not part of the campaign.”
He slapped his DM screen closed with a loud crack like a gavel, then let it fall back open again. “And please. You don’t want her here ‘cause she’d play—you want her here so you can stare at her hair while she teaches us about Bible homework—or whatever.”
Dustin’s brow furrowed. “I’m not saying she’s gonna convert us, dude. I’m saying she’d like it. She’s got imagination. She asks questions that are, like… existential.”
Eddie nodded sarcastically. “Right. Existential. But with cross-stitch and communion wafers.”
Kevin, without looking up, added “Just say you think she’s hot and you’re scared.”
Eddie pointed a ringed finger. “Shut up. Not scared. And anyway, have you seen her? That girl looks like she floats when she walks. Like a Victorian ghost who listens to Hendrix.”
Lucas muttered under his breath, “You’ve definitely written that down in your notebook somewhere.”
Eddie pointed at him. “Not gonna dignify that with a response, Sinclair.”
“So what I’m hearing is…” Gareth tilted his head, mock-psychiatrist mode activated. “You’re intimidated.”
“I’m realistic,” Eddie countered, leaning forward on the table. “Girls who look like that? They don’t play D&D. They light candles and smile at you ‘cause they think it’s charity. They don’t want to hang out after school with six unwashed dudes and an overgrown nerd who quotes Ozzy instead of scripture.”
Jeff raised his brows. “You literally wrote in a random NPC last week who had nothing to do with the plot, and got all pissy when Gareth tried to romance her.”
“Yeah—Yeah” Eddie punched out. “Because that’s fiction. This is reality.”
He paused, letting the silence hang like a curtain. “And in reality? Girl who looks like she was painted by moonlight doesn’t wanna roll initiative against a gelatinous cube.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “What if she does, though?”
Lucas glanced at Dustin before braving, “Y’know what? I say let her try. Worst-case scenario, she thinks it’s lame and doesn’t come back. Best case? Dustin shuts up about his obsession.”
“Hey!” Dustin said, looking wounded. “I’m enthusiastic.”
“You’re. Obsessed.” Lucas replied. “Big difference.”
Dustin shot Lucas a scorned, sarcastic look across the table.
Eddie didn’t respond right away, his rings drumming the table. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “Fine! Fine. If she does her own character sheet and doesn’t cry if I kill her character in the first round, maybe—maybe... she gets a shot.”
He jabbed a ringed finger toward Dustin. “But you’re inviting her.”
Dustin fist-pumped like he’d just leveled up in real life. “Yes! Yes. I knew you had a soft spot.”
“Not a soft spot,” Eddie grumbled, already reaching for his drink. “It’s just... good campaign strategy. She’s probably got celestial warlock energy.”
Kevin glanced up, deadpan. “You just want to hear her say your name in that little whisper voice she uses.”
Eddie pointed again. “Watch it, Kev. Keep that up, and I’ll name the next goblin after you and feed it to a manticore.”
Laughter broke the tension, and the table shifted into noise again—snacks, dice rolls, trash talk. But Eddie sat back for a moment, letting the others talk over each other.
And for just a beat, he let himself imagine it—
Not the gelatinous cube.
Not the campaign.
Just her.
At the table.
Smiling that quiet, mysterious smile.
The bell rang in the late morning of Monday with its usual abrupt finality, cutting through conjugations and chalk dust as students flooded into the halls—backpacks slung, sneakers squeaking, conversations half-finished and echoing off the linoleum.
Reese stepped out of Spanish, notebook and dictionary tucked neatly in the crook of her arms. Her mind was still halfway inside a translation exercise about parables. Psalm-like, almost. The kind of language that felt older than the room it was taught in.
She didn’t make it more than a few steps before—
“Hey! Hey, Reese—wait up a sec!”
She turned, and her hair swung with her, lengthy and heavy, a curtain that brushed the line of her hips. Dustin was weaving through the crowd like a determined salmon upstream. He sidestepped a taller sophomore with the ease of a practiced hallway sprinter, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing as he caught up beside her.
“Hi. Uh—hi again,” he panted, but grinned like this wasn’t peculiar at all.
Reese blinked at him, amused. “Dustin Henderson,” she said in that soft, formal way she had — like she’d just greeted a knight returning from battle.
Dustin visibly lit up. If he’d been holding a sword, he might’ve raised it in triumph. “So. I know this is kinda random, but I’ve got a question. A very serious, life-altering question.” He leaned forward, eyebrows high. “Y'ever play D&D?”
Her smile curled as she tilted her head. “Like… Dungeons and Dragons? Can't say I have. Isn’t that the one where you walk inside a storybook, but the story talks back?"
“Okay first of all, yes. That—exactly that. But it’s way cooler than I can explain in the middle of the hallway while some Sophomore is trying to elbow me for no reason—” He cast a theatrical scowl over his shoulder.
“Anyway, it’s a story, yeah, but with rules. And dice. And you build a whole person from scratch. Or like, an elf. Or a half-orc. Or a bard with a tragic past and a magic lute. Whatever you want.”
They reached her locker, and he pivoted to stand in front of it, walking backwards now like he had no regard for where his feet landed.
“We’ve got this campaign,” he added, voice lowering a little. “It’s ongoing. Very elite. Very intense. Lotta guys. No girls. Which—I know. Tragic.” He gave her a meaningful look. “But you’d get it. The stories. The characters. The ethics of it. There’s even a class called Cleric—they literally heal people with holy magic. You’d love it.”
He tilted his head, hopeful. “So… would you maybe wanna come? Just to sit in. Or play. Or both. No pressure. But also a little pressure. 'Cause I think you’d be awesome.”
Reese raised one pale brow, her mouth twitching at the corners in concern. “Dice rolling?” she asked solemnly. “Doesn’t that count as gambling?”
Dustin’s eyes widened in horror. “Okay—no! No, no, no—totally not gambling, I swear!” He waved his hands like he was trying to swat away a theological fire. “It’s not like—money or poker or whatever. It’s more like… probability-based storytelling. You roll to see if your character does something awesome or—uh—falls into a pit trap and gets eaten.”
His voice dropped, more earnest now. “I mean, yeah, it’s nerd stuff. But it’s also kinda… deep. Like, sacrifice and courage and moral dilemmas and all this mythology. Honestly, half the time it feels more like a novel you’re writing together.” Beat. “...with snacks.” Another beat. “So. Are we off the hook for the gambling charge?”
Reese chuckled and ducked her head, loading her books into the locker that opened with a familiar creak. Her stickers greeted her alongside the verse and unicorn magnet.
“I’m kidding, Dustin,” she said gently. “I play Yahtzee all the time after youth night. Dice rolling isn’t a sin.”
She turned toward him, full-bodied now, the kind of attention she didn’t offer lightly.
“Sure. I’ll come play Dungeons and Dragons with you.” She smiled.
Dustin let out a dramatic full-body sigh and slumped against the locker like he’d just been spared eternal damnation.
“Oh, thank God. I was this close to writing a persuasive essay called ‘Why D&D Is Not Demonic: A Thesis in Fourteen Parts.’” He sprang upright, his grin stretching wide. “…Wait. Really? You’ll come? Like—for real for real?”
He spun in place, fist-pumped, then quickly stopped when a teacher poked her head out of a nearby classroom. He cleared his throat.
“Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re gonna need a character sheet—but I can help with that. Or Eddie can—or no—not that. I could lend you one of my beginner manuals tomorrow, and you could figure it out." He eyed her with sudden gravity, as if defining her spiritual class alignment. “Hmm. I’m sensing… healer vibes. Maybe Cleric. Or Druid. Or—wait—Warlock with, like, a really weird backstory and tragic poetry. Honestly, sky’s the limit.”
He brightened again, as if the campaign had just gained its most powerful player.
“We meet in the drama room after school on Fridays—seven. There’ll be snacks. And shouting. And Eddie being weird. But mostly? It’s the best part of the week.”
And with that, he took a few steps back, still facing her.
“See you Friday, Reese Halverson,” he said, mirroring her greeting, slipping his hands into his pockets. “This campaign just got a lot cooler.”
Then promptly spun around and walked into the edge of a locker.
Reese laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she closed the locker. The sound wavered, thin as nerves. She lingered in the wake of his energy, tracing the idea in her mind like touching the edge of a flame.
Dustin was endearingly enigmatic. In the way that being completely yourself was cool. She liked that about him.
And Eddie Munson…
Well.
She could smile at him from a safe distance. Imagine what he might be like beneath the rumors.
But to actually meet his eyes, to actually speak—her chest cinched at the thought. She wasn’t sure her voice would even work.
Not yet.
She glanced down at her sketchbook. A new page, blank and waiting.
Maybe her character would be an elf. A Cleric. Soft-spoken but strong.
She scribbled a name in the margin:
Lady Fluttershy.
A character, a chance. A way of stepping into the story.