Chapter Text
Steve’s first mistake is stealing Jon Barnes’ backpack.
In Steve’s defence, Jon Barnes shouldn’t have left his backpack unattended. Steve’s a curious guy. He just wanted to have a look, see if there was anything worth taking—he shouldn’t have had such high hopes though, it is Jon Barnes’ backpack after all. Steve’s pretty sure Barnes doesn’t even have his own bedroom. Imagine that. Not having your own bed.
Barnes carries around this Nokia flip phone like it’s the 90s or something. Steve’s seen a few girls in his class with flip phones, but that’s, like, a trend. They put Hello Kitty charms and stickers on them and tell Steve they’re taking a social media break, so no, he can’t get their Instagram. Jon Barnes definitely doesn’t have Instagram, or even like, WhatsApp, probably.
Steve kinda feels bad for him, you know? No bed, no phone. Now, no backpack. But whatever, he’s just having a look.
Steve tips the backpack upside down and shakes, watching as a waterfall of junk falls onto his bedroom floor.
Crumpled homework sheets, an apple, empty lunchbox, two pens, an eraser, pair of gloves. Boring, boring, boring. Steve pats down the now flat backpack. There’s gotta be something. Some cash, at least. Jon Barnes seems like the type of guy to carry cash. Does he even know Apple Pay exists? Steve snorts at the thought.
Steve stops patting. He’s found something. He unzips one of the little pockets, reaches inside and retrieves a—fucking Nintendo DS. Steve deflates. That’s it? A DS. It’s not even one of the newer models. Jesus. It’s blue, got scratches along its surface and doesn’t even have a stylus.
Steve sits back on his ass, kicks one knee up and opens the thing. Turns it around. He hasn’t played with one of these things in years. Steve, himself, is more of an Xbox guy. Call of Duty, Fortnite—if his friends beg and plead—EA Sports. Just the normal stuff, you know? Steve prefers to play actual sports though. He’s not one of the gaming sweats who spend all day in their bedrooms shouting at a screen. Steve has a life.
Steve switches the DS on. It’s half-charged. He shrugs, might as well see what games Barnes has.
There’s one game.
Wow, this is just sad. One game.
Some pixel looking thing that Steve has never heard of. Barnes couldn’t afford Mario Kart or something? This is just, seriously sad.
Well whatever, it’s not Steve’s crap DS or his crap game. He’s just having a look.
Steve clicks on the icon.
Steve’s second mistake is pressing play.
Steve opens his eyes to nothing. Like, literally nothing. No darkness. No light. Just… absence. Steve can’t see. He tries to blink but can’t feel his own eyelashes. He can’t feel anything at all.
Steve tries to speak, to scream, but no words come out. He has no mouth to speak from. No lungs to scream from.
It is a bit like being awake when his body’s asleep. That all-consuming feeling of not being able to do anything. He’s been forced to stillness.
Steve tries to think really hard:
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Let me out of here.
Where is here?
Light appears. Blinding light. Steve can’t look away because he still doesn’t have a head, or eyeballs. The light transforms yellow and silken. A scroll.
The scroll unrolls until it is a rectangular banner.
What?
Steve doesn’t understand.
He wants to leave.
He wants to leave whatever the hell this is!
☆
Steve wakes up in his bed, eyes opening on a sharp inhale. A nightmare. Wow. He, like, never has nightmares. Steve sits up, rubs a knuckle into his eye socket hard trying to shake off the sleep. It’s still dark outside. Early morning, then. Steve reaches for his phone. It’s not under his pillow. He frowns, checking his bedside table.
Where the fuck did he put his phone?
Steve gets out of bed, fumbles around, tiredly swipes at the sheets, kicks along the floor. Maybe he left it downstairs. Or in the bathroom. He always forgets it in the bathroom.
Steve pisses into the toilet with eyes closed. Checks his reflection in the mirror while washing his hands. God, his bed head is insane. He quickly rakes his hands through it before giving up. He’ll style it after his shower. Right now he just needs to find his phone. Steve can’t shower without his shower playlist.
The house is quiet today. Normally his dad’s up by now. Maybe it’s earlier than Steve thought.
It’s when Steve reaches the stairs that he pauses.
What the hell?
There is a picture of Steve hanging near the bannister. Young Steve. Like, four or five-years-old young. Steve walks closer, squinting. Why does it look so dated? And since when has he ever worn flared dungarees? Why would his mom put him in flared dungarees?
Wait.
Who the hell are they?
Young Steve is being held in a stranger’s arms. There’s a man standing beside the woman that holds him like—like they’re his parents or something. Steve takes a step back. This is freaking him out. Seriously.
Are his parents trying to prank him? His dad doesn’t do pranks. His mom, maybe.
Steve stalks down the hall, knocks twice on the master bedroom.
“Hey, Mom? Dad?”
No answer.
Steve knocks again.
“Hello?”
His dad is the lightest sleeper Steve knows.
“Mom? Dad? Did you put that picture up? In the hallway? Hello?” Steve turns the handle, closes his eyes tight just in case (he learnt his lesson about walking in unannounced age eleven). He opens the door and waits for the complaints, the: Steven, knock before entering! The: Steven, get out! We’re not dressed. Or even the: What do you want, Steve? It’s five in the goddamn morning.
There’s nothing.
Steve opens his eyes.
Their bedroom is empty. Like, bed made, curtains drawn, carpet untouched kind of empty. It also… doesn’t look like his mom and dad’s bedroom. Sure, the bed’s the same. But the curtains, the walls—since when has that vanity been there? His mom hates floral patterns.
Steve doesn’t understand.
He’s walking back out, legs moving before his mind gets with the program, taking the stairs two at a time. He shoves open the kitchen door except it’s not the kitchen, it’s the living room. Steve keeps walking down the hall, opens the living room door and finds the kitchen.
Which is empty.
Steve doesn’t understand.
There’s a gift basket on the kitchen island. It has flowers sticking out the top and little engraved boxes inside, individually wrapped chocolates. A little note.
Steve picks up the note.
Steve puts the note back down. He picks up one of the chocolates. Raspberry and white chocolate with a fondant centre. Steve is allergic to raspberries. He puts the chocolate back down and takes a seat on one of the island stools.
Steve is still sleeping, he realises.
That’s why nothing makes sense.
He gets up, puts the stool back in its place and walks upstairs. He goes to his bedroom that is not actually his bedroom and lies down on his bed which is not actually his bed. He curls up like a curly c and shoves a hand under his pillow, getting into the optimum sleeping position.
Steve closes his eyes.
Steve falls asleep.
☆
Steve wakes up to beeping.
He sits up without opening his eyes, groans and then stretches wide with arms above his head. The beeping keeps going. Steve squints one eye open, looks around in confusion for the culprit. On the bedside table is an alarm clock, flashing red with 7:00. Steve slaps it off and then frowns. He doesn’t have an alarm clock. Why would he have an alarm clock? He has a phone.
Where is his phone?
Steve checks under his pillow. Hmm. He must have left it in the bathroom. He’s always leaving it in the bathroom.
Steve gets up, goes to the bathroom, pisses and washes his hands. God, his bed head. Steve doesn’t bother fixing it—he’ll do that in the shower. What he needs to do right now is find his phone. He can’t shower without his shower playlist.
Steve makes his way downstairs, rubbing at his eyes. He’s so tired. He accidentally walks into the living room, walks back out and finds the kitchen.
There’s a gift basket on the kitchen island.
Steve’s stomach drops.
“What the fuck?” His voice cracks halfway.
He doesn’t—Steve doesn’t understand.
Light blinds him. Steve stumbles backwards, arms coming up to shield his eyes. When Steve lowers his arms, squinting, there is a floating banner in front of him.
How can he still be asleep? This doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense. What the fuck is Hawkins? What game? How does Steve wake up?
Steve turns away from the banner, away from the kitchen. He starts walking back up the stairs. He is going to bed and it’s going to work this time. He’s not in some—some Coraline bullshit. None of this is real.
Light shoots out at him, like a camera flash, the minute he reaches the top of the stairs. Steve almost falls backwards, flings out a hand to grip the bannister with his life, chest heaving.
“What the fuck?”
Steve laughs, reaching out to touch the banner and stares in disbelief as his hand touches solid matter. Steve laughs some more. Oh God. Jesus fucking Christ.
Steve’s insane. He’s actually gone insane.
“This is crazy,” he says. “This is crazy, this is crazy, this. Is. Crazy!”
His mom’s family did have a history of schizophrenia. His dad, Alzheimer's. Just Steve’s luck. He’s going to be admitted to a psych ward. An honest to God psych ward. Everyone in school will know him as the guy who lost his mind in junior year.
“I don't care about being late and I don’t care about going to school!” Steve shouts at the banner, because that is, apparently, something he does now. “I’ve lost my goddamn mind and you think I’m going to school?” He grips at his hair and proceeds to pace the landing. Was it the edible he took last month? No, the weed that Edgar Mason gave him on Saturday—he knew that deadbeat was lacing his shit. When Steve finds him—no, even better, he’ll snitch on the bastard. See how Mason likes it behind a four wall cell. Shit. What is Steve talking about? What’s he gonna do when he can’t even get his head on straight? Forget laughing at Jon Barnes for being a weirdo freak, if anyone finds out about this Steve can never show his face again.
Wait.
Jon Barnes.
The DS. The game. The fucking game.
Steve pauses, turns to the floating banner. “Where am I?” He asks. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m in the game,” Steve says, not a question. “I’m in the fucking game. Is this some—Jumanji shit? Is that actually what’s happening right now? Or am I just really high? Did I get high and forget? Am I on a goddamn trip right now? Where’s my phone?” Steve needs to Google this shit right now.
“Fuck school!” Steve screams. “Seriously fuck school in the ass right now, man! What even are you? Where’s my phone, dickhead?”
The banner stays the same.
Steve gives it the middle finger. He rushes down the hallway and throws himself onto the bed, pulls the covers up past his head and shuts his eyes tight.
Go to sleep, go to sleep, go the fuck to sleep.
Steve can’t fall asleep.
Okay.
Okay, that’s—fine, actually.
There is a true and trusted method for this.
Steve is going to kill himself.
He always wakes up before he dies in a dream. Maybe he’s just not stressed enough right now. Steve ignores the banner that follows behind him and the messed-up family portrait on the wall and the gift basket and heads straight to the kitchen drawers. Finds a knife. A good knife. Then he brings it up to his neck. That’s the best place to do it right? Because of the veins and shit?
The banner keeps flashing. Steve ignores it, testing his grip on the knife.
The banner flashes up close, right in front of Steve’s eyes. He flinches, almost cuts himself by accident.
“Uh huh. Sure, man,” Steve says and stabs himself.
☆
Steve wakes up in his bed, eyes opening on a sharp inhale. A nightmare. Wow. He, like, never has nightmares. Steve sits up, rubs a knuckle into his eye socket hard trying to shake off the sleep.
There’s a flash of light.
Steve blinks.
So, Steve is in Hell.
That’s what he’s gathered. Steve has never been much of the religious type, sure he went church occasionally—but it was always more of an appearance situation. Show his face, act like a good Christian. That sort of thing. His mom and dad weren’t anal about it. Clearly, they should have been. Maybe then Steve wouldn’t be in literal Hell.
Steve screws up the wrapper of his fifth chocolate. Apparently, he’s no longer allergic to raspberries. Go figure.
Steve’s been sitting in the kitchen for a good hour now, just… existing. Or not existing, considering he’s dead and in Hell. Steve wonders how he died.
“Right,” Steve nods along, opening another chocolate. “Sure. Hey, are there Reese’s in Hell?” He speaks around a mouthful. “‘Cause I could really do with a Reese’s right now. And my phone,” he adds. Apparently no phones in Hell. That’s how Steve knows it really is Hell.
There’s a knock.
Steve looks up and around, glances back at the banner. “‘S that you?”
The banner stays floating like a dickhead.
Another knock, then the chime of a doorbell.
“Are there deliveries in Hell?” Steve questions, standing up, making his way out into the hallway.
He swings open the door.
Some guy stands outside, leaning against the porch wall, hands in his pocket.
“Harrington, come on—” The guy does a double-take looking Steve up and down. “What’s going on with you?”
That’s a very good question.
“Sorry,” Steve says, “do I know you, man?”
The guy stares at him before laughing. “Yeah alright, you know if you were gonna play hooky you coulda’ told me. I still got to pick up Carol, man.”
“Uh huh, well.” Steve shrugs, wiping a chocolate stained hand down his PJ top. “Sorry. See you, I guess.”
“Steve, seriously, what’s wrong with you? You sick or some shit? Thought you were getting that Wheeler chick’s number today.”
“Where’d you get that sweatshirt?” Steve asks, because he has his priorities straight. “I’ve been looking for a vintage Nike in that colour for ages.”
The guy frowns at him, looks down at his sweatshirt and back up at Steve. “Vintage? Stop fucking around, I bought this last week—it’s brand new, you dick.”
This is a really weird Hell simulation. Like, what even is the point of this?
“Dude, what?” Steve frowns back, opens his mouth to argue only for a flash of light to blind him.
Steve points to the banner. “Can you see that?”
The guy stares at him and then at the banner, clearly not seeing it. “Harrington, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you take a hit too hard last practice? You’re acting like a goddamn lunatic.”
“Sorry… Tommy?” Steve tries.
Tommy shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Whatever—just—are you coming or not?”
Steve looks back at the banner. “Give me five,” Steve says and slams the door in Tommy’s face. Steve takes another chocolate from the gift basket before going upstairs. He opens the wardrobe in his (?) bedroom, taking in all the clothes that he’s never worn—hey, at least he still has style. Sort of. Steve’s not so keen on the polo tops, more of a t-shirt guy himself—but it’s not the worst. Plus, the sweatshirts. So many branded sweatshirts, like, the good ones, before Nike and Adidas started choosing quantity over quality. Huh, Steve thinks, as he shrugs on a nice forest green Nike, maybe this isn’t Hell after all. He puts on a pair of light-wash jeans. The underwear is weird. No boxers, just the—tighty whities. Whatever.
Steve ties up a pair of Nike sneakers, then heads out the front door.
Tommy Hagan, or whoever, is waiting in a red car—some dated thing that looks like it belongs in Grease. Steve gets into the passenger seat.
“Took your time, princess.” Tommy sneers at him, then does a double-take. “What happened to your hair?”
Steve flips down the front mirror and takes a look. “What’d you mean?”
“Steve,” Tommy says. “Are you drunk?”
Steve considers this. “Maybe. I was thinking more drugged, but you know what? Yeah, I’m probably drunk too, Tommy. That’s your name, right?”
Tommy stares at him. Then he starts driving.
Steve shrugs, looks out the window. They’re not in Indianapolis. Too many trees and fields and not enough shops. The cars are all weird—old, movie-looking shit. Plus, what is everyone wearing? Maybe Steve’s not in Hell, but a weird middle ground. Like purgatory. That’s what it’s called right?
Some random girl gets into the car and says: Hiiii, Steve, fingers brushing his shoulder when she slips into the backseat. Steve thinks, is this my purgatory girlfriend? Then she kisses Tommy. So, clearly not.
“Your car’s still in the shop?” She asks, catching his eye in the mirror.
Steve blinks. “Sure.”
Tommy says, “don’t speak to him, Carol. He’s hammered.”
Carol, apparently, laughs. “Steve,” she says, voice whiny. “Why are you day drinking without us?”
“Uh, sorry,” Steve says.
Carol laughs again, “you’re right, he’s totally smashed. This is so funny. We got a pop quiz, you know?”
“He’s fucked,” Tommy agrees, grinning.
Steve honestly believes that he performs better at school when he’s under influence. “I’ll be fine,” he says.
“You need to fix your hair,” Carol says. “I think I left a hairspray in here.”
“Hairspray?” Steve questions, looking into the front mirror. Steve doesn’t use fucking hairspray. He uses mousse and lets it air dry like God intended. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“You’re drunk honey, just let me fix you up.”
“No, thank you.” Steve swerves away from her hands.
“Hey, quit it before I kill us all!” Tommy warns the both of them. “Steve, let Carol fix your hair.”
“My hair’s fine!”
Carol sits back, dropping the hairspray can onto the seat. “Your funeral,” she says.
“You should focus on your own,” Steve does a little circle around his head. “You look like you belong in Grease.”
“What the hell are you trying to say, Harrington?”
“He’s drunk, Carol. He’s been talking shit all morning.”
“What’s up with these cars, too? Where’d you even buy this?” Steve questions, looking around. Definitely not an automatic, that’s for sure. “You don’t even have a phone charger port, dude.”
“Is he on coke?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Seriously, this car looks like it was made in the 80s or something.”
“Ding ding,” Carol sings. “Such a genius, Stevie.”
“Are you guys, like, roleplaying? Is this a roleplaying thing? Do you have a hard-on for retro shit?”
“What did you take, Steve? You’ve been holding out on us, man. Who gave you the good stuff? Was it Munson?” Tommy says.
“Who’s Munson?”
Carol laughs. “Just leave him, Tom. It’s funnier this way. I never knew Steve was this funny.”
Steve is a funny guy, that’s true.
They arrive at school, apparently. Hawkins High. Is the H in Hawkins for Hell? Everyone’s dressed retro or vintage or whatever—some of them actually look cool. Steve has no idea what’s happening anymore, but he’s here.
Two girls come up to him in the corridor to ask about his hair. Steve just laughs. Tommy and Carol lead him to his locker, having decided that Steve needs supervision. His locker has cut-outs of some lady that Steve doesn’t know. Two textbooks. Random scrunched up stuff. Looks about the same as his real locker.
First class is Lit, apparently. Carol directs him to his seat like he’s a child, giggling the whole time and whispering to other girls in the class.
It is at this point that Steve starts to question his own sanity again. Not because of the obvious hallucination/Hell/purgatory/dream simulation he’s experiencing, but because he has chosen to spend his time in a school he doesn’t go to, taking a class he’s never been to. With a bunch of strangers.
Steve stands up. No way he’s doing this.
“Problem, Mr Harrington?” Some lady at the front asks.
“Uh, bathroom,” Steve says and then doesn’t wait for permission.
The bathroom is easier enough to find. Steve pisses, washes his hands and then stares into the mirror. His hair looks fine. More importantly:
“Why am I here?” He asks the mirror.
Light flashes.
Steve sighs, running a hand down his face. “I’m fucking insane.” He cannot be in a game. He cannot be stuck in a goddamn game.
“Well, I’m certainly not gonna disagree.”
Steve screams. “Je—SUS!”
Some random guy grins at him from inside an open stall, leaning against the stall wall, one foot hiked up and bent at the knee, a cigarette between his fingers.
“When did you—how long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” The guy takes a drag. “What’s eating you, Harrington? Never seen you look so…” He gestures to his own head. “You forget your princess routine this morning or what?”
Why is everyone so obsessed with Steve’s hair!
“Fuck off,” Steve says. “I was just—fuck you.”
The guy shrugs. “What’s got you speaking to your reflection, King Steve? Lay it on me.”
Steve stares at him.
“What?” The guy spreads one arm. “‘S not like anyone would believe me anyway. I’ll be your confidant. Tell me your rich boy woes.”
Steve huffs. Fuck it. He may as well—considering none of this is real and Steve is going through a psychotic episode. “I have no idea where I am,” he admits.
The guy looks at him and then around the bathroom. “You speaking, like, metaphorically, or?”
Steve throws his hands up, beginning to pace. “Metaphorically, metaphysically, meta-fucking-literally! Yes! All of it, yes!”
“Right,” random guy says.
“I’m, like, so confused right now. One minute I’m at home, looking through some loser’s crap, the next I wake up and shit is, like, fucking weird. I think I’m in hell.”
“So this is like,” random guy pauses in thought. “A religious crisis. You’re Catholic, right?”
“Not a religious crisis, this is a fucking—life crisis, man! I’m like.” Steve paces faster, hands in his hair. “Totally losing my goddamn mind. And the cars!”
“The cars?”
“They’re all old! They look old as shit!”
“Not everyone can afford the latest model, your highness.”
“I’m not talking latest models, asshole! What, you’re telling me no one can afford a 2015 car? Even 2010, man. Tommy’s car looks like it was made in the 80s. Am I, like, time travelling? This is 2025, right?”
Random guy tilts his head, takes another drag of his cigarette. “Thought Perkins was just saying shit, but I guess you really are on something. What’d you take? My shit’s not heavy enough to get you crawling the crawls.”
“I’m not on anything,” Steve hisses, but he’s actually not sure how true that is. “I think I might be in a—”
Light flashes.
“In a…?” Random guy trails off, waiting.
Steve sighs. “Can you see that?”
Random guy looks around. “See…?”
“Never mind,” Steve says. “I’m going back to class. Thanks, man.”
“Okay…?”
Steve walks out of Hawkins High and then—just keeps walking. Past the weird retro shops and the parks and the forest. Past a church and a lake and pumpkin fields. He keeps walking.
And walking.
And walking.
Light keeps flashing.
Steve bats it away, keeps walking. If this is a game, there must be an end point. An unfinished area. A place where the game stops existing.
Steve keeps walking.
And walking.
And walking.
Steve stops. Violently. Falls back onto his ass and scrapes his palms. He hisses through his teeth, stands up. He walks again, gets thrown back. Gets up, walks again. Gets up, walks again. Gets up, runs. Gets up, screams.
Steve presses his palms to the air and meets his resistance, holds his hands there and feels. This is it. This is the end point.
Above, a sign says See you soon. No doubt on the other end it says Welcome to Hawkins.
This is where the game ends and Steve can’t leave.
Steve sighs, crouches low onto the deserted road, looks down at his bloody palms.
“Okay,” he says, nodding his head. “How do I get out of here?”
Light flashes.
“Okay, you know what? Okay,” Steve shakes his head at the banner in resignation. This is insane. It’s just… insane. But Steve is stuck here and he may still be dreaming, but he hasn’t woken up yet. He may still be dreaming but his hands hurt. “Whatever. I’ll play your fucked up game, okay? You got me. You fucking got me. How do I level up, then?”
The light flashes brighter, shakes a little, like it’s excited.
“Is this meant to be me?” He mutters, frowning. What the hell is all this? It really does look like a game. Like one of those nerdy RPGs. Steve taps the LEVEL UP button.
“You son of a bitch,” Steve curses with feeling. He taps YES.
“Find the girl,” Steve reads. “What girl? Find what girl?”
The banner doesn’t change.
“What girl?” Steve demands.
The banner disappears.
“Screw you, dickhead,” Steve tells the air.
He stands. Okay. This is fine. Steve can do this. He’s gamed before—he played Animal Crossing as a kid—he knows how this shit works. Complete quests, get rewards, level up, beat the game. Boom. Easy shit.
Steve begins his trek back to his (?) house. It starts to rain, which is annoying. You’d think a game this fucking immersive would give you the option to turn off the weather. Or the sounds of thunder, at least.
When Steve finds the maker of this piece of shit game he’s going to—
Steve is thrown onto his ass, letting out a startled yell. It feels like he just took a basketball to the chest. If the basketball was made of concrete. Steve’s back hits the trunk of a tree, his ears ring. He swallows heavily, squinting to try and see past the darkness, the blurriness of his vision.
“What the…”
“Don’t move.”
The sight becomes clearer, a figure moving in close—small but violent.
It’s a little girl.
Light flashes.
The rain continues to pour. Steve looks up. The girl looks down, raising a wrist to wipe at her bloody nose.
You know what? Sure.