(Author's Note: Listen, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know if I'll finish this. But if any of you have seen Stranger Things 4, you know Eddie Munson is an intoxicating character and I'm only human. Here's to you, Freak!

P.S. This is a bit of a fix-it. The only difference between this and canon is that the order of Vecna's victims and where they were killed has been switched around to spare Chrissy Cunningham. Let's see where that road takes us as long as I have inspiration to write. Happy reading! -Doverstar)

The town was taking a sadistic rollercoaster ride. Spring was slicing its way through Hawkins. It was everywhere: fluffing up the grass, soaking the sidewalks, trying to paint crowds of trees that always seemed bare, dandelions and crap everywhere. Just generally making the air intolerable. The championship game at Hawkins High had come and gone, victory belonged to the clowns in green and white, the sun would not stop shining, and Spring Break was a day away.

Also a new doughnut place had opened downtown.

Those were the pros. Hawkins' big fat thunder-stealing con had come in the form of a gnarled, bloody teenaged body found in the woods near Skull Rock. Patrick McKinney should have been slobbering and crowing with the rest of his teammates the night before, celebrating at Benny's and waking up this morning with a hangover. Nice, wholesome springtime days of youth. But instead, he was extremely dead, and Jason Carver had rededicated the basketball team's winning game in McKinney's memory with big, wet, angry eyes. Then a second body had turned up in the high school's basement just four days later. Poor shrimpy little Fred Benson had been discovered, mangled and utterly alone, by Nancy Wheeler during a late-night project the two had been tackling for the school paper. No other witnesses, and zero leads.

Everyone was wondering about the murders. Questions followed you down the street like mosquitos. The when had been answered, the where had been answered, and up until about twenty-four hours ago, Eddie Munson could've said the how was still a mystery. It was to most every other person in Hawkins. But not to him, not anymore.

Well, him and a group of children. And two video-store drones.

Eddie sat in the back of his van, double doors wide open, one leg hanging out to scuff the asphalt. The air wasn't warm enough yet for the shedding of his layers, but he was starting to sweat. The newfound knowledge of heathen dimensions and demons who turned people into broken Barbie dolls will do that to a man. The aforementioned children called it the Upside Down. They called the Barbie demon Vecna (partially Eddie's sole contribution to the labelling). This kind of reality was only fourteen hours old to him, not something he could deal with in his waking hours without frequent waves of adrenaline.

He might have been able to deal a bit better if he'd brought an extra pack of Marlboros, but seeing as how he didn't like to let the freshmen flock see him smoking, this morning he'd had to go without. And bounce his leg up and down a lot. And sweat.

The parking lot was relatively quiet. Eddie was holding the last of a handful of pretzel Combos, flicking them distractedly toward a group of birds that were pecking around a puddle. Five minutes to go until lunch. He could turn on a bit of music, drown out the noon silence, do something to break this eerie atmosphere and the flashing memory of a cheerleader's shadow dangling above his carpet, but music would draw attention, and he was supposed to be discreet—

"Eddie!" Dustin's hand slapped against the open door of the vehicle, tugging it further out.

Eddie jumped, cursing and scattering Combos and nerves everywhere.

"Sorry," gasped the kid. He was out of breath. "Biked. Six blocks."

"All right, just." Eddie sighed, dragging the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Don't do that. Okay?"

A round, brown puppy dog gaze gave him the once-over. Dustin took in Eddie's jittery frame, the wet ends of his bangs, the bags under his eyes that were doubtless adding even more charm to an already jagged bone structure.

"You look like hell."

"Yeah, well, I haven't exactly had a whole lot of beauty sleep since the—" He waved his right hand, elevating it until it clapped against his waiting left palm. "Whole, y'know, the—"

"The Vecna—"

"—that Exorcist sh—"

"—wasn't an exorcism, okay, it's a coordinated—"

"Whatever, man, yes—yeah—that!" Eddie raised his voice, slamming a hand down on the van bed to clip off the end of Dustin's blossoming lecture. "Do you have it? Or not?"

Dustin, looking slightly indignant, twisted to yank a plastic bag from his back pocket. The Walkman he passed to Eddie was bright yellow, with Henderson written in smudged Sharpie on the side. Then he shoved the bag into Eddie's chest.

"Six packages of triple-A's," Dustin explained. "She's gotta make it last. Did you get—"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah." Eddie rolled his eyes heavenward, resurrecting a white cassette tape from his back pocket. He held it with the tips of thumb and forefinger, like it was moldy. "Right here."

"Okay, now remember," said Dustin, "she's gotta have it on her at all times. The sooner we get this stuff in her hands, the sooner she can tune out Vecna's spell, the safer she'll be."

"Right," sighed Eddie, sliding out of the van. "I think I got it."

They made their way into the school, Dustin keeping up with him easily, a ridiculous look of purpose written all over his little face.

"Listen, Henderson, I want our mission to go off without a hitch too, but—" Eddie clicked his tongue, shaking the white tape in frustration and tilting his head. "I gotta tell you, if we're relying on this…schmaltzy, indistinct picket-fence crap to save lives?" He let out a snort. "We're screwed."

"What's wrong with Billy Joel?"

"Dude. You got through that with a straight face?"

As they entered the building, they were almost immediately joined by Lucas. The mini jock had probably been pacing inside, waiting anxiously for Eddie's long shadow to slide into view. He was noticeably alone, and the severe lack of an irritated Mayfield wasn't part of their plan.

"Where's Red?" Eddie demanded, eager to relinquish the bag full of Anti-Vecna.

"We hit a snag," Lucas explained. "Ms. Kelly called her in right after the bell rang."

"Are you kidding me?" Dustin clapped a hand to his hat. "It's lunch."

"What were we supposed to do?" asked Lucas. "She said something about Max's routine being out of whack and she—"

"Max's routine," Dustin argued, raising his voice, "includes a free period at lunch!"

Eddie made a sharp, loud zip-it noise of some kind with his teeth and tongue. Not sure exactly what came out, brain tight with stress and visions of milky white eyeballs. It was that kind of day.

The boys quieted down, glancing at him as they rounded a corner.

"You're saying we now have no one to enter the valley of the shadow of death?"

They'd been counting on Max's easy access to the strictly feminine quarters of the school. Girls' bathrooms, girls' locker rooms. Girl places. She could take the Walkman, the batteries, Joel himself, where no man who wasn't Steve "the Hair" Harrington had gone before. (Theoretically.) It was supposed to be the simplest part of the plan, the part where Eddie got to let go of the responsibility weighing down the sticky plastic bag he was still gripping too tightly. And of course, she, the only female in this party who had said she'd definitely be available for this task, was now unavailable. Nancy was swamped with the grossly-overrated school newspaper team, and Robin had band responsibilities all through lunch. Max had been their Obi-Wan.

"Can't we just stuff it in her locker?" Lucas suggested.

"Do you know where it is?" Dustin countered.

Lucas cursed. "No, but—"

"You're on the basketball team and you don't know where the cheerleaders hang up their pom-poms?"

"I don't stalk cheerleaders, man—"

"Hey!" Eddie whacked them each upside the head simultaneously, which was more unfortunate for Lucas because he had the added thump of the Walkman etc. against his shoulders. "I seriously doubt either one of you precious little hellions knows how to break into a locker anyway, so how 'bout we move on, all right? What's Plan B?"

They filed their way into the cafeteria line, getting their food as quickly as possible. The room was clouded with the stench of hormones, automated laughter, and misery. No one had been able to smell the prison food here for generations, Eddie was sure. The Hellfire table awaited them, right near the windows as always, closest to freedom.

Dustin scowled into his tiny square of canned corn as they made their way to the table. "We don't have a Plan B; this was Plan B. Plan A was her actually owning her own music."

Eddie set his tray down a little harder than necessary at the head chair, letting the plastic bag of salvation drop gingerly beside his feet.

"Who doesn't own their own music?" Gareth asked distractedly. He was 50% focused on his mashed potatoes and 50% focused on a comic whose pages were dangerously close to the gravy compartment. Jeff, sitting beside him, was reading over his shoulder and barely looked up when the others arrived.

"Nobody," Lucas replied quickly.

He and Lucas leaned instinctively back toward Eddie, lowering their voices.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Dustin hissed. "This is time-sensitive. The longer we take getting her the Walkman, the more time Vecna has to attack. We need to switch gears. Fast."

Eddie wanted to flick the crumbs of his fries into Dustin's face, stop him using that intense, know-it-all tone. Things were crazy, probably even more unstable than he understood, yes, but did this kid have to make everything sound like an episode of The A-Team? It made everything feel more stressful.

As Henderson finished speaking, a flash of white cotton caught Eddie's eye. The basketball coven was barreling through the cafeteria, leaving the longing glances and puddles of drool from students further down the food chain in their wake. A wave of letterman jackets and perfect skin, led by Jason Carver. Jason's smiles weren't as wide since Patrick's death, and Eddie didn't want to admit the jock was mourning—best to assume Carver was scared for his own safety instead.

The fleeting image of Jason levitating above the lunch line was not as cathartic as he'd hoped.

"Will you stop stuffing your face and help me think here?" Dustin's stage whisper cut through the daydream.

"It's not that big a deal," Lucas snapped around a mouthful of baby carrot. "We wait till Max gets out and we give it to her then. Be stealthy."

"That could be hours from now, Lucas! Jeez, am I the only one taking this seriously? Do you want Vecna to kill again?"

"What are you guys whispering about?" Jeff demanded.

Eddie watched the green-and-whites sweep alongside their lowly tabletop. Carver first, then Chance, then a mix of cheerleaders and bench-warmers. The tail-end of the massive squad was just passing Hellfire, and the plastic bag at his feet seemed heavier against his toe.

Maybe he hadn't had enough time to fully grasp the severity of the situation, and Dustin's pontification was valid. Maybe he'd been unabashedly high all night long and was still not fully clean from it. One thing he couldn't push away was the fact that that stupid yellow Walkman and that stupid little cassette tape might be the only difference between someone's life and death, and here they were wasting time trying to figure out how to get it to that someone. He'd have to make a scene.

He got to make a scene.

Eddie snatched the plastic bag, slammed his hands down to gain his club's attention, and climbed up to rush to its end, standing right above the startled cheerleaders freezing in the aisle.

The moment his reeboks hit the table, he was shouting, "Hail, Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Hawkins High School!"

Chrissy's huge eyes stabbed up at him, like the racoons his uncle caught in their trash cans sometimes. She looked as exhausted as he felt.

"We are not worthy!" Eddie made a very big show of crouching on the table, using both hands to mime bowing down repeatedly.

It got the desired reaction. Most of the teenagers in their general vicinity stopped what they were doing to glower at him as usual.

Somewhere way far below him, back a bit, Sinclair's voice: "This is not stealthy."

Eddie watched the two cheerleaders closest to Chrissy shuffle onward, shooting him glances that were one part disgust, one part disconcerted. It gave him the feeling he thought other kids might have had over an unwelcome dinner staple in their big white houses growing up. Boring, groan-worthy, but ultimately familiar.

Chrissy was clearly struggling to choose how to respond to him. She would have been expecting Max and privacy, not this. This would draw attention to the transaction. This wasn't their normal behavior to their peers. The heavy makeup beneath her eyes was not doing its job. She clutched her empty tray to her chest, eyes darting from Hellfire's leader to the lunch line.

Eddie slid off the table, landing in front of her. She seemed impossibly small. He kept going, not quite shouting anymore, but still booming and unruly, "Thank you for gracing our humble gathering place with your presence, Your Highness!"

He dove into another, full-body bow, plastic bag swinging behind his back. Jeff and Gareth were laughing, and after a moment of what was obviously panicked, awkward silence, Dustin and Lucas loudly joined them.

The head cheerleader's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Her expression went very lightly frantic, like he was using sign language and going too fast. Good girl, she was trying to figure out what he was doing. At least she understood this wasn't his usual ribbing—well, she'd have to. He'd never ribbed her before in the lunchroom. Ever.

Plus there was the little matter of her having been in his actual home the night before, eight feet off the ground and plastered to his ceiling, moments from Patrick-and-Fredding. Nothing about today could've been usual between them after that.

All of this was going through his head in mere seconds.

Chrissy, giving up, moved to take one step around him.

He blocked her path. She smelled like artificial peaches; shampoo maybe? Yesterday she'd smelled like mints. Focus. This was not the day to be sans Marlboro. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some of those letterman shoulders turning in his direction. A couple of cheerleaders' voices got a little louder, something about prick and he did catch one coherent needs to step off, but thankfully none of the school's soft pretzels were breaking away from the pack.

His voice slid to a normal volume. "Chrissy, we just…grovel before you! Don't we, boys?" Eddie straightened up, turning a manic grin on his table of freaks. He clapped his hands together in front of his chest, rolling the plastic bag up the way one would pack a snowball nice and tight. To anyone else it would look like more routine, hyperactive Munson movement.

Dustin and Lucas spluttered. Jeff and Gareth, bless their hearts, kept laughing. A few of the tables around them went back to eating, used to his noon shows.

Eddie swung the grin back to Chrissy, quickly hissing around it, eyes flicking to the ground and back, "Drop your backpack."

Chrissy's brow furrowed. She looked completely lost, face white and gaze bloodshot from lack of sleep. "What?" she whispered.

"Bag, drop your bag—"

"Oh, oh!"

Chrissy's backpack had been hanging on one shoulder. Now, she gave a ridiculously convincing fumble, dropped her tray, and allowed her pastel pink bag to slip down her arm and land on the floor in a prim heap.

Eddie dove for the floor. "Woah, hey—sorry, Your Majesty—"

Chrissy followed him. "No, um, it's okay—"

Their heads nearly smacked into each other, the students still heading for the buffet walking around them as neatly as ants in a line. The rush of feet and legs gave them some cover, Eddie hoped, though he could absolutely sense the negative interest of several basketball groupies still straining to reach them.

In one fluid movement, Chrissy had unzipped her backpack and Eddie had stuffed the Walkman, tape, and its power supply into its maw. It was the first symbiotic thing Eddie had over done with a girl. Probably the last, too, if experience was a good teacher. So much excitement. Be still his beating heart.

Chrissy closed her bag, heaving herself to her feet. Eddie scrambled to join her, handing her the abandoned tray.

"Might wanna get a new one of those," he suggested, exaggerating a grimace.

She nodded hard. "Oh, no, definitely—"

For a moment it looked like she might actually smile, which was good because he couldn't grimace any tighter and if she wasn't going to smile, there was no point.

"Hey!"

Then her boyfriend pushed his way into their area and the air got thick with Smile-Be-Gone. Eddie could taste it at the back of his throat. Tasted like overpriced cologne. The rest of the cafeteria snapped back to attention; a hundred pairs of pupils glued themselves to the scene.

"What do you think you're doing, Munson?"

"It's okay—" Chrissy began instantly, looking equal parts mortified and exasperated.

Jason put one shoulder in front of her; there wasn't a lot of space in the aisle for a three-person standoff. "You better back off, man."

Eddie raised both hands. "Court jester?" he asked Chrissy, giving Jason the once-over.

Carver unwound like a spring, squaring up to him. This happened maybe once every year, almost always in this specific room. Every time it did, Eddie thanked the good Lord for those two blessed inches he had on the town darling. Two inches of pure, delicious, unadulterated dislike.

Had he been punched before? No, not yet. But he had also never publicly gotten more than two sentences passed between himself and a cheerleader that wasn't buying contraband from him. And this cheerleader was obnoxiously, repeatedly spoken for by the growling Golden Retriever standing too close to him. If ever Jason Carver was going to punch someone in front of the student body, all of whom basically thought he was a saint, it would be right now.

Over the exchanging of Billy Joel.

He really needed a smoke.

"What did you say?" Jason snarled.

Eddie heard Dustin curse under his breath. Sinclair said something too, something probably even more profane.

"Um—Jace—" Chrissy began, voice barely more than a mumble.

The cheer captain's hands were shaking. Maybe that tray-fumble before hadn't been mad acting skills. Had she been shaking all morning? All night? She didn't exactly have a massive stash of weed to pull her through this brave, demonic new world they were now aware of. At least Eddie had had that to lean on.

"I got it, Chris." Jason took Chrissy's tray for her, steely blue eyes pinned on the Dungeon Master. "You stay away from her, Freak. Hear me?"

"Just paying my respects. It's not every day the queen passes our little slice of Hell." He clasped his hands behind his back, smiling closed-mouth at Cunningham and leaning a little past Jason's shoulder toward her. "Still not worthy, by the way."

Man, she was so close to smiling. She looked away, down at her shoes, blue eyeshadow not quite as perfectly blended today as usual. Her lips pursed. Eddie suddenly knew for certain that if he could make the cheer captain smile while her peacock of a man was standing right there with them, he'd win whether he got slugged or not.

Win the face-off. Obviously.

"I said back—" Jason actually nudged Chrissy further behind him, lifting his chin, "—off." His voice had gone very low, which was probably supposed to be intimidating.

It would have been, too, but the guy's lady love had been freaking levitating with white eyeballs fifteen hours ago, and that was much scarier than a tenor trying to be a bass.

There were nauseating ooooooohs all around them. Jason seemed to relish an audience as much as the Freak did, getting even closer.

Eddie met the jock's glare with one of his own, keeping his little smile. They stood like that for a couple more seconds, until Eddie's eyes slipped from Jason's to Chrissy's for a heartbeat. She was looking green. She was looking green and drained and full of adrenaline, and glancing at her had Eddie feeling the shock of last night aching in his own muscles, too. He decided to cut the show short.

He shrugged sideways, with his whole head, and flung his arms back up front, gesturing grandly for them to pass him. He stepped aside.

Jason kept eye contact with him, looping his arm over Chrissy's shoulders, as they walked by. He didn't say anything else. He seemed to think the killer stare was communicating enough.

"A thousand pardons, Your Worship," he called, still facing away from them. When he did turn to watch, someone else was staring.

Chrissy shot one look at Eddie, backwards, as they walked by. It was hooded, it was concerned, it was blue and round and big and what was that sound—

Eddie wheeeeled around on one heel.

It was Gareth. He was still laughing. He was hee-heeing, it was girly, he was doing it right into his fish sticks. Very quiet. The harder Gareth tried to stop laughing, the higher his voice usually got. Great at keggers. Made no sense in the cafeteria right this second.

"Man, knock it off," Jeff clicked his tongue at Gareth, lightly slapping his shoulder. "Beneath you."

"I miss a good joke?" Eddie slid back into his seat, rings clicking as he spread his hands. An emperor reclining at table.

"No," Gareth squeaked.

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Dude."

"I'm sorry—sorry—" Gareth wiped his eyes.

Eddie watched him with the growing sense that if he looked in a mirror, he'd probably see an expression that made his relation to Wayne Munson all too visible. Tired, confused, unamused old man eyes, pointed right at Gareth. Eddie hunched over his food, tapping his plastic spoon.

"Just—" Gareth swallowed. "Chrissy Cunningham."

Eddie looked at Jeff with the same irritated, lowered eyebrows, trying to make sense of the levity. Jeff shook his head. Dustin and Lucas were mimicking Eddie's reaction, wrinkling their noses at Gareth like he'd grown a third arm.

Nate, the big guy down at the end, looked up from the comic he'd apparently swiped from Gareth at some point during the last fifteen minutes. "He's reaching," he said dryly. "I mean, you'd have to have a death wish."

"And it's a waste of time," Jeff added, giving Gareth another whack.

"No, but—that's why it's funny," Gareth explained. It was practically a whine; clearly, he was frustrated that no one understood. "Because—"

"What's a waste of time?" Lucas asked, flopping a hand down on the table. A bit of the corn juice splashed out of its compartment at the movement, wetting his wrist.

"Wanting a cheerleader," said Nate.

"Wanting that cheerleader," said Jeff.

"Wanting that cheerleader who's dating that narbo," said Nate again. "It's suicide, man."

With a slight scoff and a quirk of his mouth, he went back to the comic. Gareth was nodding, the interest switching to his half-empty soda can, and Jeff shrugged and tossed Lucas a napkin. Dustin and Sinclair exchanged a glance. This time they seemed united in disbelief rather than confusion.

"Wait a second, so—" Eddie sat up straight, tugging his legs down from where he'd propped them on the table. "You think I want Chrissy Cunningham."

His men looked up at him and at each other, as if daring one another to answer him first.

He glanced at Dustin. Dustin shrugged.

With a long-suffering sigh, Eddie leaned far back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and putting his feet back up. It was too early for this. It was too everything for this.

Henderson stretched over, wiggling the toes of Eddie's shoe with a hand. "That was genius," he whispered loudly.

"I thought Jason was gonna blow a blood vessel," agreed Lucas, blowing air out of chipmunked cheeks.

Dustin chortled at that. He reached farther, clapping their leader on the shoulder. "You good? You need anything?"

"Nicotine," Eddie rasped.

"What?"

"Nothing."

(Author's Note: Comments are more appreciated than Faves/Follows, but follow your dreams. I'm so full of Eddie brainrot. Bedtime! -Doverstar)