Ursula Henderson had one rule about time travel: don't mess up more than the people you're trying to save already did.
The portal loomed ahead of her—an impossible crack in the fabric of time, pulsing faintly, its edges frayed like reality had been stitched together by shaking hands. The air buzzed with energy that made her teeth ache, a tangible charge that rattled her bones and pressed into her skull. Ursula swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the steering wheel of her truck.
This was it. The jump.
Everything that led her here crashed down at once. The year was 2024. The world had long since rotted at the seams. El and Kali—the last of their kind—had sacrificed the last shreds of their power to create this portal, draining themselves so completely that it most likely killed them. It was all for this final gamble, the last desperate move to stop everything from falling apart before it ever started.
She was on the edge of changing everything, and all she could think was, Don't screw this up, Ursula.
She glanced sideways at her passenger—Bahamutt, her mutt of a dog who refused to be left behind. The soft whir of the dying machinery and the hum of the portal's energy made for a surreal quiet. He sat perfectly still, ears pricked, golden-brown eyes locked on her. Calm. Steady. Like he understood every bit of what was happening.
"Guess you're coming with me, huh?" she murmured.
The truck's engine idled, the faint vibration reverberating up through her boots. Bahamutt's only response was a soft, steady wag of his tail, as if to say, Of course I am.
Ursula's chest tightened. For someone who'd grown up surrounded by chaos, she'd never felt more alone than she did right now.
She was only twenty-one years old, too old and too young all at once. The world had made her that way. Ursula Henderson was a girl shaped by the stories she grew up with—the tales of her dad, Dustin Henderson, and the family he'd forged in blood and battle. The stories of the "Hellfire Club" sounded larger than life, like something pulled from a myth.
But myths were built on real people. And real people fell.
Ursula had always been the "baby" of the family, the last kid of the Hellfire generation born into a legacy of trauma and survival. She'd inherited her father's quick wit, sharp tongue, and instinct for strategy—his brilliance packaged in a relentless, quippy exterior that made people underestimate her. From her mother, Susie, she'd gained the brain of a scientist: meticulous, calculating, and just a little too hard on herself.
And music—oh, the music. It was in her blood. She was a violinist, a bassist, a talented Vocalist—calloused fingers and freckled knuckles from years of strings and frets.
She looked the part of a girl who didn't care, but Ursula cared about everything.
Her turquoise hair, always a little messy, fell like an uneven halo around her face. Her mismatched clothes—ripped jeans, combat boots scuffed to hell, and her father's faded band tees—reflected a punk edge tempered by her practicality. She'd worn her boots into the ground, and they still had miles to go.
But beneath the sarcasm and the sharp wit, there was a deeply empathetic heart. The weight of the world sat squarely on her shoulders, and she carried it with a mix of resolve and terror she didn't know how to shake.
Ursula grew up on stories about heroes. About people who saved the world—people like her dad and his friends.
They'd fought monsters, closed portals, and stood in the face of nightmares no one else believed in.
Max was no myth to her. She wasn't the "red-haired girl who got away." She was the friend who died. The girl who haunted her nightmares because Max's story was a warning—proof that even the most cherished people could be ripped away and twisted into something terrible by Henry Creel.
And then there was Eddie Munson, the family legend. Her dad's stories painted Eddie as the ultimate hero—a bard in black leather who gave everything to save his friends. He was "THE guy," the ideal of bravery and sacrifice, and Ursula had always carried the weight of his legacy. The family used to call her "Baby Eddie," like she was his echo through time, cut from the same cloth.
Music. Rebellion. Fighting to the last.
Eddie had been a hero her dad never stopped mourning, and Ursula grew up hearing the epic of his final stand: Metallica, bats, blood—
"The most heavy metal moment of all time," Dustin had always called it. And for as long as she could remember, she'd been desperate to meet him.
But heroism came with a price.
Ursula knew that better than anyone.
Her life was never easy. Her mother—Susie Bingham—was lost to Henry in 2020. Susie took her own life to protect Ursula from what he could do. Her sacrifice was in vain.
The pandemic was next, shattering her family further.
She watched as Henry tore through their lives, leaving empty chairs at every table: Joyce. Erica. The people who were supposed to be unbreakable.
By the time her father handed her the dossier—the meticulously compiled plan to rewrite the past—it wasn't a choice anymore. It was a duty.
The plan was simple:
1. Stop Vecna.
2. Save Max. Save Eddie. Rewrite history.
And yet, nothing ever went according to plan.
Ursula's truck was packed with everything she might need: Hard drives loaded with music and data. Weapons for the unimaginable. Letters written by her dad, by Steve, by Nancy—to their younger selves, to help Ursula build trust. Identities, cash, tools—everything she needed to set herself up.
Her instruments: the things that would keep her grounded and give her a way to connect with these people who'd become legends.
The portal was her only shot. El and Kali had made sure of that.
And Bahamutt—her loyal, golden-brown mutt—refused to be left behind. He sat beside her now, staring straight ahead like a sentinel.
Ursula sighed and rested her hand on his head, her voice soft.
"Guess you're coming with me, huh, B?"
He didn't bark. He didn't move. He just was—a calm, unshakable presence.
The portal flared brighter, tendrils of light rippling outward as it began to destabilize. Ursula didn't have time to think about what might happen if this went wrong.
Her hands tightened around the wheel.
"Alright, Betty," she murmured to the truck.
"Let's do this."
And with that, Ursula gunned the gas and drove straight into the light.