The portal spat Ursula Henderson out with a shuddering gasp, her truck jolting violently as it hit solid ground.
For a moment, she just sat there, hands locked on the wheel of her '81 Chevy K10, her knuckles pale and stiff. The glow of the portal disappeared in her rearview mirror, folding in on itself with a sound like air being sucked out of a room. Then—darkness.
Bahamutt shifted in the seat next to her, calm as always, though his golden-brown eyes darted to her in a silent question.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Ursula muttered, blowing out a shaky breath.
"I'm fine, B."
She glanced at the dashboard. Her iPhone, propped on a custom mount, displayed a flickering date that punched her right in the gut: January/March, 1986. The date itself flickering as if the phone couldn't figure out which month to stay on.
"Okay," she whispered to herself.
"This is fine. We're fine."
The plan had been simple. Arrive in Hawkins weeks before Vecna's campaign of terror began. Weeks to integrate, weeks to establish trust with her dad, Steve, Nancy, and the others. She was supposed to have time.
But as she eased her truck forward onto the cracked, empty road leading into town, something didn't feel right.
The air felt wrong. Heavy. Quiet.
She rolled down the window, listening for anything: crickets, birds, even the faint hum of streetlights in the distance. Nothing. It was as if the woods were holding their breath.
Ursula found Pop's cabin exactly where it was supposed to be. A ramshackle, half-rotting structure buried in the middle of nowhere. It looked like something from a slasher movie, but it was also the safest place to lie low while she got her bearings.
The truck crunched to a stop on the gravel driveway. Ursula sighed, running a hand through her turquoise hair before hopping out. Bahamutt followed her like a shadow, his gaze sweeping the dark tree line as though he could sense something lurking just out of view.
"Home sweet home," Ursula muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
She circled around to the tailgate and began methodically unpacking the truck.
First came the weapons—rifles, pistols, carefully organized in cases. She lined them up against the cabin's exterior wall. Next came a bundle of sleek surveillance equipment—black boxes and motion sensors that looked deceptively low-tech but were modified to perfection.
"Step one," she told B, as if the dog could understand.
"Set up perimeter security."
Bahamutt wagged his tail, steady and calm.
An hour later, the woods were dotted with motion sensors, their faint beeps activating as Ursula moved silently through the trees. It felt like setting traps in a haunted forest. She knew how close she was to Vecna's playground, and the hairs on the back of her neck refused to settle.
Back at the cabin, she crossed items off a checklist on her phone with methodical precision.
Ursula woke up to the tinny, crackling sound of a local radio station. She didn't remember falling asleep—just sitting on the floor against the cabin wall, her back aching and her boots still on. The pale morning light filtered through the broken window, catching on dust motes swirling in the air.
Bahamutt's ears perked up, and Ursula frowned, leaning toward the radio perched on a nearby crate.
The static broke into a smooth, too-cheerful voice.
"…tragic news out of Hawkins this morning. Police have confirmed the death of Chrissy Cunningham—"
Ursula froze.
Her chest tightened, her breath catching in her throat as the broadcaster continued.
"…a senior at Hawkins High School, Chrissy was found late last night in a trailer at The Forest Hills Trailer Park. Authorities have not released further details…"
The words echoed in her head like a gunshot.
Chrissy Cunningham. Chrissy. Fuck.
"No," Ursula whispered. She scrambled to her feet, swiping the phone off the crate and staring at the date again.
March 21, 1986
She'd arrived last night.
While Chrissy Cunningham was dying.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She stumbled outside, gulping in the crisp morning air like it might clear her thoughts. Bahamutt followed, his eyes fixed on her like he could sense something was wrong.
"I was supposed to have weeks," Ursula whispered, voice trembling.
"Weeks."
She thought of the dossiers, of every detailed plan she and her family had spent years constructing. It was supposed to be perfect.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!"
Now she was too late.
Chrissy was gone.
The realization settled in her gut like a lead weight.
"Well this is a bit of a shit pickle," she muttered darkly, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
Bahamutt sat beside her, his steady presence grounding her. For a few seconds, Ursula just stood there, breathing through the chaos spiraling in her head.
By the time Ursula sat back down at the cabin table, the sun was fully up, cutting slanted beams of light through the grime-covered windows. She spread her dossier across the surface—maps, timelines, photos—and poured over them like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
"Fred Benson," she murmured, her eyes locking onto the name circled in red. The next victim.
She traced the dates and details, teeth gritted in frustration. Chrissy's death was supposed to be the turning point—the first crack Vecna exploited. Fred would be next, tonight.
"Motherfucker."
She slammed the file shut and rubbed her temples, her mind racing. The careful approach she'd rehearsed—building trust slowly, introducing herself with the letters—it wouldn't work anymore. She didn't have time.
If she wanted to stop Fred from joining Chrissy, she needed to act.
"Alright," she whispered to herself, glancing at Bahamutt, who watched her intently from his spot by the door.
"Time to get messy."
The dog tilted his head, as if giving her a silent nod of approval.
Ursula exhaled, steeling herself.
Her plan was in shambles. She'd arrived late, and everything she'd rehearsed for years had gone up in smoke. But there was still time to save Fred Benson.
And if that meant rewriting her entire approach and throwing herself into the chaos headfirst, so be it.
She pulled her boots tighter, her gaze hardening.
"Let's do this."