Ursula's truck creaked to a stop just outside Forest Hills Trailer Park.
She sat there for a beat, gripping the steering wheel like it owed her money, her knuckles pale beneath calloused hands. She could see the flashing red and blue lights through the gaps in the trees, painting everything in disjointed pulses of color—police cruisers, unmarked cars, and clusters of neighbors gathering like moths to a porch light.
"This wasn't the plan," she muttered, her voice low and biting.
Bahamutt gave her a quiet, knowing glance from the passenger seat, his head tilted slightly. He didn't move—good boy that he was—just sat still as Ursula exhaled sharply and rubbed at her face. She was too late. She knew it before she'd even seen the scene up close, but seeing it now…
Forest Hills was a nightmare.
The place was alive with noise and motion. Officers shouted to each other. Onlookers whispered in clumps, huddled close and straining to catch whatever juicy bits of tragedy might fall their way. Ursula's truck was parked just far enough away to avoid drawing attention, but she couldn't sit here forever.
"Okay, B. Time to go."
Bahamutt hopped down from the cab without hesitation, silent as a shadow. Ursula followed him out, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder and kicking the door shut behind her. She glanced at the truck—Black Betty, her faithful chariot—parked carefully out of view before trudging toward the chaos.
"Alright, my good boy, come smell!" She pulled a ziploc bag from her pocket and unzipped the foul thing to reveal a few scraps of tentacle for B to smell. These came strait from Henry Creel's burned body. They refuse to decompose.
Frankly, it was fucking disgusting. Mr. B took a sniff of the bag, sneezed three times in fast procession, and he was off sniffing. If something went down now, B would let her know at least.
The chill in the air wasn't just physical; there was something wrong about the atmosphere here. It tugged at her like static electricity, lingering and uncomfortable. She knew this feeling all too well. It reaped of Vecna's presence.
As she walked, Ursula spotted him.
Wayne Munson.
"Wayne fucking Munson," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head with something that might've been disbelief.
"How wild is that?"
It hit her harder than she expected—seeing him alive. Real. In one piece.
He stood near the trailer that had been marked off with crime scene tape, his worn denim jacket looking almost too big on him as he spoke to someone—someone familiar.
Nancy Wheeler.
Ursula froze, just for a second.
Nancy held her attention. Ursula knew her—well, the older version of her. The sharp, steel-spined journalist who could face down monsters and senators alike with the same unwavering calm. Aunt Nancy was one of the toughest old broads she knew. But this Nancy… this version of her was so young. Her hair was perfectly curled, her expression guarded and determined, her shoulders squared like she'd punch through a brick wall if she had to.
"She's already got that look," Ursula thought, swallowing down the odd lump in her throat.
"The same one she always had—like she's going to save the world herself if she has to."
But time wasn't on Ursula's side.
Fred Benson. That name burned in her mind like a warning flare. He was next. She didn't know exactly when, but she couldn't sit here gawking like a tourist in her own timeline.
Move, she told herself.
Nancy was halfway to her car when Ursula made herself step into her path. Her boots crunched loudly on the gravel, cutting through the hum of distant chatter and the chirp of radios.
Nancy stopped short, eyes narrowing as she took in the girl in front of her—a girl who looked like she'd stepped out of some punk rock fever dream.
"Uh, hi, Nancy…
" Ursula started, gripping the strap of her bag so tight her fingers ached.
"I'm late. And that's a problem."
Nancy blinked.
"Ok… who are you?" Her voice was sharp, immediate. On guard.
Shit, shit, shit—improvise, Ursula's mind screamed. She held up both hands, palms out in mock surrender.
"Relax, Nancy Drew. I'm not here to stab you or anything."
Nancy's brows furrowed deeper.
"You know my name," she said, and Ursula swore she could feel the gears turning in Nancy's head, assessing, calculating.
"Who are you?"
Ursula exhaled sharply, biting back the urge to groan. This was already sideways.
Nancy crossed her arms, her posture bristling with suspicion. She was staring at Ursula like she was a ticking bomb wrapped in leather and combat boots
"Okay," Ursula finally said, squaring her shoulders.
"I'm Ursula. Ursula Henderson."
Nancy's expression didn't change, though something flickered in her eyes.
"Henderson," she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word.
"Like… Dustin Henderson?"
Ursula smirked faintly, trying to look calm even though her pulse was pounding like a war drum.
"Yeah. Something like that. But we don't have time to play the genealogy game right now, do we?"
Nancy didn't look impressed. "Then start talking."
Ursula felt the shift—this was it. The moment where everything had to click, or fall apart completely. Her voice
steadied as she spoke, each word deliberate and quick, like tearing off a band-aid.
"Vecna's already started," she said, holding Nancy's sharp gaze.
"Chrissy Cunningham? She's gone. Eddie Munson's going to get blamed for it."
Nancy's jaw tightened.
"And Hopper?" Ursula continued, not letting her process.
"Yeah, not dead. Joyce and Murray are currently breaking him out of a Russian gulag. You should see it—it's like James Bond meets Looney Tunes over there."
Nancy's mouth opened, like she wanted to interject, but Ursula didn't let her.
"Meanwhile, Mike, Will, Jonathan, and El? They're probably getting ready to start blowing up government bunkers in the desert right now."
Nancy's disbelief was obvious—her lips pressed into a thin line—but her eyes flickered with something more.
"How do you know all of this?" she asked, her voice tight.
Ursula tilted her head, lowering her voice but keeping it firm.
"Because I'm here to stop it."
Nancy stared at her, suspicion still thick in her expression.
"Why should I trust you?"
Ursula huffed out a breath, running her tongue over her teeth before answering.
"You don't have to," she said.
"Hell, I wouldn't trust me either. But here's the thing…"
She shrugged, her tone edged with exasperation
"What's the worst that can happen? I'm here to trick you, and you fuck the whole damn world up three or four days sooner? Because you're gonna, ya know. You dumb fucking babies are about to march face-first into the meat grinder like you're heroes in some last-stand montage. Hate to break it to you, but this movie ends badly."
Nancy faltered—just for a second. It wasn't much, but Ursula could see the flicker of doubt beneath the suspicion.
Her voice softened.
"Or maybe I'm telling the truth, and you don't end up burying half the people you love."
The words hung in the air like fog, heavy and cold.
"I'm late, Nancy," Ursula said, quieter now, the weight of it clear in her voice.
"Which means things are already unraveling. But I'm here now, and I'm not leaving until we fix this."
Ursula reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out the creased, worn envelope. Her fingers brushed over the familiar handwriting—older, steadier—and she held it out to Nancy.
Nancy hesitated, staring at the letter like it might burn her hands.
"You told me to give this to you," Ursula said, her voice softer, almost raw.
"Not you-you. The future you."
Nancy took the letter, her hands careful as if it were made of glass.
For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Then, finally, she looked up.
"Alright," she said cautiously, tucking the letter into her jacket.
"But you're going to explain everything. Every. Thing."
Ursula nodded, tension draining from her shoulders in a way that only made her feel heavier.
"Deal."