Ursula followed Nancy's little car back to the Wheeler house, her hands gripping the steering wheel of Black Betty tighter than she realized. Her knuckles ached, and the faint hum of the truck's engine did little to drown out the whirlwind in her mind.
Fred Benson's lifeless, contorted body flashed behind her eyes every time she blinked. The image of Vecna's power twisting and snapping him apart was burned into her memory, but what shook her most was the realization that it
had happened because she was too late.
Nancy sat stiffly in the drivers seat of her little blue Ford Granada, her gaze darting between the windshield and Ursula, like she couldn't decide if the girl behind the wheel was trustworthy or dangerous. They'd stopped briefly at Hop's trailer, where Ursula had grabbed a stack of letters and firmly told Bahamutt, "Guard the house, Mr. B. I'll be back."
The dog had planted himself by the door, calm but resolute.
"You sure he's not going to tear the place apart?" Nancy had asked, arms crossed.
"Only if someone breaks in," Ursula had replied, a faint smirk flickering across her lips.
"Himbs a good boy."
Now, as they pulled into the driveway of the Wheeler house, Ursula's heart sank. She could see the others inside through the large living room window—Steve, Dustin, Max, and Lucas—all gathered in a loose circle, their faces a mixture of fear and exhaustion.
"This is gonna go great," Ursula muttered under her breath, killing the engine.
Nancy turned to her, when Ursula exited the truck, her expression unreadable."Just… let me do the talking first."
Ursula shrugged, pushing open the door.
"Sure, Nancy Drew. Lead the way."
The living room fell silent the moment Nancy stepped inside with Ursula trailing behind her. Every head turned toward them, and the tension in the air thickened instantly.
"Uh… Nance, who's that?" Steve asked, his brow furrowing.
The question felt heavier than it should, punctuated by the unspoken tension crackling in the room. All at once, every pair of eyes locked onto the stranger—her.
"Uh, Hi…" She said with an awkward wave.
"I'm Ursula." (Real fucking smooth, Henderson.)
From the very first glance, Ursula looked out of place, a walking anachronism that didn't fit in any corner of 1980s Hawkins. She wasn't just different—she was electric in her otherness.
Her turquoise mohawk was wild, shaved clean at the sides, the contrast making her angular jawline appear sharper beneath the cascade of vivid, impossibly turquoise strands. Under the stark glow of the Wheeler's kitchen light spilling into the living room, the color looked almost unreal, like something ripped from a music video that hadn't been made yet.
But it wasn't just the hair. It was everything.
The tattoos.
Ursula's arms were works of art— intricate and sprawling pieces inked into every visible inch of her pale skin, from the backs of her hands up to her shoulders. Dark swirls of gothic patterns wove together with what looked like runes, symbols, and haunting images: roses laced with skeletal thorns, delicate script crawling along her forearm, a silver dagger framed by black wings. Even her knuckles weren't left untouched, marked by faint, single letters that could've spelled anything.
Max, still quiet and tucked into the corner of the couch, couldn't help but stare. Her own gaze drifted to Ursula's face, sharp and steady, framed by a slight smirk that looked both cocky and cautious at the same time.
Steve took her in with a slow, startled sweep of his eyes. The oversized black shirt hanging off her frame bore a skull-and-crossbones logo—something vaguely familiar but twisted into a design that didn't exist yet. The shirt slipped casually off one shoulder, exposing more ink crawling up her collarbone, all balanced by the gleaming chain of her choker.
And then the combat boots—scuffed, well-worn, their heavy soles pounding against the Wheeler's pristine floors as she stepped further into the room like she belonged there, even though no one was buying it.
"Yeah," Dustin finally said, his voice sharp and skeptical as he pushed himself off the arm of the couch. His arms crossed over his chest like a shield.
"And why are you bringing random people into this house right now?"
The bite in his words wasn't unwarranted. They'd been fighting for their lives for days, and Nancy had walked in with…this.
Ursula's lips twitched at the corner, a hint of a bitter smile as she flicked her gaze over the room. She seemed unsurprised by the suspicion, the collective walls going up the second she'd walked in. If anything, she looked resigned—like she'd already rehearsed this moment in her head.
"No, it's fine," she said, her tone surprisingly even, calm, a slight edge of humor threading through.
"I'd think the same thing if I were you."
Nancy shot Dustin a sharp look, cutting him off before he could fire back.
"Listen. She's not just some random person. We need to hear her out."
Dustin's skeptical expression deepened, but Nancy wasn't done. Her tone turned firm, commanding attention as she stepped forward and locked eyes with Steve, Dustin, and the rest of the group.
"Fred Benson is dead." The words hung in the air like a bomb, snapping every bit of lingering tension taut.
"You weren't there. You didn't see what we saw."
She glanced at Ursula, an unspoken hesitation lingering before she continued.
"She knew. She dragged me there. Told me Fred was in danger. Told me what was going to happen."
Dustin squinted, his gaze flicking between Nancy and Ursula like he was working out a puzzle.
"Yeah? And? That doesn't mean anything. She could've overheard—
"It wasn't a rumor," Nancy cut in, sharper now.
"She was right, Dustin. Almost down to the second."
Max, still quiet, stared at Ursula again, her fingers absently tugging at the hem of her teeshirt. Something in her expression—calculating, guarded—hinted that she was weighing every single word. She hadn't said a thing, but it was clear she was taking notes, as if trying to see through the stranger standing in front of her.
Steve, meanwhile, looked at Ursula with far less suspicion and more confusion—curiosity tugging at his edges.
"So what's the story then?" he asked, his voice softer than Dustin's.
"You some kind of psychic, or… time traveler?"
At that, Ursula's faint smirk finally faltered.
"Uh, kinda.. Something like that," she said, shrugging. The attempt at nonchalance didn't quite stick.
Dustin snorted, throwing his hands up.
"Oh, come on! Time travel is the thing that's supposed to sell us? That's your story? Seriously?"
Ursula turned her head just enough to glance at him, one brow quirked as she muttered under her breath,
"Out of everything you've seen the past few years, Time travel is the thing that seems unlikely? Come on…"
Nancy's voice sliced through the room before Dustin could respond.
"Enough." She turned back to Ursula, her tone measured.
"You said you're here to stop things from getting worse. Fine. Then you need to start talking. Who are you? And how do you know any of this?"
The room fell still again, the weight of the question pressing down on every person in it. Ursula inhaled sharply, her gaze darting between each of their faces before settling on Nancy.
"I know because I lived through what's about to happen," she said, her voice low but steady, every word hitting like a hammer.
"Because if we don't change things now, it's not just Chrissy and Fred. It's Max. It's Eddie. It's Hawkins."
Her voice dropped further, barely a whisper now.
"It's the whole damn world."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ursula cleared her throat, her gaze flicking to the floor before meeting Nancy's eyes.
"I didn't know everything," she admitted, her voice softer now.
"Not exactly. Time's… weird. Some stuff has already changed just because I'm here."
She hesitated, glancing at Nancy again before continuing.
"But Fred—Fred wasn't supposed to die like that. Not in front of all those people."
"You're gonna have to do better than that," Dustin said finally.
Ursula swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. She glanced at Nancy, drawing on the strength of knowing how much she trusted her in the future. But her vague answers weren't enough, and she knew it.
"If you really want to help Max and Eddie," Nancy said finally, her tone sharp but not cruel, talking straight. "Then you'd better start talking. Otherwise, we don't have time for this.
Ursula's chest tightened. The pressure was suffocating, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out: "Vecna."
The group froze.
"How the hell do you know that name?" Dustin demanded, his voice rising.
Panic bubbled in Ursula's chest, and she stammered,
"It's—I—I can't explain everything right now, okay? … But I
know what's going on. I know who you're up against. And I know how to stop him. I've been fighting this fucker my whole life."
Her voice shook, but there was steel in her eyes now, a determination born from years of pain and survival. She looked at Nancy, pleading silently for her to believe her.
Nancy exchanged a glance with Steve, then looked back at Ursula.
"You'd better not be lying," she said quietly. "Because if you are…"
"I'm not," Ursula whispered, her voice barely audible.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the stack of letters, her hands trembling slightly as she held them out.
"These should help," she said.
"You might wanna chill and like, sit though.. I haven't read all of them, and there's a good chance there's crazy shit that might blow your mind in them. Just sayin'."
Nancy took the letters, her gaze lingering on Ursula's face for a moment before nodding.
"Alright," Nancy said cautiously.
"But you're going to explain everything. Every. Thing."
Ursula nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
"Deal."