Last Roll – The Staccatos of the Fallen

Foreword : This text was written for the 'Dice Cast' challenge (October 2024) on the site . Is a « concept fic » based on dice rolls; other chapters will follow with the same constraint. Enjoy reading! ^^
The goal: to roll a 20-sided die for each of the six parameters, which gives us the elements of a prompt. Then roll a 6-sided die to get a success rate.
Hero's characteristic: 15 - The Sun ; A place: 10 – Warm ; An objective: 15 – Renewal ; An object: 20 - Powerful artifact ; A meeting: 1 - A Monster ; An obstacle: 14 - Poison ; Bonus die result: 1 - Critical Success.

"Even if thrown

Into eternal circumstances

From the depths of a wreck..."

Eddie opened his eyes abruptly. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but he felt as if his body had been torn to shreds, then crudely patched back together. And there was a strange pain burning in the back of his throat. Was he dead? It made no sense for him to be alive after being shredded by that horde of demonic bats—or Demo-bats, as Dustin insisted on calling them. He wasn't so far gone that he hadn't grasped the extent of his injuries: he was doomed, nothing could have saved him. When Dustin had desperately held him in his arms, he knew it was goodbye. No dodging it, no cheat-characteristics added to the player sheets, no loaded dice or other unbearable artifices like that: he'd been a dutiful Dungeon Master who never tolerated cheating. For a story to stay compelling, there had to be stakes, deaths that made sense; you couldn't resurrect a player once he'd lost so completely and, so clearly, breathed his last.

He was definitely dead. In fact, he felt dead, knew he was dead, and yet here he was: eyes open in the strange, sticky atmosphere of the Upside Down, the trashcan lid he'd used as a shield lying on the ground a few feet from a twisted bicycle and an improvised spear, now useless.

What kind of sorcery was this? He looked around in confusion, his vision blurry, with a crushing sensation pressing in on his head; his whole body was heavy, trembling, and he couldn't catch his breath. Anxious and nauseated: he felt as if he'd been poisoned or overdosed on hallucinogenic mushrooms. It was like experiencing the worst trip of his life. He struggled to his feet, feeling as if his entire body were dislocated, that searing thirst still twisting in his throat. He felt no real pain from the many wounds all over his body, but he was freezing. What a strange and unpleasant emotion: was he dead or not? The cold, the confusion, the thirst… it reminded him of rabies symptoms. Did he need a rabies shot, like old Ozzy when he'd pulled that crazy stunt of biting the head off a bat?

Eddie raised an arm experimentally, staring in shock: where the denim of his jacket had been damaged by the Demo-bats' fangs, he could see the already healed wounds—they looked nasty and blackened—but what almost made him scream in horror was the appearance of his skin. Even in the surrounding dimness, he couldn't ignore the abnormal color of his hand and the portions of his arm he could see. Somewhere between gray and green. By all the beholders in the Underdark! He pulled his hand to his chest and shivered at the unsettling realization: no heartbeat, no breath of life. He panicked, screamed, and then fell into hysterical laughter—even his laughter sounded off, like gravel being crushed. He was a damn undead: no longer Eddie the Banished but Eddie the Head from Iron Maiden.

Just his luck! The one time he decided to play the hero rather than bolting, fate turned him into some kind of malicious corpse. He was no saint and had never truly believed in heaven, but this cruel twist of fate was downright morbid. His last stand could've at least earned him the right to rest in peace, not doom him to wander forever in a nightmarish world, stuck as a walking corpse.

What a renewal, a success, a positive evolution! Did he actually feel thirsty, or was he about to start craving blood to suck or brains to munch on? The thought left him uncertain: he felt strange—granted—but not ready to succumb to a bloody frenzy... Dead, exhausted, parched, but fairly normal. Well, not much more abnormal than the rest of his life. In this strange world, Vecna controlled everything, the creatures and the vegetation; yet—somehow—he didn't feel controlled and had the impression he was still free to choose his actions. What did that mean? Had he somehow slipped past Vecna's radar? Could his resurrection as a zombie be a mere anomaly with nothing to do with Creel's influence on this universe?

Then, a stupidly optimistic thought struck him. Could it be that the Hellfire Club spirit itself had brought him back? After all, maybe the campaign wasn't over. There were still dice to roll, moves to play, traps to dodge, and a twisted, cheating monster to kill. Who better than a meticulous DM to make sure the adventurers finished their quest? Losing himself in absurd metaphors centered on role-playing games, even though it was the apocalypse and he was—clearly—dead, that was just like him. Hellfire had been more than an escape for him; it was a warm place, a home where he met friends, a haven from the self-righteous sneering that filled the town. It was an institution: the one place where the high school's lost sheep could evade the herd's oppressive influence, where Hawkins' outcasts could be themselves, where the game rules reigned; a place where one could be both an outcast—a pathetic nobody, rejected by everyone else—and still be a king. He smiled secretly at the thought.

His thoughts took him back to Hawkins, his ruined kingdom, that insignificant little town he'd hated and whose high school he'd haunted for far too long. Back there, Dustin, his uncle, Gareth, Lucas, Lady Applejack, Jeff, Steve, and all the others were still in serious danger. The mere thought of what his loved ones were still risking filled him with a renewed energy, like a breeze reigniting an extinguished flame. Hawkins wasn't saved, Vecna wasn't defeated, and he was still standing for some unknown reason… that meant the game wasn't over.

Even dead, he could help put Vecna in checkmate. But for that, he needed equipment—a powerful artifact, preferably—and a goal. He had no idea what to do, so he might as well follow the classic lost hero's move: return to the beginning and roll the dice.

He needed to get back home.

Shaky, Eddie forced himself to move forward through the sticky, evil shadows of the Upside Down. Forcing himself to stay upright and walk despite the strange weariness that overcame him, making every movement difficult, as though his body was trying to drag his corpse back to the filthy ground. An indefinable thirst continued to burn in his throat irritatingly: he ignored the nagging sensation, pushing it to the back of his mind. His steps felt clumsy, heavy, and mechanical, as if he had to struggle to control his own body and that moving was an accomplishment in itself: he was a goddamn slow zombie, straight out of a Romero film. What a joke!

He tried to sing classic songs in his head, hoping that maybe the power of the music would carry him and help him pick up the pace a bit. As he let imaginary riffs fill his mind, Eddie the Zombie vowed to hold on, his jerky steps becoming less laborious without him even realizing it. No matter what was keeping him alive in this morbid in-between, he would fight to stay lucid and would do his best to help the Hellfire team and their allies defeat Creel. Music had helped fight Vecna before; maybe now it could help him hold on to what little humanity he had left...

The primal scream of Judas Priest's "Breaking the Law," the relentless rhythm of "Hell Awaits," the distorted metallic voice of Osbourne growling "Iron Man" over Black Sabbath's fiery tempos. Eddie was guided by the beat, resonating in his head and replacing the heartbeats he no longer had. A continuous pulse that drove him forward.

It was only when he reached the Upside Down version of Forest Hill—already grimy and seedy in the real world—that he could make out the familiar silhouettes of rows of trailers: slowly crossing the barren field, he arrived at his uncle's trailer, the place where he'd spent most of his teenage years. The old, whiteish metal now looked gray in this universe, thick, gelatinous ivy covering much of the vehicle, having grown like weeds.

He tore a section of ivy down with a furious yank, forcing his grip on the door handle to pry open the caravan door. It groaned as it opened, and Eddie tensed violently, letting out a hoarse cry as a swarm of Demo-bats rushed from the motorhome, brushing closely past him. They ignored him; his scent, it seemed, no longer appealed to them. Now that he was, more or less, one of their own, his blood—if he still had any—likely no longer held the same allure since his life had ended. He sighed in relief, crossing the caravan and pushing open the door to his room. This door led to the largest room in the trailer, which he had claimed at fourteen—when Wayne Munson had welcomed him with a gruff smile after his father had finally disappeared for good. Eddie had decorated it with care, covering the walls with posters of Dio, Slayer, and Megadeth.

Before the creation of Hellfire, this room had been his only refuge. He could still recall the nights spent strumming his guitar strings, practicing wild solos for Corroded Coffin, smoking joints and laughing to himself like an idiot, or fine-tuning his campaign scenarios for Dungeons and Dragons. It hadn't been a glamorous or enviable life, but he had been happy there. A strange, nostalgic ache came with the thought: he had been happy. It felt distant now, now that his heart didn't even beat and he knew he would never return to the surface. Yet even in this decaying world, in this room filled with rubble, dust, and floating toxic particles, there was a feeling of sanctuary. Mechanically, Eddie let himself fall onto the bed, briefly feeling that this act allowed him to pretend, for just a moment, that he was human again. He gazed at the ceiling for a long time, resisting the dreadful temptation to look at his reflection in the closet mirror to the right of his bed. He sat up, letting his gaze wander across the room. His eyes settled on the far wall, and there it was, the artifact he'd been seeking!

His guitar: waiting for him, hanging patiently, proudly displayed on its stand. A glowing prize pulled from the depths of hell. It shouldn't have been there—in the haze of his final moments, he clearly remembered carelessly tossing it onto the living room couch after his solo for Chrissy. Dustin must have carefully hung it back there before fleeing the Upside Down. A final tribute, perhaps. Eddie's chest tightened as he thought of the kid; he remembered those usually merry eyes filled with tears, the boy's body racked with sobs over his dying form. He felt guilty for having put him through that, for sacrificing himself so foolishly: on the one hand, he hadn't been a coward—for once—and had faced the situation with a certain flair. On the other, he had died without knowing if those few minutes of resistance against Vecna's monstrosities had made any difference for Steve, Max, and the others. Eddie wished he knew whether his death had meant anything or if his bravado had just been a thoughtless, useless gesture. He would likely never know, but one thing was certain: he intended to put his undead state to good use. He could no longer save himself, but now, he didn't even fear death. He had no fear, submerged in this sea of darkness: and so he would do everything he could to try to save those he loved, who still remained in Hawkins. He wouldn't let Vecna act freely and keep trapping his friends in waking nightmares.

He reached out his hand and was pleased to see his movements were far less jerky than when he had first woken. To tame this beauty, he needed his fingers to move properly. He stroked the instrument, almost with reverence: in this strange world, under these surreal circumstances, holding it again felt like a symbol. It was more than just a guitar; it was the memory of a defiant act in the middle of the apocalypse. Master of Puppets had echoed across the Upside Down, with Dustin urging him on with desperate energy. It had probably been the best guitar solo he'd ever played, galvanized by terror and the weight of responsibility, standing atop his trailer for a final performance in hell, trying to give Steve and the others a chance to save little Mayfield. Now, holding his guitar again, he felt the urge to make it scream at full volume, to stand against the surrounding chaos with metal as his only weapon to repel monsters.

Eddie gripped the instrument with an uncertain hand and began brushing the strings, producing a dark, grinding sound. As the struck string vibrated, he imagined the Upside Down trembling. He smiled to himself, alone in the dark. He felt no thirst, needed no blood, no brains. No matter what had happened to him, he would not let Vecna or any of his minions control him. He was ready to play one last game of Dungeons and Dragons. One last game before the end of the world. He slipped the guitar strap over his shoulder and approached his dresser, pulling out a game set. He drew out a twenty-sided die, examining it for a long moment, turning it between his grayish fingers.

He couldn't yet think of a plan or a coherent action to defeat Vecna, so he decided to trust his instinct. And fate.

In this room, it didn't take much to summon the warm spirit of Hellfire. Eddie carefully spread a game mat on his coffee table and threw a silent challenge to the universe by rolling the die.

And he offered a silent prayer, not to God, but to Ronnie Dio… and to Lady Applejack.

Time seemed suspended, and Eddie Munson held his breath uselessly as the die bounced on the mat.

A roll of 20.

Critical success.

Good. He was the Dungeon Master once again.

He hoped the patch on the back of his jacket wasn't damaged: he wanted the Demo-dogs to admire it when he made Holy Diver chords resonate through the depths of this rotting universe. He was the last in line. He didn't yet know how he would defeat Vecna, but one thing was certain: Eddie the Banished was heading into the race for morning, riding the tiger with his guitar in hand, intent on making the sun shine once more in the Upside Down.

"A simple roll of the dice will never abolish chance."

Stéphane Mallarmé.

Notes :

Alright, I won't detail every musical reference in the text, but here are a few notes.
*The anecdote is real and mentioned by Eddie in Season 4 as a "very metal" act by Ozzy; Osbourne, however, repeatedly stated afterward that it was a mistake, believing he was biting into a plastic bat :p
** The idea partly stems from Eddie the Head from Maiden, with his electric guitar in hand ;)
*** Dio is introduced as Eddie's favorite band, with the patch on the back of his jacket featuring the cover of the album Last in Line, and the song Holy Diver—the band's most famous track—from which I borrow some lyrics, especially toward the end of the text (not being afraid anymore, diving into a sea of darkness, riding the tiger, running toward the morning, etc.). The song has led to many interpretations due to its cryptic nature. Ronnie Dio explained that it refers to a messianic figure who leaves for another world to sacrifice themselves for an unknown people, while their own people selfishly plead for their return, asking them not to give their life for strangers. I thought the lyrics resonated interestingly with Eddie's situation.
See you soon for the next part! :)