Chapter 3: The Robin Variable
The record store smelled like dust and vinyl dreams.
I pushed through the door in February, bell chiming overhead, with a specific target in mind. Robin Buckley. Band geek. Future best friend. Currently arguing with the owner about David Bowie's artistic evolution in a voice that carried across the entire shop.
"—Ziggy Stardust was a persona," she was saying, gesturing with both hands at a record she'd pulled from the shelf. "The whole point was the theatrical death and rebirth. You can't just dismiss it as glam rock posturing when it's literally about the performance of identity."
The owner—grey-haired guy with a ZZ Top beard—rolled his eyes. "Kid, it's a guy in makeup singing about space. You're overthinking it."
"I'm thinking about it the exact right amount." Robin's grip tightened on the record sleeve. "The Spiders from Mars weren't just a backing band, they were—"
"They were part of the largest musical statement of the seventies," I cut in, walking up to the counter. "The album's a concept piece about fame consuming identity. The Ziggy character becomes the mask he wears until there's nothing underneath."
Robin's head whipped toward me. Brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Shit. Too much?
The store owner grunted. "Harrington. Didn't know you listened to anything besides top forty garbage."
"I contain multitudes." I picked up another Bowie album—Hunky Dory—and studied the track listing like I hadn't already memorized it from a dozen listens in my old life. "Changes is about transformation. Life on Mars is about escape from mundane reality. The whole album's about becoming someone else."
Robin set down Ziggy Stardust slowly. "Why are you here?"
Valid question. Steve Harrington—King Steve in training—had no business in a record store discussing Bowie's artistic vision with the weird band girl. But I'd been planning this for weeks, ever since I'd spotted her in the school hallway carrying a French horn case covered in sarcastic stickers.
"Needed new music." I shrugged, all casual confidence. "Basketball practice playlist is getting stale."
"So you came here to discuss the philosophical implications of glam rock personas?" Her tone dripped skepticism.
"I came here because Tommy Henderson told me this place only sells 'loser music' and I wanted to see what he meant." I met her eyes directly. "Turns out he's an idiot. Who knew?"
The store owner laughed. Robin's expression shifted—still suspicious, but now with a flicker of curiosity.
"You're seriously trying to tell me you care about David Bowie's artistic evolution?" she asked.
"Station to Station is better than Ziggy Stardust," I said. "Fight me."
Her jaw dropped. "That is objectively wrong."
"Is it though? Station to Station has Golden Years. It's got the title track that's literally ten minutes of cocaine-fueled genius. Ziggy's great, don't get me wrong, but—"
"But nothing. Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is a complete narrative arc with thematic resonance and cultural impact that Station to Station, while excellent, doesn't match."
We argued for twenty minutes. The store owner gave up and retreated to the back room. Robin grabbed albums to support her points. I countered with references to chord progressions and production choices I definitely shouldn't know about.
And somewhere in the middle of debating whether Scary Monsters was Bowie's last great album or just great compared to his eighties output, Robin smiled.
Actually smiled.
"You're kind of weird, Harrington," she said finally.
"Yeah." I bought the Hunky Dory record because I could, because Steve's parents left enough money that a ten-dollar album was nothing. "You're pretty weird too."
"That's not an insult coming from you, is it?"
"Nope." I headed for the door. "See you around, Buckley."
Behind me, I heard her say to the store owner, "Did Steve Harrington just out-music-nerd me?"
"Appears so."
"Huh."
Robin
Steve Harrington was weird, and Robin didn't trust weird.
She'd seen him around school—hard not to, he was everywhere lately. Basketball star in the making. Friends with Tommy H., who was objectively the worst. Part of that whole jock circle that made freshman year miserable for anyone who didn't fit their narrow definition of cool.
But then he'd shown up at her record store. Defended Bowie. Made arguments about artistic vision that suggested he actually gave a shit about music beyond whatever played on Casey Kasem's countdown.
"It's a trap," she muttered to herself in band class the next day. "Rich jock pretends to be interesting, then humiliates the weird girl. Classic."
Except Steve didn't humiliate her. He nodded when they passed in the hallway—not the mocking kind of acknowledgment, just a genuine "hey." He didn't make fun of her French horn case. He didn't laugh when she dropped her books in the parking lot and sheet music went everywhere.
He helped pick them up.
"Holst," he said, reading one of the pieces. "The Planets suite?"
"Jupiter movement." Robin grabbed the sheets back. "Why do you know Holst?"
"Documentary on PBS." He handed over the last page. "Space music. Pretty cool."
Then he left. Just walked away like helping the band geek pick up scattered music was completely normal behavior for King Steve in training.
Robin stared after him, utterly confused.
The next week, he showed up at the record store again. Bought a Talking Heads album. Made a joke about how Psycho Killer was "relatable" in a way that was either concerning or hilarious.
"You keep coming back," Robin said.
"Music's good here."
"There are three record stores in Hawkins. This is the smallest."
Steve looked at her for a long moment. "The other ones don't have someone who'll argue with me about whether punk's dead or just evolving."
"Punk's not dead, it's just—" She stopped. "Wait. You want me to argue with you?"
"Yeah." He grinned, and it looked almost real. "You're smart. It's refreshing."
Nobody called Robin smart except her teachers, and that was always qualified with "but lacks focus" or "needs to apply herself better."
She found herself smiling back.
Steve
March brought horror movie nights and the slow construction of actual friendship.
Robin's house was small but lived-in, the kind of place where family photos crowded every surface and her mom baked cookies without being asked. Mrs. Buckley eyed me with suspicion the first time I showed up—rich kid from the hill coming to watch movies with her weird daughter probably set off alarm bells.
"We're just watching The Thing," Robin explained. "Steve claims Carpenter's overrated."
"I said Halloween was overrated," I corrected. "The Thing is a masterpiece."
Mrs. Buckley relaxed slightly. "You kids want popcorn?"
We watched practical effects and paranoia on Robin's tiny TV, and I had to bite back comments about how the prequel would ruin the mystery in thirty years. Robin provided running commentary about the cinematography and creature design. She knew everything about how effects were made, how shots were composed, how Carpenter built tension.
"You could do this," I said during a quiet moment. "Film stuff. You're good at analysis."
"Right, because Hawkins, Indiana is such a hub for film careers." But her tone wasn't bitter, just realistic.
"So leave." I grabbed more popcorn. "After graduation. Go somewhere that matters."
Robin looked at me with those sharp, calculating eyes. "Why do you care?"
Because I'd watched her kick ass in a Soviet bunker. Because I knew she'd help save the world multiple times while never getting the credit she deserved. Because she was going to be the best friend I'd ever have, and that bond needed to start somewhere.
"Because you're interesting," I said instead. "Most people here are boring as hell."
"Even your basketball friends?"
"Especially them." The truth came easier than expected. "Tommy's an asshole. Carol's worse. I hang out with them because... I don't know. It's easier than explaining why I don't want to."
Robin paused the movie. "You feel disconnected."
"Yeah." The vulnerability felt dangerous but necessary. "Like I'm playing a part. Going through motions. Waiting for something real to happen."
"That's called being fifteen, Steve."
"Maybe." I met her eyes. "Or maybe some of us can see that this—" I gestured at the window, at Hawkins beyond it, "—isn't enough. Isn't real. Like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Something shifted in Robin's expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just the realization that King Steve in training was as lost as she was.
"Okay," she said quietly. "We can keep doing this. Movie nights. But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't turn into an asshole. You're walking a dangerous line with Tommy and those guys. Don't cross it."
I thought about the original Steve—cruel to Nancy, dismissive of everyone outside his circle, wasting years before finally becoming someone worth knowing.
"I won't," I promised. "That's not who I want to be."
Robin studied me for another moment, then unpaused the movie. "Good. Because I will absolutely kick your ass if you go full jock-asshole."
"Noted."
We watched Kurt Russell fight aliens in Antarctica, and I felt something settle in my chest. Real friendship. The first genuinely good thing I'd built in this new life.
May arrived with unseasonable warmth and an unexpected encounter.
The school career fair was mandatory for freshmen—endless booths of local businesses trying to convince teenagers that Hawkins had opportunities beyond the factory or farm work. I wandered past displays for Melvald's General Store and the police department, barely paying attention.
Then I spotted Joyce Byers.
She was at the hospital booth, looking exhausted in blue scrubs. Her hair was pulled back, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. The divorce was hitting her hard—even from across the fair, you could see the weight she carried.
I shouldn't interfere. Joyce's life was complicated enough without my meddling. But Bob Newby kept haunting my thoughts—the kindest man in Hawkins, destined to die in a lab full of demo-dogs while buying time for everyone else to escape.
Every time I've tried to save him, something worse happens.
The thought came from nowhere and everywhere. A memory that wasn't mine, knowledge I shouldn't have. Other timelines? Other attempts?
Focus. Present moment.
"—really need someone who knows electronics," a voice was saying nearby. "The new inventory system is killing me."
I turned. Two guys from the RadioShack booth were talking, and one of them was describing their manager—"Bob something, super nice guy but absolutely useless with computers."
Perfect.
"Bob Newby," I said casually, walking past them toward another booth. "RadioShack manager. Really into tech but old-school. Probably needs someone patient to teach him the new systems."
The RadioShack guy blinked. "You know Bob?"
"Bought cables from him last week. Seemed like a good guy." I shrugged. "Very... earnest. The kind of person who'd help anyone with anything."
I kept walking, but the seed was planted. Someone at this fair would mention to Joyce how nice RadioShack Bob was. Maybe she'd stop by the store sometime. Maybe their paths would cross earlier, stronger, differently.
Maybe Bob would survive.
Or maybe I'd doom him worse than before.
Stop. You can't control everything.
But I could try.
Robin found me behind the school after the fair ended, sitting on the concrete steps and staring at nothing.
"You okay?" She dropped onto the step beside me. "You look like someone killed your dog."
"Don't have a dog."
"Metaphorical dog murder, then."
I smiled despite everything. "Just thinking. Too many variables. Not enough information."
"That's cryptic."
"Yeah." I stood, brushing off my jeans. "You free this weekend? My parents left for London yesterday. House is empty for six weeks."
Robin raised an eyebrow. "Is this you propositioning me? Because I should warn you, Harrington, I'm not interested in—"
"Movie marathon," I interrupted. "Horror, sci-fi, whatever. No pressure. Just figured having an empty house means we could actually turn the volume up without worrying about parents."
Her expression softened. "You really are lonely up there in that big house, aren't you?"
"It's quieter than I'd like," I admitted.
"Okay. This weekend. But I'm picking the movies, and you're providing the snacks."
"Deal."
Robin headed for her bike, and I watched her go—sharp, cynical, secretly kind Robin Buckley, who had no idea how important she'd become.
Two real friends now. Eddie warmed up slowly, cautious and surprised by any kindness. Robin challenged me, kept me honest, made sure I didn't disappear into the role I was playing.
I headed home to an empty mansion and a basement full of training equipment, already planning the next phase.
The Dimensional Backpack was at 60% charge—forty more days until I could test extraction again. Fight Master progressed steadily, my body learning to weaponize anything I touched. The compass sat hidden in my closet, waiting.
And somewhere in Hawkins, Bob Newby went about his life, unaware that I'd just tried to nudge fate in his favor.
Please let it work this time, I thought. Please let him live.
But hope was dangerous. Hope meant caring about outcomes I couldn't control.
I locked the front door behind me and descended into the basement, where certainty waited in the form of training dummies and heavy bags and the steady progression of becoming dangerous enough to matter.
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