Chapter 2: Building the Foundation
October came with cold rain and the start of basketball tryouts.
I'd been in this body for three weeks now, and the initial shock had crystallized into something more useful: determination. The compass sat hidden in my closet, untouched since that first night. I wanted to test it more, wanted to understand the Dimensional Backpack's rules, but caution won out. If I pulled too many items too quickly, if I acted too strange, people would notice.
And the last thing I needed was attention.
So instead, I focused on the one power I could train in secret: my body itself.
Something was different about me—about Steve's body, technically, but it was mine now. I'd noticed it during gym class when I'd executed a layup I definitely hadn't practiced. The movement felt natural, instinctive, like my body knew what to do even if my mind didn't.
I tested it that night in my basement, following along with a martial arts VHS tape I'd checked out from the library. A basic karate instructional, grainy and dated. The instructor demonstrated a punch, and I mimicked it.
Perfect form. First try.
I did it again. The motion felt locked into my muscles, permanent, like I'd practiced it a thousand times. By the end of the hour-long tape, I'd absorbed techniques that should have taken weeks to learn.
Fight Master, I thought, remembering the terminology from the power documents I'd read in the void. Or maybe I'd just somehow known it, information downloaded into my brain along with everything else. An ability to master any fighting technique with minimal practice. My body adapted and learned at three times the normal rate.
Which meant I had three years to become very, very dangerous.
Hawkins High School was smaller than I remembered from the show, but that made sense—fewer students in the early eighties. The social hierarchy was already established: jocks at the top, nerds at the bottom, everyone else fighting for position in between.
I needed to be at the top. Not because I enjoyed it—watching Tommy H. and his friends mock a freshman for his clothes made me want to break someone's nose—but because King Steve had resources. Money, influence, a house empty for months at a time. If I was going to prepare for the Upside Down, I needed those advantages.
But I could be a different kind of King Steve.
"Harrington!" Tommy H. jogged up to me after practice, all confident swagger. Carol hung on his arm, smirking at something. "You're trying out for varsity, right?"
I was a freshman. Varsity was mostly juniors and seniors. But this body had skills, and more importantly, I had knowledge from the void giving me edge.
"Maybe," I said, adjusting my gym bag. "Coach seems interested."
"Dude, you're killing it out there." Tommy clapped my shoulder. "Stick with us, you'll be running this school by junior year."
Carol giggled. "He's already got the look. Just needs the attitude."
They wanted me in their circle. I could see the calculation behind Tommy's friendly tone—he was sizing up future competition, deciding if I was useful or a threat.
Neither, I thought. You're just a placeholder until I find people who matter.
"Cool," I said aloud, giving them a grin that felt plastic. "Hey, I'm grabbing food at the diner. You guys want in?"
They did. Of course they did. And as we walked toward Tommy's car, I caught sight of Jonathan Byers heading toward the parking lot, camera bag over his shoulder, completely ignored by everyone around him.
Three years. In three years, Jonathan would be in the thick of fighting monsters alongside Nancy Wheeler. Right now, he was just the quiet kid nobody noticed.
I filed that information away and climbed into Tommy's backseat, already planning my next move.
The library became my second home.
Mrs. Crane, the librarian, barely acknowledged me anymore. I'd become a fixture at the back table near the reference section, always with notebooks and borrowed books spread around me. Most days I was alone.
But not today.
I heard them before I saw them—the distinctive rattle of dice, hushed voices trying to stay quiet. I looked up from my notes on dimensional theory (disguised as a physics textbook) and spotted three guys huddled in the corner behind the nonfiction stacks.
One of them was Eddie Munson.
He was running a D&D game, judging by the makeshift DM screen and character sheets spread across their table. Two other guys I didn't recognize were completely absorbed in whatever scenario Eddie was weaving. His voice carried just enough for me to catch fragments:
"...the dragon's shadow falls across the village. What do you do?"
I should have gone back to my reading. Should have ignored them. But I'd watched Eddie die in Season 4, watched him sacrifice himself while playing Master of Puppets in the Upside Down, and something in my chest twisted.
He was just a kid. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, already labeled a freak by everyone who mattered. In seven years, he'd be dead because this town refused to see past his leather jacket and long hair.
Not if I can help it.
I stood, grabbed my notebook, and walked over. Eddie noticed me first—his eyes went wide, and he quickly started gathering the game materials like he was expecting trouble.
"Relax," I said, pulling up a chair. "I'm just watching."
"You're... watching?" Eddie repeated slowly, like I'd spoken a foreign language.
"Yeah. It's D&D, right? I've heard of it." I hadn't actually played—too nerdy for my old friend group—but I'd watched Stranger Things enough to know the basics. "How does it work?"
Eddie stared at me. So did his friends. One of them—a stocky guy with glasses—started, "Dude, are you messing with us?"
"No." I leaned back in my chair, deliberately casual. "I'm bored. You guys look like you're having fun. I want to know why."
The library door burst open, and three seniors swaggered in. I recognized them—basketball players, the kind who thought their letterman jackets made them invincible. They spotted Eddie's group and started heading over with predatory grins.
Here we go.
I stood before they got within ten feet, moving to intercept. "Hey, Henderson," I called to one of them—Mark Henderson, no relation to Dustin. "Coach is looking for you. Something about your eligibility for Friday's game?"
Henderson stopped. "What? I haven't heard anything."
"Yeah, well, he mentioned it in the locker room." I shrugged. "Probably nothing, but you might want to check."
It was complete bullshit. But Henderson's face paled—he was barely maintaining his GPA anyway—and his friends exchanged glances. The moment of potential violence passed as they turned and headed for the gym instead.
Crisis averted.
I sat back down. Eddie was staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Why did you do that?" he asked quietly.
"Do what? I just told Henderson about Coach." I picked up one of his character sheets, studying it. "This is pretty complex. How long does a campaign usually take?"
Eddie's friend nudged him. "Dude, I think he's serious."
"I am." I looked at Eddie. "Continue the game. I want to see how this works."
He hesitated for another moment, then slowly picked up his dice. "Okay... so, the dragon's shadow falls across the village..."
I watched them play for the next forty minutes. Eddie was a natural DM—dramatic, engaging, pulling his players into the story with vivid descriptions and clever challenges. His voice changed for different NPCs, his hands gesticulated wildly, and despite the school's opinion of him, he was clearly brilliant at this.
When the session ended, I stood to leave. Eddie caught my arm.
"Hey, uh... thanks. For earlier."
"No problem." I glanced at his friends, who were packing up game materials. "You guys play here every week?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays," Eddie said cautiously. "Why?"
"Just curious." I headed for the door, then paused. "The dragon thing? Cool idea. But if I were the players, I'd try to parley with it instead of fighting. Dragons are usually intelligent, right? Might be useful to have one as an ally instead of an enemy."
Eddie's mouth fell open. "That's... actually a really good point."
I grinned and left.
Behind me, I heard one of his friends whisper, "Did Steve Harrington just give Eddie Munson campaign advice?"
The basement of my house became my training ground.
My parents were in Tokyo for another five weeks, then they'd be home for maybe ten days before jetting off to London. The pattern was established: they'd be gone more than they were here, and when they were home, they barely noticed me anyway.
Which gave me all the time in the world to train.
I'd cleared out half the basement, pushing storage boxes and old furniture to one corner. The concrete floor was perfect for martial arts practice, and the exposed support beams gave me something to work with for upper body conditioning.
I started simple. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups on the beams. My body responded faster than it should have—muscles developing definition after just a few weeks that should have taken months. The Fight Master ability wasn't just about technique; it was enhancing my physical development too.
Then I moved to the VHS tapes. I'd collected five so far from the library: basic karate, boxing fundamentals, knife fighting (labeled as "stage combat" but the techniques were real enough), and two generic martial arts instructionals.
Two hours of watching, two hours of practice. Every night.
The karate forms locked into my muscle memory within days. The boxing footwork became second nature. The knife techniques—practiced with a wooden dowel I'd carved into a rough blade shape—felt instinctive after a week.
I was learning at an impossible rate, and my body was keeping pace.
By the time November arrived, I could move through combinations that would have taken years to master. My reaction time had improved noticeably. My balance was perfect. The skinny fourteen-year-old body I'd inherited was starting to show real definition.
Three times faster than normal, I thought, executing a spinning kick that would have been impossible a month ago. That's the power. My body adapts and learns, permanently storing everything.
I had 1,065 days until Will vanished.
If I kept this pace, I'd be deadly by then.
December brought snow and an unexpected complication: people started noticing me.
Not in a bad way—I'd been careful to maintain the popular jock facade, hanging with Tommy and Carol just enough to stay in their orbit without getting too close. I made the varsity basketball team as a freshman, which earned respect from the upperclassmen. My grades were solid without being suspiciously perfect.
But Eddie Munson kept nodding at me in the hallways. Mrs. Crane smiled when I checked out books. Jonathan Byers once met my eyes across the cafeteria and gave a tiny, confused nod, like he couldn't figure out why the jock hadn't mocked him yet.
I was building something. Not the King Steve from the original timeline—that version had been cruel and shallow. This Steve protected kids from bullies. This Steve returned library books on time. This Steve didn't join in when Tommy mocked the AV Club.
Tommy noticed. "You're going soft, Harrington," he said one day after practice. "Used to be fun. Now you're all... I don't know. Different."
"Just tired," I lied. "My parents are gone again. Gets old."
"Yeah, that sucks." Tommy's sympathy was brief. "But seriously, you need to loosen up. We're hitting a party Friday. You in?"
"Maybe." I grabbed my gym bag. "I'll let you know."
I wouldn't go. Parties meant drinking, drinking meant losing control, and I couldn't afford to lose control. Not when I was training every night. Not when I was laying the groundwork for alliances that wouldn't pay off for years.
Not when I had monsters to prepare for.
January marked the end of my first semester in this new life and the beginning of systematic preparation.
My journal had grown to three notebooks, all hidden behind the loose board in my closet. Page after page of coded observations: who to trust, who to watch, what changes I dared make to the timeline.
Eddie Munson: Build friendship slowly. He's key to many things.
Robin Buckley: Haven't met yet. Find her.
The Party: Too young to approach now. Wait until closer to events.
Nancy Wheeler & Barb Holland: Barb dies in Season 1. PREVENT THIS.
The list went on. Dozens of names, hundreds of plot points, all carefully catalogued and cross-referenced.
The compass stayed hidden. My Dimensional Backpack was recharging—1% per day, I'd calculated, based on nothing but instinct. In another seventy days, I'd hit 100% and could test extraction again. Could see what other items might appear.
But that was future planning. Present Steve had to maintain his cover, continue training, and build the foundation for everything that would come.
I stood in my basement that night, going through knife forms with my wooden practice blade, and caught my reflection in the window. Sweat dripped down my face. My muscles burned with good exhaustion. My hands moved with deadly precision through strikes and parries I'd learned in less than a month.
You're not Steve Harrington, I thought. Not the real one. But you're wearing his face, living his life, and in three years, you'll use everything he has to save people he never knew he could save.
I executed a final combination—thrust, twist, slash—and stopped. Breathing hard. Centered.
Eddie had started nodding at me in hallways. That was progress. Baby steps toward the alliance I'd need when November 1983 rolled around.
Tommy complained I was getting soft, but he still invited me to parties. The jock facade held.
My body was transforming day by day, becoming something more than it had been. Something dangerous.
1,034 days until Will Byers vanished.
I had work to do.
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