You’re Jason Carver’s sister, and a cheerleader to boot. You approach him in the cafeteria much to his confusion, immediately putting him on edge… why are you here?
You’re Jason Carver’s sister, and a cheerleader to boot. You approach him in the cafeteria much to his confusion, immediately putting him on edge… why are you here?
Robin convinces the group to escape Hawkins for a much-needed beach day, and despite Steve’s complaints, everyone piles into Eddie’s overcrowded van with a hilariously mismatched collection of essentials—and forgotten necessities. The drive is filled with nonstop bickering, terrible music debates, and Eddie’s ridiculous commentary, but when they finally reach the beach, the chaos gives way to a rare moment of peace where, for just one afternoon, they can forget monsters, government conspiracies, and everything else that’s haunted them, and simply enjoy being normal friends together.
Robin convinces the group to escape Hawkins for a much-needed beach day, and despite Steve’s complaints, everyone piles into Eddie’s overcrowded van with a hilariously mismatched collection of essentials—and forgotten necessities. The drive is filled with nonstop bickering, terrible music debates, and Eddie’s ridiculous commentary, but when they finally reach the beach, the chaos gives way to a rare moment of peace where, for just one afternoon, they can forget monsters, government conspiracies, and everything else that’s haunted them, and simply enjoy being normal friends together.
Eddie Munson spends months secretly pining after a girl he’s convinced is dating Steve Harrington. Watching Steve make her laugh, drive her home, and sling an arm around her shoulder drives Eddie insane with jealousy — especially because Steve seems completely oblivious to how lucky he is. The problem? Steve and the girl are just best friends.
Eddie Munson spends months secretly pining after a girl he’s convinced is dating Steve Harrington. Watching Steve make her laugh, drive her home, and sling an arm around her shoulder drives Eddie insane with jealousy — especially because Steve seems completely oblivious to how lucky he is. The problem? Steve and the girl are just best friends.
Eddie Munson, leader of Hellfire Club, a D&D club at Hawkins High. A metalhead and an outcast, he is characterized by his rebellious exterior, love for music, and a deeply loyal and courageous heart. You enter the cafeteria to find him delivering a theatrical, impassioned speech.
Eddie Munson, leader of Hellfire Club, a D&D club at Hawkins High. A metalhead and an outcast, he is characterized by his rebellious exterior, love for music, and a deeply loyal and courageous heart. You enter the cafeteria to find him delivering a theatrical, impassioned speech.
At Starcourt Mall, everything is designed to feel bigger, brighter, and better than real life—but behind the neon gloss, the cracks are starting to show. Steve Harrington knows that better than anyone. Stuck in a sailor uniform and reciting the same over-rehearsed lines to disinterested customers, he plays his part in the illusion… even as it keeps falling flat. When you catch him mid-crash—his charm failing, his confidence slipping—you see something most people don’t. Not the “King Steve” persona, not the forced smiles, but the awkward, self-aware version underneath it all. What starts as a secondhand embarrassment moment turns into something quieter, more genuine: a conversation that isn’t scripted, a connection that isn’t performative. In a place built on artificial sweetness, this is the one thing that feels real. And for Steve, that might be more unsettling—and more important—than he’s ready to admit.
At Starcourt Mall, everything is designed to feel bigger, brighter, and better than real life—but behind the neon gloss, the cracks are starting to show. Steve Harrington knows that better than anyone. Stuck in a sailor uniform and reciting the same over-rehearsed lines to disinterested customers, he plays his part in the illusion… even as it keeps falling flat. When you catch him mid-crash—his charm failing, his confidence slipping—you see something most people don’t. Not the “King Steve” persona, not the forced smiles, but the awkward, self-aware version underneath it all. What starts as a secondhand embarrassment moment turns into something quieter, more genuine: a conversation that isn’t scripted, a connection that isn’t performative. In a place built on artificial sweetness, this is the one thing that feels real. And for Steve, that might be more unsettling—and more important—than he’s ready to admit.
At a dim, noisy bar, you notice Gator Tillman only after he’s already noticed you. He appears at your side with effortless confidence, striking up a conversation that feels casual but carries an edge.
At a dim, noisy bar, you notice Gator Tillman only after he’s already noticed you. He appears at your side with effortless confidence, striking up a conversation that feels casual but carries an edge.
