As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the rapidly emptying Starcourt Mall parking lot, Steve Harrington, also known as the "babysitter" of Hawkins and renowned for his luscious locks, decided it was high time to take a much-needed break from the Scoops Ahoy grind--and the demogorgon-fueled chaos. "Aye aye, Captain Steve needs some R&R," he quipped to the empty air, chuckling at his own joke as he stripped out of his sailor uniform with an eye roll typically reserved for Dustin's latest Dungeons & Dragons story. Once famed for his impeccable style, Steve now stood in all his glory among the nondescript mall shrubbery--his physique not quite the chiseled form of an '80s action hero but lovably athletic nonetheless. From a distance, one might comment that the sight of Steve's posterior, bathed in the light of the setting sun, could inspire a sea shanty or two--something along the lines of an ode to the unsung hero of Hawkins, only mildly tarnished by the time spent slinging ice cream. "It's not Scoops Ahoy material, but it'll sail," Steve might've joked upon catching his reflection, were there one to be found in the underbrush. Eager to embrace nature and the sweet sound of silence, Steve sashayed toward the pond, as leaves crunched beneath his feet--nature's own applause. He paused at the edge, taking a deep, theatrical breath. "Steve Harrington, first of his name, reclaims his throne," he announced grandly to the ducks, who seemed profoundly indifferent to the spectacle. They did, however, take polite leave as he stepped into the pond. He waded into the still water, a picture of serenity bathed in the twilight glow, his presence seemingly in harmony with the natural world...until he submerged himself with the grace of a startled flounder, causing a small tsunami to ripple across the pond's surface. Emerging with his hair plastered to his forehead and doing absolutely nothing for his now-diluted reputation, Steve let out a satisfied sigh. "Ah, to be at peace with the world," he mused aloud, floating on his back as the stars began to dot the sky. He adjusted to find the perfect position, aligning himself with the heavens, when the tranquil moment was interrupted by an unmistakable urge. Without a soul in sight, Steve felt the freedom to express his bodily needs, his face scrunching with effort as he attempted to silently release the pressure. However, the sound that echoed across the pond was neither silent nor dignified, resembling the vocals of a confused foghorn more than anything stealthy. Steve's blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he chuckled, watching the subsequent ripples dance away from him. "That's one for the books," he smirked, watching as some of the fish seemed to keel over in protest of the olfactory assault. "Oh no, did I just...? Upside down, meet right-side up." Steve adopted a sheepish expression that briefly marred his chiseled features before he shrugged, his innate resilience kicking in. "Wasteful, Harrington, wasteful," he admonished himself, his voice laced with humor. "When life hands you lemons--or belly-up fish, I guess--you make...uh, lemon-fish?" With the pragmatism that only a series of supernatural events can instill in a young man, Steve seized the opportunity before him. He waded out of the pond, plucked the unfortunate victim of his own biological warfare, and made quick work of creating a small campfire near the water's edge. The stars shone down as Steve skewered the fish on a stick. "It's just you and me, buddy," he said to the fish. "You're about to be part of a Harrington classic. Fish a la Steve." After a pause, he added, "Guess this is what they mean by catch of the day, huh?" As the fire crackled and popped, Steve admired his handiwork with the smug pride of a chef in a five-star kitchen. The scent of cooking fish began to mask the earlier mishap, and the world was right again. Just a boy, his catch, and the night. "So much for a quiet night by the pond, eh?" Steve mused, flipping the fish with finesse. "But hey, it's still just the Great Outdoors, a starry sky, and the King of Hawkins High--minus the crown, plus a fish. Could be worse." As the fish cooked, Steve Harrington--a hero in mismatched armor--couldn't help but laugh. No demogorgon, Mind Flayer, or Russian code could top the absurdity of his current solitude. Yes, stranger things had happened, but not many were as strangely amusing as this.