Unity

Derry, Maine – February 10, 1985 – 11:16 p.m.

The farmhouse living room was a cocoon of low light and lingering warmth—the fire banked to embers, mugs of half-drunk cocoa scattered like forgotten offerings on the coffee table. The Losers had gathered there after dinner, the weight of the day pressing them into quiet clusters: Richie sprawled on the armchair with a magazine he wasn’t reading, Eddie perched on the ottoman twisting his inhaler, Ben and Bill murmuring low over a sketchpad at the table, Mike and Stan standing sentinel by the window like they could stare down the dark outside. Stella had curled up on the couch shortly after they’d all trickled in—small body tucked into the corner cushions, Bev’s oversized sweater swallowing her like a blanket. She’d been drowsy all evening, eyes heavy-lidded during the meal, murmuring half-sentences about “watching from high up” before trailing off. No one pushed. They’d let her drift, assuming the patrols and the constant vigilance were taking their toll. Bev had been the last to settle, pressing a kiss to Stella’s forehead before slipping out the back door with a quiet “I’ll check the shop quick—The winter coat for the new librarian at the middle school is due tomorrow. Won’t be long.” That had been over an hour ago. The others exchanged glances but said nothing; Bev’s quiet determination to keep some thread of normalcy—her alterations, her deadlines—was the one thing they didn’t question. Now Stella stirred. It started small—a twitch in her fingers, a faint murmur that could have been a dream-whisper. Then her body went rigid—spine arching off the cushions, small hands clenching into fists at her sides. Her eyes snapped open—wide, unseeing, pupils swallowing the brown until only black remained. Richie was the first to notice. He dropped the magazine, half-standing. “Hey—kid? You okay?” She didn’t respond. Her lips parted—breath hitching—and a single word escaped, low and venomous, layered with voices that echoed half a second behind themselves. “Liar…” The room froze. Eddie’s inhaler hit the floor with a plastic clatter. Ben and Bill shoved back from the table. Mike and Stan turned as one from the window. Stella’s body convulsed once—hard, like something inside had yanked a string—then she vanished. Not with a pop or a swirl of light. Just absence. One heartbeat she was there—small, rigid, furious—the next the couch cushion was empty, the sweater’s sleeve dangling limp over the edge like a forgotten ghost. Silence crashed in—thick, suffocating. Richie stared at the empty spot. “What the fuck—” Eddie was already moving—scooping up his inhaler, voice high and tight. “Where’d she go? What just happened?” Ben stood so fast his chair scraped back. “She said ‘liar.’ Like… like she knew something.” Bill’s face went pale. “Bev. Where’s Bev?” Mike was at the phone in three strides—dialing the shop number from memory, hand steady but knuckles white. The line rang once, twice—endless. No answer. Stan’s voice cut through—calm, but edged. “She left over an hour ago. The shop’s five minutes away.” Richie was already grabbing his coat from the rack. “We go. Now. All of us.” No one argued. They piled out the front door—coats half-zipped, boots unlaced—into the biting February night. Snow crunched underfoot as they crammed into Mike’s truck—Richie shotgun, Eddie and Ben in the cramped back seat with Bill and Stan squeezing in beside. The engine roared to life; tires spun once on ice before catching. The drive to Lower Main was a blur—headlights cutting through falling snow, wipers thumping like a frantic heartbeat. No one spoke. Mike’s hands gripped the wheel at ten-and-two; Richie stared straight ahead, knee bouncing. Eddie muttered under his breath—“Come on, come on”—while Ben and Bill exchanged grim looks. Stan watched the passing streets like he could will the town to give up its secrets. They skidded to a stop outside Marsh Threads—the shop dark except for a faint glow from the back workroom. The front door was locked, sign still flipped to CLOSED. Mike killed the engine. “Back alley.” They piled out—flashlights clicking on, beams sweeping the snow as they rounded the corner. The back door stood ajar—hinges creaking faintly in the wind, a thin wedge of light spilling onto the alley snow. Richie shoved it open first—heart in his throat. The workroom was empty. Bolts of fabric still stacked neatly on shelves, sewing machine humming faintly like it had been left mid-stitch, a child’s navy coat half-folded on the table. No struggle. No blood. Just… absence. And on the floor, right inside the threshold: a single red balloon string, knotted neatly around a loose thread of lavender ruffle. Eddie picked it up—fingers shaking. “He took her.” Bill’s voice was rough. “To make Stella come to him.” Mike’s jaw tightened. “And she went.” Richie punched the doorframe—once, hard—then leaned against it, breathing ragged. “We get her back,” he said—low, furious. “Whatever it takes. Ritual. Fight. Whatever. We get her back.” The others nodded—silent, certain. Snow swirled through the open door. Somewhere far below, the game had begun.

Sewers beneath Derry – February 10, 1985 – 11:17 p.m.

The spherical chamber beneath Derry smelled of wet stone, stagnant water, and the faint, cloying sweetness of carnival sugar gone to rot. Black water lapped at the curved walls in slow, patient ripples, reflecting the low orange glow of a single deadlight back at itself in fractured smears. The drip-drip-drip from the unseen ceiling high above had become a steady metronome, counting seconds no one else could hear.

Pennywise stood at the exact center of the pool—boots floating an inch above the surface, filthy white suit dripping black at the hems, ruff hanging in wet tatters like something drowned and forgotten. One long, multi-jointed arm wrapped loosely around Beverly’s waist, holding her against his chest as though she were a child being carried to bed. The other gloved hand rested lightly over her mouth—not tight enough to bruise, just firm enough to muffle any sound. She could feel the cold rubber of his glove against her lips, the faint tremor of amusement running through his fingers.

Bev did not struggle. Not yet. Her eyes—wide, furious, steady—remained locked on his greasepaint face. The cyan star pendant at her throat lay dark and cold against her skin, silent for the first time since she’d begun wearing it.

Pennywise tilted his head down until their faces were inches apart. The painted smile stretched slowly, corners tearing small wet splits in the white.

“You always did like playing mommy, didn’t you, Beverly?” His voice was soft, almost fond, tasting every syllable like candy laced with rust. “Just like your own mother—powerless, useless, cowering in the corner while the real monster took what he wanted.”

He leaned closer. A long, black tongue—too long, too slick—slid out and traced the air between them, never quite touching her skin.

“But I’ll give you something she never had.” The tongue withdrew with a wet slurp. His deadlight flared brighter, bathing her face in orange. “You get to watch… all the way… as your little girl crumbles into tiny, bite-sized pieces.”

Bev’s fingers dug into the filthy ruff at his neck, nails scraping uselessly against damp fabric. She forced the words out around his hand, voice muffled but clear.

“She’s not yours.”

Pennywise chuckled—low, bubbling, delighted. The sound rolled through the chamber like water moving over broken teeth.

“Oh, but she was,” he whispered, leaning in until she could smell the old popcorn and copper on his breath. “Long before you gave her that pretty name and those bedtime stories. She was mine first—pieces of all the children I swallowed and didn’t finish. Scraps. Leftovers. Crumbs.” His gloved fingers tightened just a fraction around her waist. “You’re just… borrowing her. Seasoning her. Softening her up with hugs and hot chocolate and fairy lights. Making her tender.”

He tilted his head the other way, smile tearing wider.

“Her shell is tough alright,” he murmured, voice dropping to a wet, intimate purr. “I had to pinch many times. There’s so many cracks now. I’ll shatter her and savor her soft insides.”

Bev stared straight into the deadlight. Her voice came out calm, low, and utterly certain.

“I chose her,” she said. “She is my daughter. And she is much stronger than you think.”

She let the words hang for half a heartbeat—then leaned in just enough that her breath brushed the torn edge of his painted smile.

“We’ve defeated you before,” she whispered. “And we’ll do it again.”

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flared wide—orange furnace suddenly hungry.

“She’s coming now,” he hissed, voice sliding under her skin like syrup over broken glass. “And she’s angry.”

He released her mouth—slowly, deliberately—letting his gloved hand trail down her cheek in a mockery of affection.

“Ask yourself, Beverly,” he said softly, “when she sees me holding you… like this… will she resist stealing another meal? Will she turn out… a daddy’s girl after all?”

The air in the chamber thickened. The drip-drip-drip faltered for half a heartbeat.

Then the world tore open.

Stella appeared in a burst of cyan light—small, furious, dusk-blue dress whipping like it had been caught in a storm. Her eyes burned orange—no brown left, just twin furnaces leaking violet sparks at the corners. She landed hard—bare feet splashing in the shallow water—then straightened, small hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Stella did not speak. Rage had burned every word out of her. What remained was pure, silent fury—small body vibrating with it, cyan light bleeding from her clenched fists in thin, crackling streams that hissed where they touched the black water.

Pennywise released Bev completely. She stumbled backward two steps, gasping, one hand flying to her throat, the other reaching instinctively toward Stella.

The clown spread his arms wide—mock invitation, deadlights blazing. “Come on, little star,” he purred. “Show Daddy what you’ve got.”

Stella moved. Not a hop. Not a glide. A detonation. She crossed the chamber in a single blink—bare feet barely touching the water—and drove both fists into Pennywise’s chest.

The impact was obscene. A shockwave rolled outward—black water exploding in a perfect radial crown, stone walls groaning as hairline fractures spiderwebbed up the curve. Pennywise’s body folded around her small hands like wet paper; ribs cracked audibly. Greasepaint tore in long wet strips. The conical hat flew off, spinning into shadow.

He hit the far wall with a meaty crunch—plaster raining down, body embedded a full foot into the stone before sliding down.

And he laughed. Wet. Bubbling. Ecstatic. “That’s my girl,” he rasped, head lolling. “Hit harder. Make it hurt.”

He lunged before she could press the advantage—claws raking across her ribs in a vicious upward slash. Fabric and skin parted; cyan light flared wildly where blood welled. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out—but the water around her feet hissed and steamed as droplets hit it.

Stella twisted, caught his wrist, and snapped it backward with a wet crack. He howled—delighted, furious—and drove his free elbow into her temple. The blow rang through the chamber; her head snapped sideways, violet sparks showering from one eye. She staggered one step—only one—then drove her knee into his face.

The crack echoed like a gunshot. Teeth scattered across the water like broken dice. The painted smile tore in two. One deadlight flickered out, then reignited brighter, hungrier.

He caught her ankle on the next strike—long fingers wrapping like steel cable. “Got you,” he hissed.

Stella twisted—once, vicious—and the hand shattered. Bones popped like dry twigs. He howled—delighted, furious—and lunged upward, teeth sinking into her shoulder.

The bite tore deep. Cyan light flared wildly around the wound, violet sparks showering into the water where blood hit. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t flinch.

But something inside her did.

A sound ripped out of her — not a scream, not a shout. A roar.
Low at first, then building — layered, jagged, a hundred voices overlapping in fury and grief and ancient hunger. Childish wails braided with old women’s rasps, boys’ shouts, girls’ sobs — all of them screaming as one. The chamber shook; cracks raced up the dome like lightning. Black water boiled where the sound hit it. The drip-drip-drip from above stuttered, then fell in erratic bursts.

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flickered — just for a heartbeat — as though the noise had actually startled it.

Stella drove her fist into his jaw; the force lifted him clean off his feet and sent him cartwheeling backward...

Pennywise rose slowly—body mangled, suit in rags, black ichor pouring from his mouth. His remaining deadlight burned supernova-bright. “More,” he croaked, grinning through shattered teeth. “Give me more, baby girl.”

Stella turned—sharp, deliberate—and crossed the chamber in three strides. Bev was already reaching for her.

Stella caught her around the waist—small arms impossibly strong—and pulled her close. Bev’s fingers tangled in dark hair; her lips brushed Stella’s temple in one frantic, wordless press.

Cyan light erupted around them—blinding, searing. The chamber flashed white.

When the afterimage cleared, they were gone.

Only the ruined wall, the shattered clown, and the black water remained—rippling, steaming, reflecting fractured orange light back at itself.

Pennywise stayed on his knees a long moment—head bowed, ichor dripping into the pool. Then he lifted his face. The torn smile pulled itself back together—slow, obscene—greasepaint knitting like living thread. He laughed again—low, wet, almost tender. “Almost,” he whispered to the empty chamber. “Almost ready to come out.”

Derry, Maine – February 10, 1985 – 11:39 p.m.

The farmhouse living room was still lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace and one low lamp on the side table. The Losers had left in a storm of half-zipped coats and slamming doors; now the house waited in heavy silence, the kind that presses against the ears after too much noise.

A soft cyan glow bloomed in the center of the room—brief, contained, like a match struck underwater. When it faded, Stella was there.

She stood for half a heartbeat—small, rigid, dusk-blue dress torn at the shoulder and ribs, dark hair matted with black ichor and something brighter that might have been her own light. Then she moved.

Bev was already unconscious in her arms—head lolling against Stella’s collarbone, face slack, breathing shallow but steady. Stella carried her to the couch with careful, deliberate steps, bare feet leaving faint wet prints on the floorboards. She sat first, then eased Bev down across her lap so that Bev’s head rested on her thighs. One small hand cradled the back of Bev’s neck; the other began to move slowly through the red hair—gentle, rhythmic, almost ritualistic.

Stella’s eyes still burned. No brown remained. Only orange furnaces, leaking thin violet sparks at the corners that hissed faintly when they touched the air. Her face was calm—eerily calm—but the calm of something ancient wearing a child’s skin. No giggles. No wide-eyed wonder. No little-girl voice asking for pancakes. Just quiet, watchful stillness.

The front door banged open minutes later.

The Losers spilled in—coats shedding snow, flashlights still on, voices overlapping in a frantic rush.

“Bev—?”

“Stella—?”

Mike was first through the doorway, flashlight beam sweeping the room. It caught Stella on the couch and froze there.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers kept moving through Bev’s hair—slow, steady.

Richie shoved past Mike, coat half-off. “Jesus Christ—kid, are you—?”

Stella’s voice came out low, even, stripped of childish cadence.

“She’s okay,” she said. “Just unconscious. The transition was… hard.”

Eddie was already moving toward the couch, inhaler forgotten in his pocket. “Let me see her—”

Stella lifted her free hand—not a stop gesture, just a calm palm-up. Eddie halted mid-step.

“She’ll wake soon,” Stella said. “Let her rest.”

The others clustered closer—Ben and Bill on one side, Stan and Mike behind, Richie hovering like he didn’t know whether to kneel or pace. Their eyes tracked over Stella in pieces: the torn dress hanging in ragged strips at the shoulder, exposing bruised skin underneath; the long claw-marks across her ribs, still weeping cyan-tinged blood; the shoulder bite that had torn fabric and flesh, edges blackened like frostbite; the dark smudges on her forearms and neck where his grip had crushed.

Ben exhaled sharply. “Stella… you’re bleeding.”

She blinked once—slow, as though the observation surprised her. Her gaze drifted down to her own body for the first time.

The wounds had not registered until that moment.

A small furrow appeared between her brows—visible effort. She exhaled once, long and controlled.

The cyan light inside her flickered—bright, then dim, then steady.

The claw-marks sealed themselves with a faint hiss, skin knitting together in thin glowing threads that faded to ordinary pale. The bite on her shoulder closed, leaving only smooth skin under the torn fabric. Bruises darkened, then paled, then vanished. The dress mended itself—threads weaving back together, tears sealing like they’d never been. In seconds she looked untouched again. Pristine. Whole.

But the Losers didn’t move. They knew.

Richie’s voice was rough. “That’s… just a glamour, isn’t it?”

Stella met his eyes—orange still burning, sparks still leaking.

“Yes,” she said simply. No apology. No defensiveness. “It’s easier this way.”

Eddie swallowed. “How bad is it really?”

Stella didn’t answer right away. Her fingers resumed their slow path through Bev’s hair.

“It hurts,” she said finally. “But that might be a good thing. I think I feel… unity.”

The word hung in the room—quiet, deliberate, carrying a weight none of them fully understood yet. No one pressed. They just watched her: the steady rhythm of her hand in Bev’s hair, the faint violet sparks still drifting from her eyes like dying embers, the unnatural calm that felt more like a held breath than peace.

Bev stirred.

A small sound—half-groan, half-breath—escaped her. Her eyelids fluttered. Stella’s hand stilled on her hair, cupping the back of her head protectively.

Bev’s eyes opened—slow, unfocused. She blinked up at the ceiling, then down at the small figure cradling her.

“Stella…?”

“I’m here,” Stella said—voice still calm, still stripped of its usual brightness. “You’re safe.”

Bev reached up—shaky fingers brushing Stella’s cheek, then tracing the line of her jaw. She saw the orange eyes, the violet sparks, the unnatural stillness.

“You’re hurt,” Bev whispered.

“I was,” Stella corrected gently. “I’m managing it.”

Bev tried to sit up. Stella helped her—small hands steady at her back—until Bev was upright, leaning against the arm of the couch. The others stayed close, forming a loose protective circle.

Stella waited until Bev’s breathing steadied.

Then she spoke.

Her voice was quiet, measured, carrying the weight of something final.

“I’m going to end this,” she said.

The word "end" landed like a stone in still water. No one breathed for several seconds.

Mike leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a plan?”

“I have many plans,” she said. “That’s been the problem all along. If you go in many directions, you end up going nowhere at all. But now…” She paused, orange eyes flickering once—violet sparks dimming for a heartbeat before flaring again. “…I think I can compromise.”

She looked around the circle—slow, deliberate.

“We’ll take a few days to recover. He’ll do so too—he was not unscathed. Then I’ll face him with all I am. It won’t be pretty. You’ll see parts of me that I’d rather you not see. But I believe that way… I can force him—small—into a long hibernation.”

Mike leaned forward slightly. “What can we do?”

Stella’s gaze settled on the dying fire—orange reflecting in orange.

“Be there,” she said. “Help me find my way back, if I… lose my way.”

Silence followed—thick, but not empty. It was the silence of people who had already decided.

Stella’s head tilted slightly. “I’ll force him to the surface,” she said. “Face him in the open. No home-performance for him this time.”

The words landed like stones in still water. The fire popped once, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney.

Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You mean… you’re going to make him come up here? Into town? Where people are?”

Stella’s orange eyes drifted to the window—snowflakes tapping the glass like impatient fingers.

“Yes,” she said. “It sounds like the worst idea. The stakes are high. But it will work. A monster isn’t quite as scary… when he’s in front of a crowd.”

She paused, fingers still moving slowly through Bev’s hair.

“Also… I’ll keep him… preoccupied.”

The last word landed soft, final, like a door clicking shut.

No one spoke.

Richie’s hand froze halfway to his neck. Eddie’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Ben sat back slowly. Mike’s eyes narrowed—not in doubt, but in recognition. Bill exhaled once through his nose. Stan simply nodded once—small, almost imperceptible.

The fire popped. A spark drifted upward and died.

Stella’s gaze returned to the embers.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full—of people who had finally heard what she was really saying.