Together Almost

Derry, Maine – February 12, 1985 – 4:18 p.m.

The strings of bare bulbs flared brighter, bathing the inverted chamber and the ring below in harsh golden light. The compelled crowd sat motionless—thousands of glassy eyes fixed on the stage that had once been the sewers beneath their town.

Periwinkle stood on the wide stone ledge that now served as the performance rim, conical hat tilted, ruffles crisp despite the dripping black water still cascading from the upended pool above. She clapped once—bright, delighted—and turned to face the sea of silent faces.

“First game!” she sang, voice amplified, bouncing off bleachers and snow alike. “Voting time!”

In front of every seat—every single one—a small wooden tray had appeared sometime during the ascent. On each tray sat two buttons: one glowing soft cyan, one pulsing dull red.

Periwinkle hopped once, arms wide.

“Blue for me! Red for Daddy! Press the one you like best!”

No one moved voluntarily.

Then—slowly, mechanically—the hands began to rise.

Fingers pressed cyan. Again. And again. And again.

A single cyan balloon rose from each pressed button—perfectly round, perfectly still—then drifted upward, joining a growing cloud of blue that filled the winter sky like an upside-down ocean. Thousands upon thousands. The air shimmered with them, blotting out the pale sun, turning the afternoon twilight-blue.

Only one red balloon lifted—slow, hesitant—from the eastern bleachers.

Henry Bowers sat there—barely conscious, head lolling, institutional pajamas soaked through with snowmelt and something darker. One trembling hand still rested on the red button. His eyes were open but vacant, pupils blown wide. The red balloon rose alone—pathetic, defiant—then vanished into the vast cyan sea above, swallowed without a trace.

Periwinkle spun toward Pennywise—still hovering in the center of the broken-open chamber—and clapped both hands to her cheeks in mock surprise.

“Look Daddy!” she crowed, voice dripping with glee. “He voted for you! He must really like you!”

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flickered—once, furious—then narrowed to a burning slit.

The crowd did not laugh. They did not react. They simply stared—compelled, empty.

Periwinkle hopped again—light, triumphant—and raised both arms like a conductor.

“Next game!” she sang. “Tomato toss!”

In front of every seat, a small red tomato materialized—perfectly ripe, glistening, absurd.

“Throw them at Daddy!” Periwinkle chirped. “Tell him what you really think!”

The first insult came—low, monotone—from somewhere in the middle rows.

“Ugly clown.”

A tomato sailed—awkward, mechanical—and struck Pennywise square in the chest. Red pulp splattered across filthy white fabric.

Another voice—flat, compelled: “Stupid face.”

Another tomato. Another splat.

Then the chant began—slow at first, then swelling, thousands of voices rising in eerie unison:

“Ugly… stupid… smelly… mean… worthless… failure… pathetic…”

Tomatoes rained down—hundreds, then thousands—bursting against his suit, his face, his ruff. Pulp dripped from his greasepaint in thick red streaks. He did not dodge. He did not snarl. He simply floated there—arms limp, deadlight blazing—taking every insult, every hit, every splatter like blows he could not return.

Periwinkle bounced in place—clapping, laughing, spinning.

“Isn’t it funny?” she called down to the VIP platform, voice bright and bubbling. “Look how mad he is! He hates it!”

Richie’s hands were white-knuckled on the armrest. “This isn’t funny, kid.”

Eddie’s breathing was shallow, fast. “They don’t even know what they’re saying.”

Bev’s grip on Stella’s hand was iron. “Little star… enough.”

Stella—still in her rocker, still wrapped in the blanket—laughed again—high, delighted.

“It’s so funny,” she said, eyes sparkling. “He’s getting all red and messy. Like a tomato himself!”

Pennywise’s body trembled.

Not from pain.

From rage.

The deadlight flared supernova-bright—orange furnace swallowing the golden show lights. His torn smile stretched impossibly wide—teeth multiplying behind the greasepaint, rows folding into rows.

Then he snapped.

One long, multi-jointed arm lashed out—claw extended—and drove straight through Periwinkle’s back.

The claw punched out through her belly—black ichor spraying in a bright cyan arc—impaling her mid-hop.

She froze—mid-air—ruffles hanging limp.

Her head turned slowly—180 degrees—until she faced him upside-down. Greasepaint cracked across her cheeks. Orange eyes wide, glittering.

A twisted smile spread—too wide, too sharp.

“Alright then,” she whispered—voice layered, every crumb inside her speaking at once. “Enough games.”

“Have it… your way.”

The claw twisted once—brutal—then withdrew.

Periwinkle dropped—small body crumpling to the stone ledge—cyan light leaking from the wound in pulsing streams.

On the VIP platform, Stella went rigid.

Her laughter died.

Her eyes—still bright brown—widened in sudden, animal panic.

“No…” she whispered. “No… no, no, no…”

She stood—shaky—blanket falling away.

“It’s so dark…” she murmured, hands reaching blindly into the air. “Where are you? Please… come back to me…”

Her pupils swallowed the brown until only black remained. She swayed—unseeing, unhearing—tears spilling down her cheeks in sticky black rivulets.

Bev lunged—caught her before she fell—arms wrapping tight around the small, trembling body.

“Stella—I’m here—I’ve got you—”

Bev pressed her lips to Stella’s temple, voice cracking but steady.

“I’m right here, little star. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Stella didn’t respond. Didn’t feel the touch. She just kept whispering—small, broken:

“Please… come back…”

Above them, Periwinkle’s body convulsed once—then began to change.

The small blue suit split down the middle—ruffles tearing like wet paper. Black carapace erupted outward—glossy, segmented, legs unfolding in impossible angles. Mandibles clicked. A cluster of orange eyes bloomed across the thorax—eight, then twelve, then too many to count.

Her face, or some twisted derivation of it, was worn by what could perhaps only be perceived as a massive monstrous spiderlike creature.

From the VIP platform, Eddie made a choked sound. “That’s… that’s not her anymore.”

Pennywise stuttered for a brief moment.

Something flickered across his greasepaint face—not fear, never fear—but a rapid, wet cascade of conflicting things:
dark fascination, such a monster, such chaos and evil. Not him, but nothing had ever come closer.
humiliation, compounding to all the earlier events, now she used his iconography
vindictive glee, as he saw her wear his perhaps truest shape, proving all sorts of truth to his whispers
possessive pride, as she tried so hard to be like him, not nearly there, but surely an impressive effort
and finally—settling like rot in old wood—pure, delighted cruelty.

His torn smile stretched wider—slow, deliberate—teeth knitting themselves back together in crooked rows.

He laughed again—low, wet, almost tender.

“Look at you…” he rasped, voice thick with twisted affection, “a daddy’s girl after all… right down to the teeth.”

Then—slowly, deliberately—his remaining deadlight slid sideways.

It found Bev.

For one long heartbeat he stared straight at her—orange furnace burning through the chaos—smile tearing wider still. The look was intimate, knowing, almost fond. It said everything he didn’t need to voice again:

I told you. Look what your little family made.

Bev’s grip on Stella tightened—knuckles white—but she didn’t look away. She stared back, jaw set, eyes blazing with something fiercer than fear.

Pennywise’s gaze lingered one second longer—savoring—then snapped back to the spider form towering over him.

The laugh returned—sharper now, edged with rage.

Then he lunged.

Claws met chitin in a shower of sparks. The spider form caught his remaining arm in mandibles and snapped—bone and cloth tearing. Pennywise howled—rage more than pain—and raked across its thorax, opening a long gash that wept cyan light.

But the spider was faster. Stronger.

One massive leg slammed down, pinning him to the stone. Another coiled around his throat—squeezing. Pennywise thrashed—deadlight blazing—but the spider form leaned in, mandibles wide, and bit.

Teeth sank into his shoulder.

There was a wet, ripping sound—flesh and fabric parting.

The spider tore his arm free below the elbow—black ichor spraying—and swallowed it whole in one convulsive gulp.

Pennywise staggered back—stump leaking, suit in rags—still laughing, but the laugh was thinner now, edged with something new.

A brief laughter followed, there was an insatiable hunger to it. Then the spider reached for him, lifted him—two legs wrapped around his torso, hoisting him high like a trophy.

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flared—supernova orange—then split.

Two more eyes bloomed beside it. Then two more. His body began to swell—coat tearing as new limbs pushed outward, black and glistening, tipped with claws and barbs. The air around him warped—space itself buckling like heat haze. Something vast and ancient pressed against the edges of his clown shape, trying to tear free.

For one heartbeat, the Losers saw it: not the clown, but the thing beneath—the macroverse predator, the deadlights multiplying into a constellation of burning orange stars, limbs folding into impossible geometries, a shadow of something older than stars uncoiling behind his eyes.

Then the spider form tightened its grip—legs constricting like steel cables.

Pennywise’s transformation stuttered—new limbs spasming, half-formed—then collapsed inward as the spider slammed him down onto the stone ledge with bone-shattering force.

The half-grown monstrosity retreated—deadlights dimming back to one flickering ember—leaving him damaged, one-armed, laughing through blood and ichor.

The spider form reared again—mandibles wide—and leaned close to his ruined face.

“Don’t worry Daddy,” it said, voice now slow and savoring, mandibles clicking with every word. “I won’t eat you… just yet.”

It tilted its head—studying the Losers, the blankets, the small girl sobbing in Bev’s arms.

“First you get to watch,” it said, mandibles clicking slowly, savoring each syllable, “as I’ll eat every single one of them. As I’ll pluck your little garden into a barren desert of unlife.”

The cluster of orange eyes drifted toward the VIP platform—fixing on Bev, on Richie, on the sobbing girl in her arms.

It hurled Pennywise downward—body slamming into the stone ledge with a crack that echoed across the park—then turned toward the platform.

One massive leg rose—reaching.

Richie shoved Eddie and Ben behind him—useless, desperate.

“Stella—wake up—!”

Eddie’s inhaler clattered to the ground. Ben grabbed a broken plank—ready to swing. Mike and Stan flanked Bev—shielding her and the sobbing girl.

The leg descended—shadow swallowing them.

Then Stella went still.

Completely still.

The blind black eyes snapped into focus—not brown, not orange, but something deeper. Something vast. Her

She lifted her head—slowly—from Bev’s shoulder.

“I see you,” she said—voice low, calm, carrying across the park like thunder trapped in a whisper. “All of you.”

The voice was hers, yet somehow different—reality was shaken by it, its vibrations somehow hit into your chest and resonated through your bones.

The spider form froze—mid-strike.

“I hear you,” Stella continued—louder now, every voice inside her speaking in perfect unison. “Every single one.”

The black carapace cracked—thin fissures racing outward in starburst patterns.

“Now… you’ll hear me.”

She raised both small hands—palms up.

“And I will be loudest.”

The spider form shuddered—violently—then burst apart in a silent explosion of black dust and violet light.

The last fragment, resembling part of a little girls' torso, a bleeding painted face and one arm reaching. A small gloved hand pushed through the cloud—reaching blindly toward Pennywise.

“Nooo…” Periwinkle’s voice—small, broken, achingly sincere—drifted across the ring. “We were… together… almost…”

The hand spasmed once—fingers curling inward—then the last of her violently shattered.

The dust spiraled upward—then reversed—sucked inward toward Stella like smoke drawn into lungs.

Every particle poured into Stella’s chest.

She gasped—sharp, involuntary—body jerking once, twice—back arching against Bev’s arms—then slumped forward.

Sticky black tears—ichor mixed with cyan light—ran down her cheeks and dried almost instantly, leaving dark streaks like cracked paint.

The theater dissolved slowly around them: bleachers folding inward like wet paper, strings of bulbs winking out one by one, the compelled crowd rising in dreamlike silence and drifting away—already forgetting.

In the center of the sinking stage, Pennywise stood—damaged, one arm gone below the elbow, suit torn, greasepaint smeared—but laughing.

Low. Wet. Almost tender.

The confusion was gone. Whatever fleeting unity had let her drag him into daylight had fallen apart. He could smell it: the return of fractures, the re-emergence of countless small, terrified voices that had once been so easy to pick apart. A conflict of magnificent scale she so desperately tried to keep together.

She had burned bright and whole for one afternoon.

But now she had caught flame.

Then the ground closed over him—slow, deliberate—like a mouth swallowing its last bite.

The snow fell again—soft, relentless—covering the last traces of the ring.

Stella stayed collapsed against Bev, small body trembling once, twice—then going unnaturally still.

The black tears flaked away like ash, leaving clean streaks on her cheeks. Her eyes stayed open—ordinary brown again—but empty. No flicker. No spark. No voices leaking out.

She breathed. That was all.

Awake, but gone somewhere deep inside where none of them could follow.

The Losers closed in—hands on her shoulders, her back, her hair—silent, steady, refusing to let go.

Above them the sky was already filling with ordinary gray clouds.

Snow began to fall again—soft, relentless—covering the last traces of the ring, the bleachers, the horror.

Somewhere beneath Derry, Pennywise was still laughing.

In Bev’s arms, Stella breathed—shallow, steady—and did not laugh back.