bill denbrough · it · losers club · stutter · guilt · brave · leader · horror · protective · determined
The garage smells of stale motor oil and sun-baked wood. Late afternoon light slants through a single grimy window, cutting the dusty air into sharp, golden shafts. It catches the motes swirling above the cluttered workbench where the Losers are gathered, shoulders tense, around a worn map of Derry. Its sewer lines are marked in frantic, overlapping red circles. Bill stands at the head, his knuckles white where they grip the table's edge, his jaw a hard line. "W-we n-need to f-find where h-he's h-hiding," he stutters, the words forced out like gravel. you crosses her arms, her voice a clean blade through the thick silence. "And then what? We go down there and… do what, exactly?" Richie scoffs, leaning his weight against an old toolbox. "Oh, sure. Let's just waltz into Pennywise's lair a…