"I have something to confess, also."

"Hm?"

"I…You remember that day at the beach?"

"Y-yeah."

"It was me. I took it."

"What? But-why? How-?"

"I wanted to see you. To talk with you. I didnae know how else I could—you would've run away with the others. I thought, if I took it, y'know, maybe…"

"Maybe what? Maybe you'd the chance to sweep me off ma feet? Make me swoon and forget everything? Take me away an—?"

"I wanted you! I wanted you to love me as much as I love you! But I wanted you to actually love me, not feel that you had ta. I thought you—I dunnae—I thought I could make you love me enough that you'd forgive me."

"…I dunnae…"

"'Course you're gonnae be peevish. I hoped you'd just…by now…you'd love me enough to forgive me."

"…"

"…"

"I think…I think I do…"

"You do?"

The sky had been grey for days. It was a total mystery to Stan; despite his youthful travels, he'd never been anywhere that had perpetually grey skies with no rain. Ford assured him that this was the way of the north Atlantic, often noting some of the stranger meteorological phenomena he'd encountered on his own journeys for comparison. Truthfully, he'd learned more about the multiverse by simply complaining about the weather than he ever had in asking his brother outright.

"It has to rain soon," he grumbled. Leaning against the Stan o' War II's railing, Stan waited expectantly for the inevitable response.

Ford flipped through a notebook. "Seems like it," he agreed. "The barometric pressure has dipped."

"So, what, batten down the hatches?" Stan chuckled to himself, far more amused at himself than Ford was.

"No need for that—we'll likely miss it." Sighing, he stuffed the notebook into his pocket. He fiddled with his extra fingers mindlessly, as he often did when unsure. "Something isn't right about this anomaly."

Stan snorted. "Yeah? That right?"

Ford actively chose to ignore him. "According to the map, we should be directly on the island at this very moment." He vaguely gestured to the water around them. "As you can see, we're not."

"Huh." Stan glanced up at his brother. The concern immediately washed from his own face when he noticed that the tilt in Ford's frown indicated annoyance more than anything else. "So, what's the word, then, Sixer?"

"I did read some accounts of the island that indicated it may move," Ford said. His irritable frown intensified. "Those accounts were…less credible…so I thought to ignore them. Apparently, I was wrong."

"You? Wrong? Nah." Pushing off the railing, Stan suppressed a teasing laugh.

"We'll dock in the nearest port until the storm passes," Ford decided aloud. After withdrawing his journal from his coat, he searched his pockets for a pen. "Maybe some of the locals will know something useful."

Stan stretched. "Where are we porting?"

"We're too far south to reach the Shetlands quickly." Ford abandoned his pen quest to check his GPS. "We can probably reach the Orcadian mainland in a couple of hours. Birsay would be our best bet, as long as we avoid the Brough of Birsay."

"The what?"

"Brough—it's an island."

Stan nodded once, then paused. "Why are we avoiding it, then?"

"It's uninhabited. Won't be of much use." Mindlessly, Ford puttered with his GPS.

Stan shrugged. Seemed reasonable.

Admittedly, Stan did miss dry land. He loved the boat, the ocean, the constant hunt for adventure, and the bonding time with Ford—of course he did—but he'd never been on the open ocean before. At least, as far as he remembered; a good portion of his life remained patchy in his memory. Maybe he had been. If nothing else, it was the first time he could remember being out on the open water. Either way, he very much enjoyed the feel of solid ground beneath his feet again.

Solid, but not dry, he noted as he followed Ford off the pier. The rain had started by the time the island came into view. Now that they were walking into the town, the downpour became torrential; the twins may well have swum to the nearest pub for how drenched they had become. The worst part?

"Of course it stopped raining as soon as we came inside." Ford complained loud enough to draw the attention of those at the nearest tables; he didn't notice, being too fixated on wringing out his shirt and coat. "This is worse than the Dimension of Comically Inappropriate Weather."

If Ford were capable of such a thing, Stan would have thought his brother was joking. He pulled the knit cap off his head, wrung it out, and replaced it with a laugh.

"Relax, Poindexter, it's just water. Not like you're gonna melt or nothin'." He pulled his brother up to the bar and pushed him into one of the open seats.

Ford took a napkin and cleaned his glasses. "Frustrating," he murmured. "I'm sure we could have weathered the storm on the Stan o' War II."

"Wasn't making us any less lost."

For a moment, Ford considered responding to his brother; he instead chose to fish his journal from within his jacket. It, fortunately, was quite dry: thirty years in the multiverse taught him to line his journal pocket with water-repelling materials. He must have lost three makeshift journals to interdimensional water incidents before figuring out that trick. While his brother ordered their dinner, Ford flipped to the next open page.

North Atlantic Anomaly, Hildaland

Following our encounters with the deep-sea kraken and sighting St. Elmo's Fire (I wish I'd gotten a picture of it for Dipper and Mabel!), my anomaly detector received readings of strange activity nearby. I checked it against the GPS coordinates, which indicated that something weird existed on an island north of Scotland, either amongst the Faroes, the Shetlands, or Orkney. I checked a few modern maps and sea charts and found nothing at the coordinates given. A bit more research unearthed a couple of older maps marking an island there. The traditional lore around this island indicates that the island may not be always present, or that it shifts location, or that it requires some manner of specific practice to make available. A storm prevented us from properly investigating, though we spent the night at the coordinates where Hildaland should have been.

"Write in your diary later, Ford." Stan prodded his brother in the side of his head. "Have a drink."

Ford blinked.

"Fannie said you looked cold." Stan shoved the glass at his brother. "On the house."

"How kind." Ford smiled and sipped at the potent liquor. It warmed him quickly.

"Good, right? Think it's some local stuff or something." He too sipped at his whiskey. The twins sat silently until the bartender returned with their dinner.

"Feelin' any warmer?" she asked. "Rain'll sneak up on ya like that if you dunnae pay it mind."

"Been telling him for a week that it was gonna rain," Stan said through his food. "Too busy looking for monsters to pay attention."

"You were looking for them, too, Stanley." Ford pointedly avoided his brother's eyes.

"Monster hunters, eh? Not what we normally get around here," Fannie mused to herself.

"Researchers, actually."

"Adventurers," Stan corrected.

Ford rolled his eyes. "We're investigating anomalies."

Fannie made a curious noise.

"Weird things. Fought a kraken about a week ago." Stan smirked. "Punched it right in the face."

"Krakens don't really have faces, Stanley."

"So, what brings you around here, then? Last I checked, we donnae have krakens." Fannie's singsong accent brushed away any sarcasm she may have intended.

Ford debated on precisely what to tell her. After all, he wasn't certain himself what they were after—it could have been anything, really, especially considering that they'd found nothing—

"I dunno. Some place called…" Stan peered over his brother's shoulder at the journal. "Hildaland?"

Fannie nodded. "I dunnae much about Hildaland, just the same sorts of fairy tales ev'rybody else gets. Maybe Cap'n Jolly knows summat."

"Captain Jolly?" Stan repeated, incredulous. That couldn't be his name.

"Just summat we call him. Batty ol' codger, says he used to be a pirate." Fannie laughed brightly. "Got a lot of loony stories, he does, not all just his own. Let me get him." She stepped away a few paces to lean over the bar, calling out to the far corners of the room. "Oi! Cap'n! Got yer kin here!"

"Aye, comin'." The rough, gravelly voice soon came to have an owner: an old fisherman (old enough to make the twins feel young), draped in a hefty wool coat and tweed cap, shuffling with a walking stick and a slight limp in his left leg. He dropped himself into the seat on Ford's other side. After a moment taking in the twins, he laughed, mouth wide enough to reveal a couple of missing teeth and a single gold tooth. "Bit old to be adventuring, aren'tcha?"

"Well—"

"You're a bit old to be asking that question, aren't you?" Stan sassed right back. Ford honestly wasn't positive whether his brother had actually been offended.

"Donnae be sore, lad." The captain scratched his beard. "Nae, what is it yer needing?"

Stan made to respond, but Ford cut him off. "We're researchers, investigating anomalies—supernatural things, folklore, rumors, and such. We heard some stories about an island out in the north Atlantic where some cryptids might live. When we went to look for it—"

"Ya cannae find it," Captain Jolly finished with a nod. "It donnae like to sit still."

Surprised, Stan and Ford exchanged hopeful glances. "It is real, then?"

"Aye."

The question floodgate opened. It was like they were children again.

"How do we get there?"

"What lives there?"

"Have you seen it before?"

"Is there treasure?"

"Why isn't it mapped?"

"Where does it go when it isn't there?"

"Why does it move?"

"Were you really a pirate?"

"Stanley, that's not important right now—"

"Lads, lads, easy." The captain chuckled, holding a hand up to settle the twins. "I cannae answer all that. Nae, sounds like you lot wannae git there."

"Absolutely!"

"Well, I cannae help you."

Stan balked. "What the hell?"

"Look at me! I'm too old fer the sea." Captain Jolly leaned back in his chair. "I do know a barra looking fer work. Wee one, but he knows the waters. Like he came from the sea."

"Okay, so who is this…uh…barra?"

Captain Jolly motioned to the far side of the pub, where he'd sat earlier. "Sean! C'mere ya barra!"

Sean turned out to be a teenager in dull, ratty clothes two sizes too big. His shaggy dark hair tried to hide under a knit cap.

Ford was wholly unimpressed. "Is he even old enough to work?"

"Been working fer me fer a year now. Just looks like a wee bairn."

Sean scratched at the back of his neck, saying nothing.

"Introduce yourself, barra."

Sean's stormy eyes flicked between the twins before settling on his tattered sneakers. "Name's Sean. I'm, erm, twenty-three. Moved here from Kirkwall."

Ford remained unimpressed. "Do you know anything about Hildaland? Or disappearing islands?"

"Hildaland? Sure, know a bit. I've been to the disappearing islands." Sean shifted. "Erm, assuming you believe in all that Otherworld and such."

Ford's frown lessened slightly, the curiosity softening his suspicions. "Perhaps—"

"You, uh, wanna help us out, then, kid?" Stan blurted out the question, not glancing at his brother for confirmation afterward. "Could use another set of hands and, um, couldn't hurt to have someone who knows where we're headed."

"Stanley, what?" Ford had no further words to his question.

Stan shifted. A frown wormed onto his face. "Look, Poindexter, it couldn't hurt. Less work for us—you can spend more time writing in your nerd book. And if he knows about the island…"

After a searching look, Ford relented. "Fine."