Stanford Pines, formerly known as Stanford the First, bearer of the Crown of Phalanges, sovereign king of the Finger Dimension (working his way towards becoming Prime Minister Pines), was not having a good day.

And not just because he was sitting in a cold, damp dungeon, in chains, waiting to be executed.

Okay, mostly because he was sitting in a cold, damp dungeon, in chains, waiting to be executed. Something like that tends to dwarf any other problems you might be having at the time, unless your luck is particularly bad.

Ford had been there for a little over three weeks. He had no idea where the supplies he'd brought to this dimension were, or his equipment for the quantum destabilizer he'd been working on in his spare time.

He had been using a paperclip to pick the lock on one of his chains, but it had been discovered and confiscated by the jailer. And unless he came up with another escape plan quickly, Ronald (aka Ronald the First, bearer of the Crown of Phalanges, new sovereign king of the Finger Dimension) was going to have him brutally sliced to death.

With a growl of sheer frustration, Ford stood up and paced back and forth, as best he could in his shackled ankles.

As if he weren't humiliated enough just by being in this dungeon, they kept his wrists and ankles chained at all times. They hadn't even followed his laws about humane treatment of prisoners.

Ungrateful, weak-willed peasants! I never should have accepted that stupid crown; I should have focused on getting more information about Bill, and just left! After everything I've done for them, they just threw me aside the moment something better came along-who does that?!

Had he been left to his own devices a little longer, perhaps he would have noted the dramatic irony his thoughts were becoming filled with. Or perhaps not, since the whole point of dramatic irony is that the audience is supposed to be the only one who notices it.

Either way, his brooding was rudely interrupted by the sound of the lock on his door being fiddled with.

It didn't sound like his normal jailer, who did tend to fumble a little on account of his fingers being on the short and stubby side (hence why he had such a lowly position in their society) but never took this long. Besides, the rattling noises had a different tone than the keys did. What on earth-?

Seconds later, a distantly familiar, gruff voice muttered, "Screw it," and there was a soft zap as the lock was shot right off.

Ford could only stand transfixed as his cell opened, and a figure slipped inside, actually being ridiculous enough to close the door behind him, as if anyone who walked by wouldn't notice the still-sizzling, gaping hole where the keyhole used to be.

This is impossible. I'm having a very vivid dream, probably brought on by breathing in the mold growing on the walls in here.

This can't be real.

It can't be.

The figure lowered the hood on his distinctly shabby red fleece-lined jacket, looking around with interest.

"Nice place you got here."

Try as he might to deny it to himself, there was one person he knew who would say that, and who would look so much like him.

"Stanley?!"

His twin looked only marginally better than he had the last time he'd seen him. The only things that could be arguably described as an improvement were the removal of the mullet (though his current haircut still left much to be desired), and the visible lessening of his gut. Surprisingly, his clothes weren't anywhere near as filthy as Ford would have expected from his travels, and he also appeared to be toting a number of guns and a shoulder belt with what looked like a set of smoke bombs attached to it.

Stanley stared him up and down for a few seconds, eyes wide. And then, unexpectedly, his lips curled into a tiny grin.

"'S good to see ya. Ready to get outta here?"

Ford couldn't believe it. That was it?! After everything he'd ruined for him, Stanley was just going to waltz back into his life and act like none of it had ever happened?!

I don't think so!

His twin had pulled out what looked like a tiny laser pen, and with only a "Hold still," he pointed it at the cuff on his left wrist. A lime green light shot out of it, kind of like that one movie franchise he'd started to develop an interest in before he'd gotten lost in the multiverse, and burned right through the hinges.

As soon as the manacle fell free, Ford's hand clenched into a fist, which he threw in a fierce jab at Stanley's jaw-

His wrist was caught in a viselike grip before he could make contact.

"You can hit me later, Sixer," Stanley said, forcing his arm back down. "Right now let's focus on getting you free, 'kay?"

"...Do you promise I can hit you later?" Ford finally managed to get out, as Stan burned through the hinges on his other wrist and then knelt to free his ankles.

"No."

Typical.

The Stanley formerly known as Shanklin was feeling lucky for once. It was an unusual experience for him; he hoped he'd be able to get used to it.

What little cosmic sand he'd had left after the little...incident in the other dimension, in addition to the modifications he'd gotten to his portal gun, had fortunately been enough to send him back to the right time and more or less to the right spot; he wasn't sure what he would have done if he'd gone back into the multiverse to look for a brother who was now more than thirty years older than him. Sure, this one he was currently rescuing was starting to get gray hair, but that was probably just from stress.

The map in the journal currently sitting in his upper vest pocket had made it a cinch for him to get into this weird castle (The turrets all looked like pointing fingers. Seriously? Didn't these people have any idea how easily that could be misinterpreted?), and find the dungeon.

Everything was going according to plan. Which probably meant it was all gonna blow up in his face pretty quick, but he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

He noticed with a small flicker of amusement that his stony-faced twin was wearing the remains of what looked like a fancy velvet suit under all the prison grime. Despite his nice duds, the rest of him looked a lot less refined; his big hands had become tougher and more callused than he remembered, and it looked like the past six years (Stan was pretty sure that was how long it had been) had actually given the nerd some muscles. Altogether, he looked a little like some kinda space pirate. Of course, with his get-up and ensemble of scars and stuff, did Stan look any better?

Cautiously Stan went back to the cell door and pulled it open, peering first down one side of the hall, then the other.

So far, so good.

"They haven't got rid of my diversion yet," he whispered over his shoulder. "C'mon."

"What diversion?" Ford demanded softly.

"I let a herd of finger snails loose in the courtyard."

He heard Ford mutter something that sounded a lot like, "Of course you did."

It was followed shortly after, as they slipped out into the main part of the (unoccupied except for Ford) cell block and to the left, with "You used the portal, didn't you?"

Ford's tone was a blend of realization and accusation.

Stan didn't answer him, going back along the route to the dungeon's entrance. Even though more than anything he wanted to hash all this out with his brother, the disturbingly sensible part of his brain that had arisen during his travels in this world was telling him that maybe they should wait until they weren't in a place where the corridors were patrolled by giant carnivorous slugs and everyone seemed to want Ford dead (proving once again that nobody likes people who try to start social reforms).

"You did!" Ford's voice was even more accusing. "What were you thinking, you knucklehead?! Didn't you read any of my warnings?! No, obviously you didn't or you wouldn't have done something so stupid!"

Oh yeah, because you could always count on warnings to stop me from doing something. Stan rolled his eyes as he reached the door and opened it a crack. "You're welcome," he muttered just loud enough for Ford to hear.

There was a soft splutter from behind him. When Ford next spoke, it was in a sharp, icy tone that set Stan's teeth on edge.

"Do you actually expect me to thank you for this? After everything you did to me, and after you literally put the fate of our entire world at risk, you think I should-"

Before he knew what he was doing, Stan whirled around on him, jabbing a meaty finger into his chest.

"Look, Ford! I know, okay? I know I screwed up! And you want a shock? I'm sorry! Is that what you want?" He jabbed his finger for emphasis as he snarled out softly, "I'm sorry about your project, I'm sorry you had to go to a lousy college, I'm sorry that it's my fault you got stuck in this g_dforsaken place for so long! But right now, I am trying to fix it, and it would be nice if you could try to appreciate that! At least a little!"

Oh, how he hated the note of pathetic pleading that entered his voice at the last part. Quickly he looked down, away from Ford's face, and muttered, "Your stuff's been left in the furnace room. We oughta grab it before it gets incinerated."

Stan told himself not to be disappointed if Ford didn't answer his definitely-not-a-plea. He had every right to still be hacked off at him, Stan had hurt him too much for him not to be, it was too soon to expect anything, maybe he shouldn't expect anything at all, just because in one universe they managed to make up didn't mean it would happen anywhere else, all that mattered was that soon enough Ford would be safe and (hopefully) home.

That didn't stop it from stinging when silence was what he got, except for the thud of booted feet following him towards the furnace room.

I know, Ford's being a bit of a snot. But he's still young, and still kind of arrogant, despite what happened with Bill. And to be fair (and quote the theme song of "Friends"), it hasn't been his day, his week, his month, or even his year. And he still has a lot of anger to work out towards his brother. So he kind of has a right to be a snot.