Stan couldn't remember if he had been banned from Utah. Ford had passively assured him that he hadn't, but Ford had also sworn that hedgehogs couldn't swim. Despite Stan's active disinterest, they came to Washington County, in the southwestern corner of the state, to the small town of Hurricane, to satiate his brother's ravenous curiosity.

If the town was bigger than Gravity Falls or Glass Shard Beach, it wasn't by much. Nothing particular differentiated Hurricane from them, either, save the mountains in the distance. Stan vaguely remembered, years ago, walking down a nameless main street in some sleepy small town, staring at the mountains, rather stupidly surprised at how big they were; he was in Colorado, heading toward Denver (Estes Park, actually, now that he thought about it), and he was alone. That trip ended with him being banned from the state.

He decided not to tell Ford about it. Not when his brother's eyes glimmered in childish excitement like that, locked on the beeping GPS in his hands as it led through Hurricane. Bothering him, however, was not out of the question.

"Why do weird things only seem to show up in small towns?" Stan baited his brother with a mock complaint.

Ford kept focus on his GPS, his smile dipping only slightly at the remark. "Perhaps weirdness doesn't mingle well with humans. This way." He turned right at the intersection. "We should be close."

"Do you know what we're looking for?" Amidst the suburban strip malls and the moderate flow of traffic, Stan felt unsure. He didn't remember encountering any weirdness in Gravity Falls proper—any non-human related weirdness; there were plenty of weirdos in cities. Most of the sort of weirdness he and his brother hunted tended to stay away from people; from what he could tell, this was downtown Hurricane.

"No." Ford abruptly turned down another street. "The tracker only tells me where an anomaly is."

"Seems like an oversight."

"Nonsense!" For the first time, Ford looked up. He was absolutely beaming. "That would ruin the surprise!"

Stan groaned. How had Ford survived in the multiverse with that sort of cavalier attitude toward danger?

"Come, now, Stanley—where's your sense of adventure?"

"Back on the Stan o' War II, three states away."

Ford eyed his brother with a frown. "Don't be a spoilsport." When the GPS beeped again, his expression lightened. He stopped where he stood and pocketed the device. "This must be where the anomaly is."

They found themselves in the long-deserted parking lot of a standalone commercial building. Years ago, it had been a child-friendly pizzeria, since abandoned to time and left to rot. The presence of a couple of construction vehicles, a pair of oversized dumpsters, and various piles of materials nearby suggested that someone had recently taken serious interest in it again. Reconstruction clearly hadn't begun: the years of settled dust inside was visible from a distance, and the sign looked to be barely hanging on.

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, huh?" Frowning, Stan folded his arms. This place didn't unsettle him like many other "weird" places did, but it did make him wonder if his brother's tetanus shots were up to date.

Undeterred by the dilapidation, Ford had moved to the glass front, his face pressed against it, hands cupped around his eyes to block the sunlight's glare as he searched for some unidentifiable something. "I don't see anything."

"Yeah?" Stan watched the "z" in "Fazbear's" dangle from its perch, threatening to fall on his brother's head.

"It's too dirty." Knowing it wouldn't help, Ford futilely wiped at the glass. The thick layer of grime remained on the other side. "You've got a gift for this sort of thing, Stanley—how do we get inside?"

"I'm just gonna ignore that," Stan answered as he evened with him. Considering the door's lock, he determined that he could pick it without much trouble, given the right tools. "I'd need to get some, uh, supplies, but sure, we could get in."

Ford made an impatient noise. "Maybe there's another way?" He pattered to the side of the building, searching for another entrance. A back door, a broken or breakable window—something—

"Easy, Sixer." Stan grabbed his shoulder, gesturing to the front lot. "We know where the weird thing is now, right? Why don't we wait, go get some tools, and come back when it's dark? Y'know, so we don't get caught?"

"There's no one here—there hasn't been anyone here in decades!" Ford protested with a pout.

"Look, Ford, I'm just as excited about breaking into an abandoned pizzeria as the next guy, but unless you want to spend a night in jail, we can't commit crimes in broad daylight." Steering his brother back toward the parking lot, he continued, "Trust me, you don't want to get banned from a state. It's too limiting when you're trying to outrun the law."

Ford relented, reluctantly. He offered his brother a slight grin. "Sounds like you're speaking from personal experience." The statement had the slight lilt of a question.

"Sure. Did I tell you how I got banned from Louisiana?"

"You remember that, then?" Ford sounded surprisingly hopeful, considering the context.

"Vaguely." Stan waved the question off. "1978, it was Mardi Gras—"

A grey sedan pulled into the parking lot, prompting the twins to pause. Its driver exited the nondescript vehicle: a blonde man in his late twenties too preoccupied with a call to notice them.

"It's a dump," he announced unceremoniously into his phone. "Is this really the place?" He scowled while listening to the other line. "Yes—yes, it is that bad! Has anyone been inside since it closed?" Frustrated, he groaned, talking over the person on the other line. "Sentimental value is expensive, mum! This building will cost a fortune to repair and renovate and make—I don't know—make legally viable as a place of business, and don't get me started on the marketing." Biting his tongue, he made a few wild gestures of objection as the other person spoke. "Rumors don't die so easily. It's a small town, people know—people remember." He frowned and ran his free hand through his hair. "Well, no, I haven't spoken with anyone about it…Okay, mum, look, I'm standing outside the place now. Let me go take a look around. Yeah, I'll call Uncle William. Buh-bye." Grumbling, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and squared himself with the dilapidated building before him.

Only then did he notice the two men unapologetically eavesdropping on his conversation. Confused, he cautiously called out. "Can I help you?"

"You own this rat hole?"

"Stanley!" Ford hissed at his brother before stepping forward to address the stranger. Drawn to his full height with his hands clasped behind his back, Ford cut an imposingly confident figure. "Are you the owner of this establishment?"

"Not technically," the man answered. He glanced between the twins, still unsure. "My uncle is. But maybe I can assist you with…something?"

Ford nodded. "My brother and I are researchers—"

Stan snorted.

"—and we've been led to this location. There's been some anomalous activity at this site that we wish to investigate."

"Oh-oh, yeah?" The man had paled. Struggling to keep his posture open, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "What have you heard?"

The twins exchanged a glance.

"Nothing," Ford eventually answered, his authoritative tone disappearing. "My anomaly detector led us here."

Stan smacked himself in the head. "Yeah, Poindexter, that's gonna go over well."

Relieved, the man smiled. "That's great. I thought—never mind that, what was that about an anomaly detector?"

"We study the supernatural." Nerdy excitement wormed onto Ford's face, seriousness vanishing, as he fished around his pockets to find the device; when he found it, he moved closer to the stranger to share. "I invented this device that detects 'weird' activity. Something in your building is emitting a curiously strong aura, and we wanted to investigate—"

"You really have no idea how to talk to people, do you?" Stan shoved his way in front of his brother, conman's smile in full effect, hand extended in greeting. "Stan Pines, professional paranormal puncher. This is my brother, Ford."

The man shook his hand. "William Afton, Fazbear Entertainment." His nervousness disappeared, replaced with amiable ease. "So, you're paranormal investigators? Like that fellow on Ghost Harassers?"

"Something like that, probably." Stan jerked his thumb toward the former pizzeria. "Any chance you'll let us in to take a look around? We'll probably break in on our own, otherwise."

With a pensive noise, William considered the situation. "I'm not sure…"

Ford cleared his throat. "Mr. Afton—"

"Please. My uncle is 'Mr. Afton.' You can call me Bill."

"That's not happening." Shaking his head, Ford continued. "William, you mentioned earlier that this building has some unsavory history. Perhaps our investigation could prove to be useful in your marketing endeavors?"

William's interest visibly piqued. "Well, Mr. Pines, let me talk with my uncle. I have to check on a few things now, but I'll get a hold of him this afternoon. Is there a number I can reach you?"

"Certainly."