A/N: Thank you to keleficent for beta reading this chapter and making much needed revisions.
Stanley Pines was holed up in a decaying motel room. He had hustled a local gang out of three grand for a robbery that was never carried through.
That would've been enough reason to kill him. If only he had stopped there. He had sold Rico Alcatraz, notorious kingpin, explosives that were nothing but cardboard tubes filled with sand, painted red and tied together with cheap wiring.
If only he could see the look on the gangsters' faces as they tried to detonate the "bombs." It would almost be worth having one of the most dangerous criminals in both Americas calling for his head. Almost.
It reminded him of the time he posed as a stockbroker and convinced a crowd to invest in his fictitious company. Even the most naive would've raised an eyebrow once they heard that it was named StanCo. Some people were too darn easy to swindle. Though to them, he was Hal Forrester, all around honest guy. Stan Pines hadn't existed for over nine years. Why should they be suspicious?
A harsh knock on the door snapped him out of the reverie. Grabbing the bat by the side of his bed, he swore that the money would be repaid in full. A lie, obviously, but they didn't need to know that.
A piece of paper fell through the mail slot. Stan didn't know what to expect. An invitation to test his fighting skills against the toughest member of the gang?
It was a postcard from some Podunk town in Oregon. On the back, his brother had written in a shaky hand: Please Come. -Ford
Ford was in trouble. Real trouble. Trouble that was bad enough that he would turn to Stan after a decade of estrangement. Stan wasn't sure if that was a relief or cause for alarm.
Waving away his rising anxiety, he tossed his meager possessions into a bag. It was time for him to get out of New Mexico anyway. There was nothing for him here.
Maybe Stan could finally get a chance to make things right. Help Ford with whatever was making him act this desperate, take him somewhere nice and tropical, become a dynamic duo again. It'd be a piece of cake.
"No, it won't." said an internal voice. His father's voice. "If Ford has any sense, he'll leave you again, and never look back. You're a disgrace. Never cared about anyone but yourself."
Thoughts like these nagged at him as he drove through Arizona, Utah, and into Idaho. (He tried to stick to the desert and back roads. Even though it took longer, it was much safer than driving through large cities and risk getting arrested.)
Something in him finally snapped. He was done being seen as selfish, as a freeloader.
Stan cared. He cared about Ford too much for his own good. He always was watching his brother's back, protecting him from bullies. Stan had sacrificed so much so his brother wouldn't be alone.
"And what had that jerk done ever done for you?" A different voice asked him provokingly. "He said, 'Goodbye Stan. I no longer want anything to do with you or our plans. I need to go to a college I hadn't heard of last week and study things your pathetic brain could never understand.' Then, that stuck-up, insufferable know-it-all got his own brother tossed into the streets."
Why should Stan help him? Ford was too wrapped up in his own life to concern himself with Stan's problems. Ford would take advantage of his brother's kindness and kick him out the moment things were looking up. Some brother he turned out to be.
No, Ford was on his own this time.
Stan pulled over, too angry to focus on the road. He plucked a paper off the floor of the car, scrawled a note on the back, and put it in his pocket. Going to the nearest post office, he sent off the letter. (The saps who worked there hadn't noticed him slip a rather large pack of stamps into his pocket. Stan Pines, Shoplifter Extraordinaire, strikes again!)
He drove off to the closest town, hoping that people around here were as gullible as he had heard. Concern for his brother still weighed in the back of his mind. He ignored it. Rescuing Ford was no longer his job. Besides, how bad could things really be?
Stanford Pines lay huddled on the floor of his cabin, trembling from shock. How he hated the necessity of sleep. It had once beckoned to him, a safe haven from life's fears and pain. Now it was the means for Bill to use his body to do horrible, unspeakable things.
Ford's clothes and hair were sopping wet, as though the demon had driven him to plunge headfirst into a lake. The frigid January air whistled through the house, causing hypothermia to set in. He forced himself into a sitting position and stripped the waterlogged garments off. His arms now bare, he noticed several long gashes running from his elbow to his wrist.
Had Bill tangled with a beast and lost? Had he punched through the windows, trying to get to the portal? (The dream demon had little concept of how to act human. Ford wasn't sure he even knew how to open a door.)
He remembered lying in the snow outside his house, blood pooling around him. Adrenaline had allowed him the strength to crawl through the door and weakly kick it shut. (His deteriorating health must have caused Bill to dump his body near the cabin. A small mercy, but Ford wasn't going to complain.)
Having stared at the ceiling in a confused daze for several minutes, Ford hauled himself to his feet. The gouges on his arm needed immediate medical attention.
Why did everything look blurred? Rubbing his eyes, he realized that his glasses were missing from his face. Thankfully, he kept extra pairs around the house. He felt his way to the bathroom and slipped one on. He sanitized his hands, flushed out his wounds, and wrapped sterile bandages around each arm.
He went to his room and pulled on the clothes that smelled the least offensive.
Ford's feet carried him to the kitchen. What little food remained was either covered in mold or expired. It would be another day of subsisting on coffee.
He filled a coffee pot with water and dumped the entire bag of coffee grounds in the top of the machine. He couldn't sleep. Not now. Not when he was so close to making things right.
Ford forced several cups of brew down his throat. It scalded his esophagus, but the pain only sharpened his mind and staved off fatigue.
How long had it been since he asked Stan for help? Days? Weeks?
Would he come after all that had happened? Could he be trusted?
As he took his last sip of coffee, there was a knock at the door. He loaded the crossbow that sat by the front door. The newcomer could be another of Bill's puppets, here to try to steal knowledge from his brain.
He swung the door open, prepared for the worst. It wasn't Stan, nor did the person look as though he was possessed.
A very frightened postman stood on Ford's doorstep. "Lett-letter for- for Stanford Pines," he stuttered.
Ford narrowed his eyes and snatched it out of the terrified man's hands. He didn't lower the weapon until the postman had sprinted off his property.
Once he was gone, Ford shut the door and unfolded the letter.
On the back of a very dirty, stained advertisement for Compulsive Liars Anonymous was written:
Stanford,
You couldn't be bothered to call or write or even ask Ma about me, once? I don't hear from you for ten years, and then, boom, you ask me to pull you out of some scrape? Do you know what I've been through? I'm sure you found out all about my fake identities. No one wants to hire me. The only reason I'm not dead is cause I'm good at lying. But why should you care? You're too good for your brother, with your college education and your house in Who Cares, Oregon.
I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but count me out. Good luck with your life, or whatever.
Stanley
Ford tore at his hair, cursing everything in creation. He was alone with the monster. The last glint of hope had just died. He was trapped, forever to be tormented by the demon.
The monster was watching his every move. Everywhere Ford looked, he saw the yellow glint, the horrible cat slit pupil. They thought he wouldn't notice, but he did. Bill had possessed everyone in the town. They were going to come for Ford, to torture him or worse.
He thought about burning down the cabin, extinguishing Bill's chances of using his body or research ever again.
He grabbed a stack of paper and scattered them on the floor. He pulled a pack of matches out of a kitchen drawer and began lighting them. Finding success on the twelfth attempt (his shaking had caused him to drop the first eleven matches), he lit the floor. The flame spread through the kitchen and into the hall.
He watched with a mixture of pride and self-pity. It would be a horrible way to die, but some sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Why not go out in a blaze of glory? (Later, he would realize his unintentional pun, and groan.)
In a sudden moment of clarity, he grabbed a fire extinguisher and doused the rising flames. The portal wouldn't burn or melt. It was composed almost entirely of metal. Bill could lead another sap to find two of his journals and recreate the other.
No. The portal had to go. It was the only way of ensuring the safety of the world.
But first, he had to hide the journal. He chose somewhere not even he would think to look: in plain sight. He hurried over to his study, wrapped the volume in an inconspicuous book jacket, and placed it haphazardly on the shelf.
Time was running out. Once Bill found out his intentions, there would be only a short window to act.
Once in the basement, he searched for something to demolish the inter-dimensional gateway. He found a steel beam and swung with all his might. It barely made an impact on the base. He swore and tried again. Minutes later, dents appeared, growing larger with every hit.
The foundation creaked and groaned, threatening to topple onto Ford. Still, he continued the assault, as though his life depended on destroying the machine. (Which he realized, it did.)
Despite his madness, he still had enough sense to step aside as the portal crashed to the ground. He worked through the night, disassembling the device. He was careful to dent and bend each piece, rendering it worthless.
His work completed, he sunk to the ground, completely exhausted. His eyes fluttered shut despite protestations and an effort to stay conscious. Inky blackness crowded around him, and he succumbed to sleep.
Sometime later, he awoke in the mindscape, feeling lucid and alert. So this would be his swan song. Foiling Bill's plans and saving the world from destruction.
Months of neglect and heavy damage to his psyche showed in the crumbling structure of his house. It looked so real, so familiar. Yet there were differences. Most rooms looked as though they had been torched. Doors would appear and disappear at random. His bedroom was awash with yellow light. In the middle of the floor was a pit. He had almost walked into it in his aimless ramblings.
Ford could feel a hand lifting him off his feet by his hair. He screamed for help, but there was no one to hear his cries. The unseen being carried him over to the hole and tossed him in.
He fell for what felt like an eternity. (Bottomless pits were a spatial impossibility, weren't they? Did the laws of reality even apply here?)
At last, a pinprick of light appeared, rapidly growing beneath Ford's feet. He fell onto something soft and spongy.
Looking around, Ford realized that he was now sitting on a large, comfortable armchair in a study, not unlike his own. Bill sat in a chair opposite, watching him. "Oh Sixer," he said, sounding both amused and furious. "Did you really think it'd be that easy?"
"I destroyed the portal and scattered my journals. In tormenting me, you've lost the only way into this dimension. Everything you worked for is gone." Ford hoped that his bravado masked the pure terror he was experiencing.
"That's true, kid. Maybe I should have thought things through." Bill snapped his fingers, in mock defeat. Had he had a mouth, Ford was sure that an evil smirk would be playing on the demon's lips. "You gave it your best shot. It's too bad that I always have a Plan B."
Screwing up his courage, Ford made a mad, desperate rush at the demon. He might not be able to destroy Bill, but he could finally get revenge for all the abuse of the last year. Before he could land a single blow, Bill caught Ford by his throat and squeezed.
"Whoa, whoa, Fordsey. Calm down." The scientist was flailing wildly, trying to escape his vice-like grip.
"You know, it's hilarious that you actually thought you could stand a chance against me. Do you have any idea of what kind of power I have here?" At this, the demon's grasp around the man's trachea tightened. The sound of fracturing cartilage echoed through the void.
He tossed his captive to the ground like a child bored with a toy. As Ford lay there gasping for breath, he continued, "Consider that a warning for the next time you want to be a hero. The only reason you're still alive is because I'm not through with you."
"I'm…done…being…your…pawn," Ford said still gasping between each word. The front of his neck was already swelling massively and turning a hideous purple color.
Bill's laugh was shrill and cruel. He turned his back to Ford, hands clasped behind him. "That's what I like about you. Always did things your own way. But you will help me. Won't take much persuasion either. In the end, we could even be friends."
This received no answer other than deafening silence and a hateful glare.
"Let me put it to you this way." He turned back and fixed his gaze on Ford. "You're not the only one I've been watching." An image of a very disgruntled Stan flashed in the demon's eye. "Your brother seems like a great puppet. I wonder if he breaks as easily as you."
A fresh jolt of fear shot down Ford's back. Had Bill made a deal with his twin? Was Stan Plan B, or only the trump card enabling it to move forward?
If he couldn't save his brother, he was bent on stopping him with any means necessary.
Ford let out a pained sigh. "Fine. But I have conditions. One: you are not allowed to possess my brother or me. Two: Stan is allowed to leave anytime he wishes. Three: We are the only ones involved in this. No other person and none of your minions."
His voice lowered to a dangerous growl. "And I swear, if you cause Stan any harm, I will find a way to tear your molecules apart. I don't care if it takes me the rest of my natural-born life."
Bill rolled his eye. "You flesh sacks are so boring. You can't set people on fire, can't make them go hopelessly insane…"
The man's face hardened. "You need my experience and intellect. I am not going to help you now or ever if you won't agree to the terms."
The demon huffed, but held out a hand, which Ford shook. Cold fire enveloped their arms as they sealed the contract.
"One more thing before you go, Poindexter." Bill shot a mischievous look towards Ford. "How about a game of chess?"