Ford's last thought before he entered the portal was "I'm going to die!". He felt the portal's vortex fold around him, his stomach seeming to drop thousands of feet and curl itself into a knot. He was going to die... He was going to die... He couldn't even register what he had shouted to his brother, all he could think of was Bill.

He'd be seeing Bill. He'd be seeing the place and person that had traumatized Fiddleford beyond sanity. He'd be seeing Bill. His sleep-deprived brain struggled to think of something to do. He'd be seeing Bill...

"Well, well, well, well, well. Look who the triangle dragged in!" Well, Ford knew one thing for sure, he'd be hearing Bill long before he saw him. His entire vision was blurry, he had lost his glasses, so he shoved a hand into the inner pocket of his omnipresent trenchcoat. "Oh man! He looks exactly like an older version of high-tops!" Bill cried, and Ford blinked at him. The giant triangle was sitting on a throne made out of optical illusions, and he was 'smiling' at Ford. "Discorse kid's gonna be ticked off!"

Ford stared at the triangle. That triangle. The one that had tormented him for months on end. The one who had tortured him mentally and physically. The one who had lost him months of his life. The one who wanted to destroy the world... or so Ford thought.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he shouted, not really knowing what to do in this situation. His mind was struggling to even think coherently, and any idea of what was going on slid away from him like water off of a duck's back. Ford floated in front of Bill, like a dust speck, and Bill chuckled. "Of course you don't Smart Guy. You don't really know anything! Hey! First one to grab him gets their own dimension!"

Ford shook his head, then he registered about a dozen other beings around Bill. He nearly screamed as they all rushed towards him, a furry/slimy/flame-filled mess of limbs and faces. He swam away from them, Bill's laugh echoing around him. "You can try to run Fordsy, but you'll never be able to keep away!"

Someone help him! Someone! Anyone!

Stan adjusted his jacket's strings. The ratty old coat was something that Stan had had almost since he'd 'left' his home. Admittedly, wearing a coat in the first week of June was something that most normal people didn't do, but Stan lived in a very abnormal town. Plus, it helped him fit into the whole 'Stanford Pines' aesthetic. His entire childhood, Ford had never been seen in anything cooler than a long sleeve shirt.

It was an hour before the Murder Hut opened, and he was busying himself with restocking the gift shop for the millionth time. He hung up some t-shirts, and marked up the prices. Who paid only twelve bucks a shirt? They had to be at least twenty!

A loud knock came from the main entrance. It nearly shook the door off of its hinges, and Stan wondered who on earth would be there at... Seven in the morning. Especially sounding so... Oh man, not the cops!

He took a steadying breath, zipped his jacket up halfway, and dropped the marker he'd been using to write the price of the shirts down with. He stepped over to the door and muttered, "Cool and confident... It's okay... It won't be the worst greeting..." He closed his eyes, then he grabbed the doorknob, turning it and swinging the door wide open...

To come face to face with a teenage boy.

The two of them stared at each other for a second. The boy had short fluffy brown hair, coming up slightly in a cowlick in the front. He was in a beige coat, which was way too big on him, and there was a black t-shirt underneath it. He planted his feet and stared Stan up and down, and Stan got slight 'welcome-to-prison' vibes for a moment. Then the kid said very seriously, "Who on earth are you?"

Stan blinked the kid reaching across his chest and sticking his right hand into the inside of his trenchcoat. He gulped, then decided to just go with what he had. "I'm Stanford Pines... Can I..."

"Liar!" The kid said, whipping a grappling hook out of his jacket and pointing it right at Stan. "You aren't Ford! What in the world are you doing in his house!"

Stan gulped. Okay... This kid knew Ford... Ooh boy. This was exactly what he was planning to be doing today. He held his hands up, staring at the curved edges of the grappling hook's grapple. "Um... I'm living in my house." Stan knew it was the wrong answer as soon as he'd said it.

The kid shoved to grappling hook even closer to Stan's face, making the older man take a step back. "What did you do to my brother?!" He yelled and Stan was about to say that he didn't know, then he registered what the kid had said.

"Wait. Brother?" Stan asked, and then it clicked. "Shermie?"

"Don't call me that! What did you do to Ford? I will shoot this at you!" Sherman glared at Stan, and Stan knew he was sunk. "Where is Ford? Is he safe? If you hurt him I will break you!"

"Uh... Sherman... What do you know about..." Stan breathed in deeply. It's okay Stanley, it's just your little brother that you haven't seen since you were sixteen. It's okay. He knows Ford. He's going to find out. "What do you know about Stanley Pines?"

Sherman tilted the grappling hook slightly away from Stan's face, now if his finger pulled the tiny trigger he'd hit Stan in the stomach. He tilted his head, and his jacket fell off of his left shoulder, but he left it like that. "Stanley? Wait. What? Where's Ford?"

Stan watched his younger brother sit on the couch in Ford's room. The kid, who was nearly fourteen, or so he said, held the first Journal in his hands, his fingers tracing the six-fingered handprint. The two of them made eye contact for a second, then Sherman said, "I can't believe he was building a portal thing the entire time... Oh man. That's why he asked Fidds to come. Wait." Sherman rubbed his chin then asked, "Where's Fiddleford?"

Stan shrugged. "Don't know who that is." He said, and Sherman glared at the Journal. "If Fidds wasn't here... Where would the other Journals be?" Again, Stan was left with the answer of "I don't know." Sherman scowled, then muttered to himself, "If I was Ford, where would I put my Journals... The bunker! Of course!"

"Bunker?" Stan asked watching Sherman stand up quickly and push past him. "What bunker? Shermie..."

"As I've said, don't call me that." Sherman snapped, getting over to the door and turning around to face Stan. "Come on, there's a bunker in the woods that Ford and Fiddleford used to keep the... It's for their research." He shuddered and rubbed the top of the right side of his neck. "Just follow me."

Stan sighed, but followed his brother. They crossed the Hut and went out the back door. Sherman reached into his pocket and pulled out a compass. "Don't worry about the normal compass stuff," Sherman said, looking down at the gadget's face. "The tree is right in the direction of the CSO."

Stan nodded slowly. Were both of his brothers crazy?

"And watch out for gnomes! They kidnapped me as a gift to the queen once! They've tried to take Twelve once, but he just drop-kicked them!" Sherman called back at him, and then he rethought what he was saying. "Oh, and make sure you don't have jerky on you!"

Yup. His brothers were crazy.

Stay calm. Stay calm. They can't see you if you don't fear them.

Ford pressed his back against a stone wall. He didn't know where he was. He knew that he was in a cave, but other than that... Man, what would he do to have Sherman's grappling hook? In a giant room just around the corner there were about a hundred foot-long lizards, each ready to shoot acid into his eyes. There were already holes in his short black coat from where they had already gotten him.

Stay calm. It's okay Ford, it's just pitch black. Don't make a sound, don't get too scared. Think about an equation... Uh... 3.141592653589793238462...

He slid along the hall. He didn't know how long he'd been there. He didn't really know anything. His mind was so tired he'd just started with pi, instead of something more complicated. He felt his heart racing, but it was getting slower. Focus on your intellect. It's just like in the CSO...

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a fiery lizard leaping towards his face. Blue flames illuminating everything... Then, blackness.

When Sherman and Stan finally got all three Journals together, they'd been living together for about a month. Sherman had insisted that he lead the main portal stuff, even though Stan was the one who knew the math (against his original will). But Sherman was better at planning stuff like that.

The portal had indeed sent everything into their 'minor gravity anomalies', and Sherman was pretty sure that Ford had been inaccurate in that assessment. But in the end, it worked, and that was all that mattered. The two of them sat in the control room, and watched as a figure stepped out of the spin of the vortex. The figure had brown hair that matched Sherman's, but a taller build and was dressed entirely in black.

"Stanford!" Sherman yelled before Stan could even breathe. "Oh my goodness! Finally!"

Sherman rushed out of the control room, watching his brother look around at all the damage. When Ford heard him he looked at the teenager and his eyes widened, not even noticing Stan stepping into the room to join them.

"Sherman! I thought I'd never see you again!" Ford exclaimed just as Sherman came to a halt in front of him. A smile played on Ford's lips and he added, "Told you you'd grow into it."

Sherman nodded, then he threw his arms around his brother. "My better brother!" He exclaimed, smushing his face into Ford's chest. Ford laughed and ruffled his brother's hair. "My better bro..." His eyes snapped up, and he saw Stan standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And... There's Stanley. Wait. Have you two... Didn't you read my warnings?!"

Sherman released Ford then nodded, taking a step back and glancing back at his other brother. "Of course. Extreme usage may result in minor gravity anoma-" He was cut off by Ford shaking his head and saying, "No, the other ones."

"Uh... What other ones?" Sherman asked, tilting his head to the right. "You didn't write them in invisible ink like the zombie stuff, did you?" Ford shook his head, rethought for a second, then said, "I don't remember..."

"Man. You really are the dumbest smart guy." Sherman said, then he grabbed Ford's left hand and began to drag him towards the control room. "Now. Stanley has something to say to you."

Stan shifted uncomfortably, and he and Ford stared at each other for a moment. "Sherman..."

"Go on Fives." Sherman said, waving at Stan and releasing Ford's hand. Ford glanced between the two of them, then added his own, "Sherman..."

"I'm sorry," Stan said, rushing forward and wrapping his arms around Ford. "I had no idea. I'm sorry... I didn't mean it... I'm so..." Ford choked for a second, then he looked over at Sherman like he was asking 'is this normal?'. Sherman moved his arms so that he was hugging air, and he glared poignantly at Ford. 'Go on' he mouthed, and Ford sighed. He wrapped his arms around Stan, then said, "It's... not okay. But I won't kill you."

"You might want to reconsider that." Sherman said, jerking his thumb at the ceiling. "He turned your house into a tourist trap."

"You what?!"

"Corpus levitus! Diablo dominus! Mondo vicium!"

Sherman remembered checking with his brother that there weren't evil aliens, but apparently the world didn't really need those to get destroyed. All it needed was a crazy thirteen-year-old kid with a magic Journal. Thanks for unleashing that on the world Stanford.

Stanford had blatantly ordered Sherman to never read his Journal. Which would have been fine with like, any other kid, but this was Sherman Pines we're talking about! You don't just write about monsters and spells and expect him to sit contentedly in a corner watching you. So Sherman broke into Ford's room while he was off... Fording. He grabbed the Journal and booked it to the woods near the house.

He flipped to Journal open, and, like any sane person, immediately read the first thing he saw out loud. Unfortunately... Well... That happened ot be... A zombie summoning curse.

Sherman waited a moment, but nothing happened. He looked at the very normal dark tree trunks surrounding him, then he looked at the very normal pale blue sky, then he looked down at the very normal... giant crack in the ground, spilling green smoke into the air. He watched in horror as a thin brownish hand reached up, then crash onto the side of the crack and pull its undead body up.

For a moment Sherman stood there frozen, having a staring contest with a zombie. Then a second and third rift opened and he screamed.

"Where in the world is Ford?" Sherman asked himself, looking around the house for a weapon. Ford had turned down his desire to get a grappling hook, but his brother had to have something to fight with. The zombies banged on the door, man, there had to be hundreds of them. Sherman took a deep breath and grabbed a random thick book from off of the dining room table.

"This is exactly what I wanted to do with my Saturday!" He said, and held the book up next to his head, ready to swing it like a baseball bat. He watched as the zombies broke down the door with brute force and came right up to him. "It's okay Sherman." He told himself when the first one was about seven feet in front of him. He could see it's sallow and limp skin, parts of its bones exposed. Its dead eyes stared down at him like an upset school teacher. Just one more step.

"Get outta my house suckas!" Sherman yelled, swinging 'So you wanna fight a zombie?' into the undead's head. Its head flew off, and Sherman couldn't help but shout, "Yes! I killed a zombieee!" He was so distracted by his minor victory that he completely forgot the other zombies. He lifted in the air by his right arm, his book falling to the ground.

"Oh no!" He yelled, struggling against the bony hand that was bringing him near it's salvating mouth. "No no no no..."

An arrow lodged itself inside of the left side of the zombies head, blowing its brain and eyes out. Sherman gasped as he was dropped along with the zombie's crumpled body. He stared at the arrow, then turned his head to see the person who had shot it.

Ford had his crossbow pointed exactly where the zombie's head used to be. He was breathing hard and his trenchcoat was missing, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Sherman could see the start of a... tattoo? Stanford had a tattoo...

"You! Basement! NOW!"

Sherman blinked then stammered, "F- Ford? What... You have a cross..." Ford didn't seem pleased with his brother's words, and he glared at him with a look so intense that Sherman was grateful that the arrow he shot a second later was aimed at a zombie and not himself. "I said NOW!"

Sherman got to his feet and rushed past his brother, who began to rapid-fire shoot zombies away. Man this would be a cool movie, Sherman thought as he reached the door to the basement. Luckily for him there weren't any zombies on that side of Ford, and he quickly got the door open and shut behind him.

He locked the door and pressed himself against it. Oh man... There were zombies in the house... Ford would probably become a zombie... He reached into his hoodie and pulled out the Journal. He flipped it open, and looked at the page he had read, only noticing the 'Don't read aloud' above the curse then. Stanford... This was sort of...

A loud 'Bang! Bang! Bang!" sounded against the door, which bent in slightly every time. Stanford was dead. He just had to be. Or, at least he was undead. Sherman held the Journal up like he had done with the other book. Please don't let there be too many of...

"Sherman! Let me in!" Ford's voice called out, "Open up!"

Sherman still held the Journal up, but he unlatched the door, letting Ford spill in, his crossbow abandoned. Ford pushed him away and turned to the door to relatch it. His forehead was covered in sweat and his shirt was ripped in several places, over his arms and stomach, but there was no puncture. He breathed in deeply, then pressed his forehead against the door.

"Um... This is sort of your fault." Sherman blurted out, and he winced internally as Ford spun around, a crazed look in his eyes. Sherman watched as he asked, in a tense and frustrated tone, "And how is this my fault exactly? You're the one who read the curse!"

Sherman retaliated immediately, not really noticing Ford's left arm, which was getting covered by his right hand, something was under it. "You're the one who wrote the curse! Seriously! Who does that?"

Ford nearly shouted, "It was for scientific accuracy! And... never mind." He turned back to the door and said quietly, "This is exactly why I wasn't letting you read my Journals." Sherman froze after that, but then he said quietly, "Maybe if you had let me read your Journals I would have known not to do that." Stanford shot him a glare, and he said, "Maybe I should never have let you come."

Sherman opened his mouth, and then he closed it. "Maybe you shouldn't have."

Silence followed.

Stanley watched his brothers sit at the table, a bunch of papers in front of them, all having to do with some sort of unicorn voodoo. Ford had told Sherman something about a... triangle? and Sherman was more than willing to help him figure something out. As always, Stan was left in the dark. He wasn't a paranormal researcher. He wasn't smart and cool. He was just that third brother, even though he was literally only ten minutes younger than Ford.

Sherman was jabbering away at Ford, who nodded every now and then. A lot of what Sherman was saying was "You should have told me!" or "How could you keep this a secret?" and Stan wondered about what he was talking about.

Even though Stan got all of the blame, the Murder Hut had a lot of Sherman's own ideas wrapped around it. Sherman had immediately decided that the place could use some 'real decorations' and had somehow found like, a dozen body arms and hands. Stan had liked it, until one of them fell on his head and had wrapped its fingers in his hair. No thanks.

"Just a few more minutes Twelve? I'm fourteen for crying out loud! I'm not a little..." Ford shot a glare at Sherman, then said, "Stanley may have let you stay up all hours of the night, but trust me. You need all the sleep you can. Let me know if you have strange dreams. Also..." He pulled a watch out of his pocket and said, "It's a quarter to midnight. Goodnight Ten."

Sherman sighed, and slid out of his chair. "Night Twelve. Night Stan." He walked across the dining room and left the two Stans alone, Stanley watching him leave while Ford just sighed and grabbed his mug.

"What is that? Your fifth?" Stan asked, and Ford shook his head. "Seventh. I've been cutting down. You should have seen my coffee bill..." He trailed off and stared down at the dark brown liquid. "I just have to figure out how many Moonstones I'm going to need... Sherman has been thinking of clever ideas, but I'm not entirely sure that they'll work."

"That's how it is with Shermie." Stan said with a chuckle, Ford looked over at him and said, "You know he hates being called that." Stan shrugged. "Yup. That's why I do it."

Ford shook his head. "You are never going to make sense Stanley."

Hello guys!

This is one of the possibilities I see coming out of Chapter 17. There's like four of five, and this one is the one I decided to write! Yay! That makes three! The third one (technically second) one is the Better World. I take that one as Ford asking Sherman to come take the Journal instead of Stan, and Sherman forcing Ford to come clean, since he's seen Ford more recently. If you guys want I can write a full chapter on that like this one.

Okay... Now that we've gotten that aside. 200 reviews! Aah! I remember when we were at like, 50! Thank you all so much! (Especially you TFD).

I hope you all have a great rest of your day! Stay weird.

-BrilliantLight