His boots crunched in the snow, the frigid temperatures biting at his skin and numbing his limbs. He was almost there, he reminded himself, pulling his thin coat closer around himself.

Stanford frowned. In that moment, he had felt a wide variety of feelings, including concern, but now, he concluded, it was the panic and fear talking.

He shoved his cold hands into his pockets in an effort to warm them. One of his hands rested against the slip of paper, the postcard, all his fears and worries written in two words.

Please come.

Why would he be concerned? What ever his traitorous brother endured, he likely deserved it anyway. It was his own fault.

Through the snow, he finally caught a glimpse of the mailbox, standing in the middle of the forest alone.

"No. He's free to live his own life. That's no concern if mine."

He quickened his pace, fighting against the falling show and wind.

Fiddleford watched him, his knee bouncing anxiously.

His hands finally came in contact with the mailbox, and he slipped the postcard in. It was his last hope to find him. He was his last hope.

Stanford sighed. "I promise, I'll explain later. I just don't feel up to it right now. I'm tired."

He closed the mailbox and stood a moment, shivering violently.

Another promise that had been false. Fiddleford had asked but he had always dismissed it, too focused on his work.

His work that later went on to deeply traumatize his only true friend. A work that now, he realized, was threatening all of existence. And it was his own fault.

He began stumbling through the snow, back the way he had come, mentally pleading for the postcard to find it's way. He had no other way. He was alone, and Stanley was the only person he could turn to.

The pains had started about a month ago. His eye had suddenly felt like a red hot knife was digging into it, and he had been forced to forfeit his card game and leave, loosing fifty bucks. The next day, it had happened again, while he was driving, and he had nearly run off the road. He hadn't been certain this wasn't his pain, so he had been forced to use what little money he had saved to visit a doctor, only to be told he was straining his eye because there was no evidence of injury. What a joke. He had to admit, though, the eye patch he "had" to wear looked kind of rebellious, like he was a pirate on a ship, looking for treasure-...

Scratch that. He hated the eye patch. If it weren't for how sensitive that eye was to the light, he would have thrown the stupid thing away ages ago.

When the pains on his arms had begun, he had been more worried. They were small, sharp pains at first, like a needle poking him, then worse and worse until it felt like he was being stabbed. They spread to his torso, sometimes bad enough that he cried out and couldn't move for the pain.

Stanley had felt the occasional burn or cut over the last ten years, even what he guessed by the pain was a broken toe, and he had assumed it was just Ford doing nerd stuff and tried not to think about it as he knew Ford would if he were injured. But he had never felt anything this bad from Ford. Nothing that didn't feel like an accident.

It worried him.

Some of them felt too sinister, like the pain was deliberately drawn out or aggravated, as if whoever inflicted it wanted it to be as excruciating as possible. And not one of them felt as though they were being taken care of properly.

Even if the postcard hadn't arrived, begging him to come, he likely would have come looking for his brother anyway. For his own benefit, Stanley told himself. To tell that nerd to quit messing with his life and leave him alone. Definitely not because he was worried.

He walked through the snow, leaving the Stanleymobile at the end of the road (he didn't want to risk sliding off the road and getting stuck or worse) and heading toward the dark cabin. He passed several signs that warned trespassers of the danger of continuing, and frowned. Ford was paranoid, but not this paranoid.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, briefly wondering if this was a good idea, before shaking those thoughts off and knocking.

There was a crossbow pointed at his face and a familiar voice shouted something about stealing eyes. But all Stanley could see was Ford's face, his eyes wild and and crazed, but it was Ford. The brother he hadn't seen in ten years was standing in front of him. And pointing a deadly weapon at him.

"Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome." Stanley responded, frowning.

When he recognized Stanley, Stanford pulled him into the house and shoved him against the wall, ignoring his brother's protests. He shined a light in his eye, pausing when he saw the eye patch.

"Stanley..." He paused, a horrified expression on his face. "What... What happened to your eye?"

"You did, Ford." Stanley responded, more than a little frustrated by his brother's rough treatment, and a little off put by his reaction to the eye patch. "What'd you do to yours? What's with the flashlight? Are you trying to blind me?" His expression softened when he got a better look at Stanford. His face was unshaven and his hair wild. His clothes were disheveled and his white shirt covered with old stains of... Wasthat blood?

For a brief moment, Ford's face turned more to fear than concern, but then it was replaced with a hard expression, and he began pacing in the small room, gathering papers and books. "I have no time to explain. I... I called you here because I've made catastrophic mistakes and I don't know who I can trust. You... You're the only person I could think of to turn to."

Stanley's frown softened, and he put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Whoa, whoa, easy there, Poindexter. We can talk about this. Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll understand."

Stanford pulled away from his hand, shaking his head, agitated. "You already don't understand, Stanley! The entire world, even the universe could be at stake here!" He slammed a hand down on the table, his voice rising.

The two of them both suddenly clutched their right eyes, hissing in pain.

"Geez, Sixer, what'd ya do to yourself?" Stan muttered after a moment, wincing in pain. He looked at his brother and his face turned confused.

Stanford stared at him, pure terror on his face. A thin trickle of blood leaked from his eye and his hand was red. "Don't... Don't call me that." He said, softly, fear lacing his words.

Stanley stared at his brother. "What... Your eye. Are you okay?"

Ford stared at him, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "I... I don't matter, Stanley! The fate of the world is at stake! Come with me." He grasped a particular book and briskly walked into another room, as if nothing had happened.

Stanley followed, growing more concerned by the minute.

"There is nothing about this I understand." Stan stared at the large triangular machine in front of him and then back to his disheveled brother.

Ford had quickly splashed water on his face after they had gotten down to the basement and had washed the blood from his eye, but his eyes were still bloodshot and his expression wild. Any attempt to show concern on Stan's part was quickly pushed away with some declaration or other that "the fate of the world is more important than me".

Ford frowned. "It's a Trans-universal Poly-dimentional Meta-vortex, a punched hole through the space time continuum. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe, but it could very easily be harnessed for terrible evil."

Stan nodded, slowly. It sounded like the sort of nerd science Ford would get into. "Okay. Where do I come in?"

"I wrote the operating and construction instructions in a series of journals I've kept." He looked down at the journal in his hands, clutching it close as though it were the most important thing in the world. "I've hidden the others but I need your help. Remember our plans to sail away on a boat?"

For a moment, Stan couldn't breath. His chest tightened. Ford didn't want that anymore, right? He looked at his brother, waiting for him to laugh, to yell, anything to prove this wasn't real, but Ford simply looked at him, earnestly.

Finally, Stan nodded, bracing himself.

"Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away from here as possible. Bury it where no one will ever findit."

Ford shoved the book into his brother's hands, turned, and began pacing, unaware of his brother's heart shattering behind him. "If it fell into the wrong hands-..."

"I don't believe you!" Stan snapped, anger filling his face to cover the pain of a moment before."You send me a cryptic message and drag me all the way here from New Mexico, just to tell me to get as far away as possible?"

Ford looked taken aback for a moment, but then he glared. "You don't understand, Stanley. You have no idea what I've been through!"

"No! You have no idea what I've been through!" Stanley clenched his hands around the journal. "I've been to prison in three countries, shot, and stabbed multiple times. I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car, Stanford! And I know you knee about it. How could you not?"

He paused, clenching his teeth. "Every time I was stabbed, or shot... Every time, I hoped you would come looking for me, if only to yell at me to be more careful because I was messing up your nerd work or annoying you! I knew you knew about it, and don't even try to tell me you didn't! But you never even tried to find me! Not even when I was shot and was bleeding on the pavement! You don't care enough about your own brother to look for him when he's nearly been killed! And all because of one stupid mistake he made, ten years ago!"

Stanford's face was a mix of shock and anger. "Look for you? Why would I, after you ruined my life? After you ruined my chances to be successful? You didn't just ruin my chances, but you ruined everyone's chances! Mom and Dad could have retired comfortably! Sherman could have gone to school and gotten a better job to support his family! You never could do anything without help and you never could follow instructions! You ruined our entire family's chances at having a better life! Dad was right about you! And yes, I did know, but what could I do about it? Call you and tell you to stop getting into trouble? We both know that wouldn't do anything to stop you! Why don't you just do as I say?!"

Stanley gripped the journal tighter. His jaw clenched, and his eyes were hard. He reached in his pocket. "Fine." His voice was deadly calm. "You want me to get rid of this journal? I'll do it right now!" He pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit the flame.

"No!" His brother all but screamed, panic on his face "My research!"

Suddenly, the two of them were stumbling backwards. The journal landed on the ground a few feet away. They both lunged for it, Stanley getting there first.

"Give it back, Stanley!" Ford demanded, tackling his brother. They slammed into a control panel, several switches being flipped in the process.

"No! It was supposed to be you and me, just the two of us forever! You ruined my life!" They stumbled to the floor, both gripping the journal.

"You ruined your own life!"

Stanford pushed Stanley away with his foot, his brother's back pressing against the panel behind him.

Pain tore through both their shoulders. And the two of them screamed, falling forward.

"Oh (Censored)..." Ford gasped, his eyes watering from the pain, and his breathing turning into pained gasps. Concern came over his face. "Stanley, are you-...?"

For a moment, Stanley felt protective instinct kicking in seeing his brother sprawled on the floor, in pain. A very brief moment. But in his anger, his fist didn't listen. Ford deserved this. He pulled Ford to his feet and hit him, hard.

Ford stumbled back, gasping and falling against some machinery, staring at his brother.

Stan winced at the pain blossoming in his own face, but he didn't care. "If you care so much about your precious journal, you can take it!" He shoved the book into Ford's chest.

What happened next was not at all what he was expecting. He expected his brother to fall backward and to yell something at him, or maybe plead with him one more time. He expected to walk away and never look back, knowing his family really did hate him and there was no point in trying anymore.

Stanford stumbled back and suddenly his feet weren't on the ground anymore. He was floating in the air. He was being pulled up, towards...

Stanley stared, mesmerized and shocked. The large machine had been activated, and now in the center of the triangle, a blue vortex twisted and morphed, energy reaching out toward Ford, pulling him toward it.

Ford.

"Stanley!" His voice was panicked, pure terror on his face. He flailed, desperately looking for anything to hold onto. "Stanley, do something!"

"Ford, what do I do?" He shouted, fear choking him.

"Stanley! Help! Help me!" Ford pleaded, desperately. He began to be pulled backward into the vortex.

Stanley suddenly felt a terrible icy numbness fill his body as Ford passed through, as though a thousand frozen needles were sta bing into him. He was paralyzed. He wanted to run forward, save Ford, shout something, anything, but he couldn't move or even speak.

He stood, frozen, as his brother let out a last strangled cry before disappearing in a blinding flash of light.

When Stan came too, his whole body ached, especially his shoulder. For a moment, he couldn't recall where he was or what had happened. His eyes blinked open and he looked over to see the lifeless portal machine.

Everything came crashing back down on him. He stumbled to his feet, and desperately pushed on the leaver, in vain.

"Stanford!" He yelled in despair, but he knew it was useless. His brother was gone.

His eyes moved to a small object by his feet. A pair of glasses.

He fell to his knees, fighting tears. It was his fault. His brother was gone, probably dead, and it was all his fault.

He didn't move for a long time, his mind numb. That moment played through his head again and again. The light. The paralyzing fear. The icy numbness.

A sudden pain in his arm made him gasp and return to reality. He inspected his arm and found nothing that could have caused such a pain, mild as it was. It felt like like he had fallen on it, bruising it, but he didn't recall doing so.

It happened again, stronger, making him hiss in pain. If he weren't injured, it could only mean...

He had never been so happy to feel pain.

"Ford..." He breathed. "You're... He's alive!"

He sprang to his feet, quickly gathering the journal and the pair of glasses and running to the controls. He had to fix it. He had to bring Ford back. Because Ford was alive. And he would die before he gave up on him.

"Don't worry, Ford." He said, quickly flipping through the journal and gripping the controls. "I'll bring you back. I promise."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. After reading in Journal 3 about Ford's eye, and noting the fact that Stan wears an eye patch as part of his Mr. Mystery costume, I knew I wanted to incorporate it into this story. The small pains are also based on some entries in Journal 3 where Ford talks about Bill inflicting minor injuries on him while possessing him, in what seemed to be accidents at first and then later deliberate harm. I thought Stan would probably notice.

Anyway, thank you for your reviews and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!