"Stanford!" Stanley screamed, watching in horror as his brother was pulled upward.
"What do I do?"
"Stanley, help me!" His brother flailed, as if trying to find something, anything, to grasp. "Stanley!"
The swirling blue of the portal suddenly changed and the world shifted. He was standing on the curb, looking up at his brother, pleading, -trying to make him understand, it was only an accident, he hadn't meant it- but his brother simply stared his eyes dark and lifeless.
Then he was somewhere he knew well. Water lashed up on around the dock as he struggled against the ropes that bound him and the men holding him. His captor surveyed the water, his back turned toward Stanley.
The men wrestled Stanley closer to the old car parked near the end of the dock, shoving him toward the open trunk. He struggled wildly.
Stanley cried out to the man taking him to his watery grave. "Rico, we can talk about this."
"Rico" turned around and Stanley felt his blood run cold as he looked at a mirror of his own face, an icy grin on his face.
"No..." he breathed, shock on his features. "Stanford, please!"
Stanford slowly pulled a revolver from his coat and aimed it at Stanley's stomach, his face emotionless. "You ruined my life, Stanley." he said, coolly. "Allow me to return the favor."
His finger squeezed the trigger, and pain exploded in Stanley's stomach. He screamed--
-and woke to the sound of it, clutching his stomach tightly. Burning pain spread from his right lower abdomen and up into his chest.
Stanley gasped upright, gritting his teeth through the pain, and fumbling for his glasses on the table by the bed. When he finally managed, he read the clock next to where they sat. 2:07AM.
"Geez, Poindexter..." he wheezed, painfully, his eyes screwing shut. "Couldn't ya wait till... till morning at least?"
He stumbled to his feet, and felt his way to the door in the dark, his other hand still clutching at the pain in his stomach. It had lessened slightly from the original intensity, but still it overwhelmed his senses.
When he reached the kitchen, he made a beeline for the medicine cabinet above the fridge and grasped for a specific bottle, unscrewing the top and popping a nonspecific amount of the contents in his mouth, shakily.
After what seemed like an eternity but was more likely around ten minutes, the pain began to subside, reducing to a dull ache.
Stanley took deep breaths, calming his racing heart and shakily moving to the coffee maker. He could ride it out. He had done it a thousand times before, he could do it again. Besides, he reminded himself, pain is good. Pain means you're still alive. That he's still alive.
"Better not be too bad, Sixer." Stan muttered to the air, flopping down onto one of the kitchen chairs, cup of coffee in hand, still trying to catch his breath. "Last time I was sore for a month. You're welcome for the pain killers, too. Guess... guess you probably don't get a lot wherever you are. At least that's what it feels like on my end..." He trailed off, staring into his cup of coffee. He could imagine what his brother might say to him right now, the words echoing in his head.
It's your fault I'm stuck here anyway. You ruined my life. It's your fault.
Hhe shoo his head, wincing. It throbbed slightly, beginning to ache, and his left ankle hurt in a distinct way that he recognized as a broken bone. Wherever his brother was, it couldn't be good, but it wouldn't do him any good to worry about it. There was nothing he could do about it.
The best thing he could do was keep working on that thing in the basement. Until then, no matter how horrible it sounded, he had to admit that pain was a good sign. A reminder for what he was working toward. A sign that it wasn't too late.
He took a long drink of the coffee in front of him, wincing as it burned his tongue, more in regret for adding to his brother's pain than for the pain it caused him.
Stanley frowned, rubbing a hand over his face. Even with painkillers, he had a feeling sleep was a lost cause tonight. So, he decided, he might as well make himself useful.
He lifted his mug of coffee and headed toward the gift shop, limping heavily. Hopefully, Soos wouldn't notice that in the morning or he would ask questions that Stan couldn't answer. But one thing at a time. Stan punched in the code and the door opened, revealing a dimly lit passage. Taking a deep breath, Stan stepped forward.
Pain is good, He kept reminding himself, as he descended the stairs. It means there's still time. Still hope. He's not too late to fix his mistake. His brother was still out there somewhere, and, so help him, he would die before he abandon him.
Soos noticed the slight limp in Mr. Pines step the next morning, and the way he leaned onto his cane more heavily. When he saw the bags under his boss's eyes and the frown when he asked about it, he guessed it was best to leave well enough alone or risk his job. But he couldn't help but worry.