A/N: And I'm back, ladies and gentlemen, and with a clean bill of health for the time being! Of course, I'm already being set up with a schedule for future hospital visits on the grounds of "just to be on the safe side," but for now I'm just glad that I'm on the mend, that I made the decision to seek medical attention when I did, and that I have the newest chapter at long last!
Now, a little change here: I've decided to bring in some codes, just a little something to add a little extra mystery for you to unravel. I wish I could claim that this is some great mark of my intellect, but really, I've just been following in Gravity Falls' footsteps and advice. Far more frightening are my attempts at poetry. This is a trial run, a little Atbash and Caesarian, just to see if this change works out: feel free to furnish me with your opinions as always (Qlsm rh dzgxsrmt!).
Now, before we begin, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed and viewed over the last few weeks:
Kraven the Hunter: I loved that dissection of Bill's reasons for not muting Dipper - and what the real Dipper would do. Basically, Mabeland is one big instance of "If You're So Evil, Eat This Kitten," designed to make Mabel inflict pain on innocents - and this version of Dippy Fresh definitely doesn't fit the bill. Also, Mabeland is simply a lot more comfortable for Mabel - physically at any rate; the sense of loneliness and associated discomfort is just so miserable that she can't stand it unless she absolutely has to.
Northgalus2002: Don't worry! Mr A will be intervening soon! I can't give away too much, but one of your guesses was bang on the money. Also, without saying too much, I doubt anyone will be escaping from this nightmare with their personalities intact: Mabel may recover, but she's going to need a lot of support... and she won't be alone in that regard. Thanks so much for your words of support!
Guest: I'm so glad you liked the chapter, and I loved your examination of it - descriptions have always been my favourite part of writing. Not too sure if I'd do such a good job if I ever took the reins of Gravity Falls, but I'm flattered that you think it would be interesting. Also, there will be some hope in this chapter - it's still shrouded in shadows, but there's some light at the end of the tunnel. And to answer your question, time is difficult to measure for that very reason: Bill is still in the mood to muck about with time for his own amusement, however, and several games have very specialized time zones - allowing the players to perceive vastly different passages of time; some have only been playing for a few hours, others for centuries. Overall, only a few months have passed in "real" time.
ImpossibleJedi4: Thank you for your support, and thank you for your review!
Fantasy Fan 223: I know, Mabel's a favourite of mine, too. No, really: I'm from the Farscape school of character appreciation, believe it or not. There will be hope on the horizon, however, though as you've said, whether it'll arrive in time to help Mabel back from the precipice or if it'll arrive too late like it did with Fiddleford, I can only cast shadows on the future. However, I will say that, yes, Dipper is with the real Wendy: I think it's best that we get this out of the way before it becomes Schrodinger's plot point. Thanks again for your review and your kind words, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
OMAC001: I can't wait to see how I can resolve it :)! Thanks for reviewing!
FanBoy-Guest: The whole story is about that, really - a descent into the hells that Bill constructs for the characters and how they resist or succumb to its many torments and temptations.
MysticFire348: Wow, I need to check out this Transcendence AU; I thought I was being too gory all this time, but from the way you describe things, I'm being outdone. Don't worry, though: I'm glad you think I've struck the perfect balance, and I'm glad you think it's a genuine horror story and not just a gory mess. Thanks so much for your review and I hope I continue to impress.
Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter! Feel free to provide me with opinions, recommendations, corrections, critiques and observations! Read, review and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls isn't mine. Neither is the Atbash Cipher (the first and third codes used) nor is the Caesar Cipher (the second).
Somewhere on the opposite end of the Museum, Stan finally skidded to a halt and paused to catch his breath.
By now, he was sure he'd managed to outrun his Self-Loathing, or at the very least delay it long enough for him to recover from the marathon he'd just ran. He'd been careful to bolt most of the doors between the two of them, but he had a sinking feeling that they probably wouldn't hold Self-Loathing forever. He couldn't guess at the kind of powers Bill had given the monster, but something told him that doors wouldn't be much of an obstacle to an unofficial Henchmaniac. And if that didn't work, there were other ways around the Museum: he'd only seen a handful of the side-passages that lay between the exhibits, but if there were as many as he suspected, he didn't have long before the old bastard caught up with him.
How long had he been running anyway?
There were clocks in the museum, sure, but none of them showed the same time – or even ran at the same speed: some raced along at a breakneck pace, while others moved so slowly that the minutes seemed to drag on for hours on end. For all he knew, he'd been running for months on end and he'd never know the difference; even his own sense of time seemed warped around here, for every time he tried to count the seconds, he kept losing track of things.
Chalk it up to stress, Stan. You're running through a museum commemorating all the screw-ups that you've ever committed in your life, and you're being chased by your own Self-Loathing dressed in the face of your own unpleasable dad. You'd be forgiven for losing track of time under the circumstances…
Somewhere in the distance, a thunderous howl of rage echoed through the corridor.
And on top of everything else, your Self-Loathing doesn't seem interested in just talking you to death anymore. I don't think he's carrying around that razor just for the sake of giving that five o'clock shadow a trim, do you?
Stan hastily double-checked the chain on the door behind him. Judging by the volume of those enraged screams, his pursuer was still making his way through the neighbouring wings of the Museum, either navigating the side passages or punching his way through the obstacles Stan had left in his path. Hopefully, that would give Stan enough time to catch his breath, maybe even plan his next escape route.
Unfortunately, escape didn't seem terribly likely at this point: by sheer bad luck, he'd ended up at a cul-de-sac in the Museum's layout; the only way in or out of this exhibit were the double doors he'd just chained and bolted behind him, and retreating through them would leave him on a collision course with Self-Loathing.
There had been a door just the outside entrance marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY," but it had been locked and couldn't be broken down. In all likelihood, it was only there to get his hopes up just so Bill could knock them over again.
Not that there was much hope to be found here and now – not with the room he'd found himself in.
According to the banner above the door, this exhibit was "THE PRICE OF FAILURE: A STUDY OF CONSEQUENCES," and it consisted of a long, meandering aisle lined with dioramas much like the other exhibits in the museum. Up until now, Stan had been too busy trying to find an exit to pay much attention to the contents of the room, but as the impossibility of escape gradually sank in, he found himself slowly but surely drawn to the display cases. And with nothing left to do but wait, now there was no ignoring them.
The first diorama showed Dipper lying motionless in the crumpled wreckage of a golf cart while Mabel was dragged away by a horde of Gnomes; some distance away behind the wall of the Mystery Shack, Stan gleefully bamboozled the crowd of tourists, oblivious to the carnage outside. According to the plaque, "Though rushed to Gravity Falls Hospital, Dipper's injuries proved too severe, and he died of internal haemorrhaging that afternoon. Despite an extensive search of the forest, Mabel was never seen again. In the weeks that followed, Dipper and Mabel's parents severed all ties with Stan, blaming him for the loss of their children…"
Unable to read another word, Stan lurched away from the display, gorge rising as he did so. By now, he could already tell what this exhibit commemorated, and he wanted none of it whatsoever; but in his rush to hurry away from the awful sight, he all but tripped over another diorama – and before he could stop himself from examining it, his eyes were already taking in the horrific details. Here was the basement lab, right after the Portal had been activated early that summer… but there was no sign of Ford emerging from it. Instead, Stan and Soos wept despondently over Mabel's body, crushed almost beyond recognition by a fallen bank of machinery. On the opposite side of the portal, Dipper tumbled aimlessly through the void, now trapped alongside Ford.
This time the plaque was much more acerbic: "By the time Stan had recovered from witnessing the consequences of his own stupidity in action, the portal activity was already beyond his control, and a rift had formed in the fabric of reality. Weirdmageddon began early, this time with Dipper and Ford as prisoners of Bill and the only guaranteed means of stopping him destroyed. Crushed by his failures – though obviously not quite as badly as Mabel – Stan wandered out into the wastelands of Gravity Falls to die. Nobody mourned his passing."
For over a hundred yards, the monstrous procession of displays continued, Stan stumbling from diorama to diorama at random like a drunk: here was Dipper, Soos, Mabel and Wendy lying dead in the ruins of Ford's underground bunker while the Shapeshifter roamed freely in Dipper's form, tailing Stan with a murderous grin on its face; here was the Lake Monster consuming the twins' drowned corpses; here was Dipper – still in his reverend costume – lying dead at the foot of the water tower, a grief-stricken Mabel making a deal with Bill in a desperate attempt to revive him; here was Gideon exalting over Dipper's lacerated corpse, Mabel handcuffed and gagged behind him; here was a fire at the Northwest Mansion, Dipper and Mabel lost to the flames before the firefighters could arrive… There was a whole section on Weirdmageddon alone: Dipper eaten by Teeth; Dipper starving to death in the ruins of Gravity Falls; Dipper, Mabel, Wendy and Soos trapped forever in the prison bubble.
And above each diorama, a single sentence had been roughly carved into the wall: "WHERE WERE YOU, STAN?"
But of course, Bill had left the worst for last: it depicted a Mystery Shack that never became the Shacktron and remained Stan's private fiefdom; here, Dipper and Mabel, unable to change their Grunkle's mind and unable to rally the survivors, were killed in riots over food shortages while Stan – the Chief now dethroned by the angry mob – wept despondently over their trampled remains.
There was no graffiti overlooking this diorama, only a plaque large enough to double as a traffic sign.
"How long did you spend trying to save Ford," it asked, "and you weren't even there to save them? They had to save themselves. Do you think Ford was any different? Do you think he really needed your "help?" Do you think you've actually saved anyone, or are you ready to face the fact that everyone in the world would be better off without you?"
And below that…
"You're no saviour, Stan Pines. You're a man who succeeds only in order to fail. You're a joke that stopped being funny a long time ago. People keep throwing you out, but you keep crawling back like the parasite you are, trying to pick up the pieces of a broken reality and make things right again when nothing can ever be right again. You killed the world, Stan. You think you can make that right? Do yourself a favour and end it all."
Trembling, Stan sat down heavily on one of the couches overlooking the last diorama, and let out a sigh that felt as though it had been waiting the last thirty years to escape.
In the distance, another infuriated roar echoed up the corridor – this time much closer. Stan was halfway through getting up reinforce the door when a realization hit him – one that had been building up ever since he'd arrived in this exhibit.
Why the hell was he still running when there was nowhere to go? Even if he could force the employees-only door open, he was already worn out from running across the museum and probably couldn't manage another marathon jog to whatever exhibit could shelter him next, assuming there was one. As for thoughts of escaping, where could he escape to? He'd passed the foyer on his last sprint, and the front doors were sealed shut – and once again, even if he could get them open, he'd just be escaping into another part of Bill's world.
Bill had already won. Why was Stan still running and fighting and refusing to succumb to the inevitable? Why hadn't he just…
…just…
The razor flickered in and out of Stan's mind, suddenly a thousand times more inviting than any other form of escape he could imagine.
Then, he remembered the message from "Mr A" that had briefly appeared before him back in the first exhibit: don't give up, it had said. Help is closer than you think. What the hell had that meant? Where exactly was this help supposed to be, and how would they reach him? And what about those cryptic instructions?
There will be a dream: he'll reach out to you if you reach out to him.
Okay, fair enough. But who was he supposed to reach out to? How was he supposed to reach out? Was this a real fall-asleep-and-dream dream, or one of those annoying figure-of-speech dreams that Ford sometimes talked about? Or was it a dream made real by Weirdmageddon, something that would literally appear in the museum itself? Was a dream actually supposed to rescue him? Dear God, why had the message been so needlessly vague?
Wait for the dream.
"Easy for you to say, knucklehead," Stan grumbled.
Once again, he sighed and thought for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, he needed to sit down for a bit and recover his strength. After all, he'd been running for hours on end, and if he was going to keep on running – or maybe even try to once again fight back against his Self-Loathing – he needed to get a bit of breath back in his lungs.
So, he rose from the couch and sat down between two of the largest displays; with any luck, they'd be enough to hide him once Self-Loathing finally broke in, though given that the room was essentially an aisle, it wasn't as if the bastard would have to look for very long to find him. Hopefully, it'd buy him some time to prepare for the next mad dash.
Practically guaranteed, Stan thought wearily. With the racket he's making out there, I'll hear him long before he's through the door. I probably won't have much of a chance to get past him or ambush him, but maybe it'll be enough to… maybe… whu…
To his surprise, Stan found himself yawning, his eyelids fluttering as he settled back against the wall. Blinking furiously, he gave himself a little shake. Can't nod off now, he told himself. Gotta keep my eyes open. Gotta stay awake. Gotta be ready for him. Even if I'm supposed to wait for a real dream, I can't afford to count sheep now; dreaming can wait until Self-Loathing's dead or out of reach. Just gotta stay awake for a little longer. Gotta stay…
…ah, screw it.
Somewhere on the outermost fringes of Bill's anarchic domain, Axolotl pensively surveyed the scenes.
From here, in his position just about the splintered remains of the moon, all the Earth was visible: a vast, impossible pandemonium of a planet, haloed with pulsing rings of Weirdness slowly rippling ever-deeper into space, its Arctic Circle nothing more than a jagged crown of broken rock overlooking the molten core of the world, its surface pockmarked with massive craters like vacant sockets. Even its basic shape had long since ceased to exist, and now its crust oozed and twisted in all directions and all possible forms as Bill Cipher's mad whims rained down it.
And across the cracked shell of what had once been Earth, the world itself was divided into over a hundred billion kaleidoscopic playgrounds for Bill's twisted amusements. Each tiny scale of unreality was its own private world, its own pocket dimension, complete with its own unique environment, weather, and physical laws – even its own time-flow. Here was the Land of Endless Summer, the Labyrinth, Fort Acheron, Mabeland, the Dollhouse, the ruins of Gravity Falls, the Museum, the frozen wastes, the City of the Winky Frown, the Manufactory, and all the other cosmic rumpus rooms that Bill had crafted. And above it all, the Fearamid orbited, looking down upon the sordid dramas unfolding below with sickening amusement.
To human eyes, this collage of playgrounds would have been a maddening, sanity-shredding vision of hell, barely possible to comprehend and just about impossible to describe: it was at once a layer cake of realities, with one pocket dimension vertically stacked on top of another, but it was also a chainmail, with each playground part of an horizontally interlocking network of games; and yet it was also a pyramid, an icosahedron, a grand piano, a roulette wheel, an exploding pack of tarot cards, a set of revolving doors, a puppet theatre, a game board spanning infinite space crammed into the finite surface of a broken planet, and it was all of these things just as it was none of these things.
Fortunately, the Axolotl wasn't human, and as such, the nature of this cosmic latticework was easily comprehended, though it left his current vessel with an even bigger headache than usual. True, he wasn't as omniscient as he used to be, and there were limits to how much he could see of each playground without seriously straining himself, but he could see enough; he could see what mattered.
At that very moment, Bill's attention was focussed entirely on Dipper, and judging by last few days of madness that had unfolded in that particular playground, he probably wouldn't be diverting his attention for a while yet.
The fetters that this dimension had forced on Axolotl's powers were still strong enough to keep him from acting against Bill directly… but with an effort of will, he could resist these bonds just long enough to exert the tiniest fraction of his omnipotence. Most of this was reserved for travelling between the playgrounds, leaving the letters and keeping himself hidden; now that the puppeteer's attention was diverted from the stage, however he could force the tiniest thimbleful of influence upon the structure of the game board.
Reaching out with all the power he could safely draw upon, he seized one of the less-than-nanoscopic threads of reality that composed the Museum, slowly dragging it out until it was within reach of the other scenarios. Then he plunged the thread deep into the fabric of the Labyrinth, forming a bridge between the playgrounds – ethereal and not quite tangible enough to safely travel across just yet, but present all the same. Slowly, Axolotl refined the passage, strengthening the barriers and fortifying it against the Weirdness Waves that buffeted the exteriors of this little playgrounds, until the bridge was stable.
Unfortunately, the finishing touches were beyond his power, and not just in the literal sense: making the final connection between the two scenarios from here would alert Bill to the tampering. No, these links could only be made from inside each prison, by their inmates.
Connecting minds was much easier than connecting worlds, and by intrinsic nature, families always shared a subtle connection across the Mindscape, twins especially so. More to the point, both participants were already dreaming: Stan had long since succumbed to exhaustion, and Ford was still roaming the Oneiron's Labyrinth – a place of waking dreams and constant nightmares.
He knew this would not be pleasant: he could tell that Ford had been in his current dream for a considerable span of time, and thanks to the stimuli at play in this particular scenario, introducing Stan to it would be emotionally distressing for both of them. After all, Bill had used similar sights in his attempts to break Mabel's spirit… but perhaps it was appropriate that such breaking stimuli could be used to free instead of imprison.
All he had to do was briefly interweave Stan's thoughts with those of Ford's, and wait…
…and hope that they had been paying attention.
Not for the first time in his life, Stan could only wonder what the hell had just happened.
Where am I?
As far as he could tell, he was standing in the middle of a huge and extremely draughty room, with stark white-tiled floors and sterile white walls as far as the eye could see. This was apparently some kind of hospital, but he'd be damned if he could tell if anyone was still being treated here, for the place was intolerably gloomy; the only light to be found in the entire room was from a rattling fluorescent bar set directly above him, barely bright enough to keep the dark at bay. Peering into the gloom, he could just about recognize the faint shapes of other light fixtures dangling from the ceiling, but unfortunately there wasn't much point blundering around in the darkness trying to find the on-switch… not when there could be just about anything waiting for him in those shadows.
How did I get here?
Well, it seemed as though that was going to remain a mystery for now, because nothing made sense at this point: the last thing Stan could remember was walking along Glass Shard Beach in the blazing heat of summer; he'd been marvelling at how little the place had changed in the last few decades and holding up an umbrella to shield him from the hailstorm of Hot Belgian Waffles and Simple Ricks wafer cookies pouring down on him… and then he was here.
And for my third question-
"Who's there?"
The voice was so sudden and so soft that, for a moment, Stan wondered if he'd heard it at all: perhaps it had been his imagination, something conjured up by the cold and dark.
On instinct, however, Stan hastily ducked out of the light and sank into the shadows beyond the fluorescent glow, hoping against hope that whatever was waiting out there couldn't see him crouching in the darkness.
Thirty heart-stopping seconds went by, and nothing happened. Maybe the voice had been his imagination after all; either that, or he'd succumbed to the inevitable and called out on his own – which was, of course, a stupid move. Having made the same mistake while wandering through a park at midnight, he knew for a fact that calling out "Who's there?" was the spoken equivalent of firing a flare gun, and was usually an open invitation for a chloroform-soaked rag to be clamped over your mouth.
And then, just as he was starting to think it was safe to leave the shadows, he heard the voice again.
"I know you're there," it said. "There's no point hiding. You might as well show yourself."
Stan swallowed hard, every hair on the back of his neck immediately standing to attention. By now he was ready to run if need be, his muscles tensed to launch him as far away from the danger as possible, even though he couldn't tell if this room actually had a door.
"Look," grumbled the voice, "if you're playing games with me, there really is no point: there's nothing left for you can frighten me with, remember? You've already taken away everything that ever mattered to me. So, if you don't mind stepping into the light, we can get this over with before I die of boredom."
Stan pondered this for a moment: here and now, the voice didn't sound especially threatening; if anything, it merely sounded tired and slightly annoyed… but then again, if owner of this particular voice was another one of Bill's creations, as he thought it was, then there was no trusting his senses at this point. The safest thing to do would be to stay still and wait until the thing in the darkness lost interest.
But why did the voice sound so familiar?
"Have it your own way. I think I can just reach the light switch from here…"
A moment later, there was a muffled click from the shadows, and suddenly the entire room was flooded with harsh white light.
At first, Stan could only recognize the vague shapes of emaciated limbs and trunks shifting under the merciless glare of the fluorescents, but his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light, more details became apparent: there was a throne, a crude chair of rough concrete and corroded metal; there were machines, smothered in soot and befouled with dirt, but clearly still providing life support; there was intravenous tubing jabbed deep into withered flesh; and peering from beneath the tattered mantle of rags atop the throne, there was a human face – haggard, fishbelly-pale and pockmarked with about a dozen faded scars, but still undeniably human.
There was a pause, as the apparition's bloodshot eyes finally focussed on Stan.
"Aha," it said, wearily. "A visitor." In spite of itself, the creature offered a painful-looking smile. "It's good to see you again, Stanley."
For almost twenty seconds, Stan could only stare as he tried desperately to process what he was looking at. "Ford?" he said at last.
"Hmm. I think so, at least. You'll pardon me if I don't get up: Bill's made sure of that."
Stan's eyes very slowly strayed to base of the throne, and realized with a fresh thrill of horror that Ford was missing his legs: severed roughly just above the knee, they were now little more than bloodless pair of malformed stumps dangling limply over the edge of the throne. Stan wasn't exactly an expert on surgical amputation, but he had the distinct impression that this maiming had happened years ago. A quick glance upwards revealed that Ford was missing his left arm, too; his one remaining limb was chained to the throne, barely allowing him freedom of movement to reach the light switch.
"Holy mother of God," Stan whispered.
"I know," said Ford, a faint smile gracing his ashen features. He chuckled weakly. "I guess they thought the only way they could keep Daedalus down was by clipping his wings."
"They cut your legs off, Ford!"
"Please, there's no need to shout, Stanley. Besides, it's not as if he didn't break my spine first: after I stopped feeling anything below the waist, amputating limbs was just a formality. I suppose I should be grateful that Bill decided to spare me the effects of gangrene. And anyway, I guess I'm only half a freak now, am I right?" He grinned and waved a hand through the air, mirthlessly indicating his six remaining digits.
Stan's mouth flapped wordlessly for twenty seconds. He was beyond speech, now; he couldn't even think of a response. In the ringing silence that followed, he could only stare and try to review everything he'd just seen: on some dim and distant level, he knew that Ford was being just a little too blasé for the situation; true, his brother had always been unbelievably casual around the strange and disturbing, even during the depths of Weirdmageddon, but this was extreme even by his high standards.
Not only was he treating the loss of all but one of his limbs as a minor annoyance, but he'd barely reacted to Stan's arrival. After all, the last time they'd seen each other, he'd been dying and Ford had been in tears. Even if he'd somehow guessed that Bill was going to bring Stan back from the dead, he would have expected a bit more of an emotional reaction… and there was something about the glazed look in Ford's bloodshot eyes that gave Stan the distinct impression that something wasn't quite right upstairs.
"How long have you been here?" he asked quietly.
"Hard to say. I can barely recall the day I arrived, much less the timespan… though I think something might have been happening before that, something involving a labyrinth and making wishes, but I can't remember much of it. Maybe it was just another dream. I tried to keep a tally of days I've been here, but I ran out of wall space quite some time ago. If I had to guess, I'd say I've been staying here for at least a hundred years."
"What?"
"Give or take a few extra decades – or a few less. Maybe it's been a hundred thousand years, or maybe it's only been a hundred minutes. I can't tell anymore. Time's hard to measure when your jailer can rewind and fast-forward it at will… but then again, it's not as if you could ever measure infinity. Not that I didn't try. It was easier when the other hallucinations were about, believe me." A tortured-looking smile brightened Ford's face. "Just as well you're here, isn't it?"
"Other hallucinations? What other hallucinaaaaaa…." Stan paused, voice slowly trailing off as the last few seconds of rambling finally trickled into place." Hang on," he said. "Hang on. Back up just a goddamn minute: you think I'm a hallucination?"
"Well, after eight hundred and fifty-seven consecutive visits from various illusory friends and family members, pattern recognition starts to set in… but you're welcome to stay, of course. After all, I doubt I'll get any more visitors after this."
Stan took a deep breath as he struggled to maintain his grip on the conversation. "Ford," he said, scarcely bothering to hide the desperate edge to his voice, "This is crazy. This is absolutely bonkers, and you know it. I'm not a hallucination, or imaginary, or whatever you want to call me. I'm your brother, and we've known each other for our entire lives, give or take thirty-odd years of separation. I'm real." For emphasis, he prodded the legless figure hard in the shoulder. "You feel that? Does that feel imaginary to you?" He reached out and grabbed Ford's remaining hand, grasping the mangled palm firmly in his own. "You see? I'm here, and I'm real. Do you wanna leave it at that, or do I have to bring up all the childhood accidents and adventures that only I'd know about?"
Once again, Ford could only offer a pained and slightly-saddened smile. "I really missed that attitude of yours. I still do, in a way. But I'm afraid there's nothing you can say that can convince me that you're any more real than the other visions, hallucinations and illusions I've experienced in my time down here. I've seen so many over the past few years that I can't even distinguish fantasy from reality anymore: maybe the labyrinth was all a dream and this is the waking world, a world populated by nightmares made flesh… or maybe this is the dream and I've found another layer to the hell Bill created for me. I can't tell, I honestly can't tell. And… well, as much as I appreciate your attempts to apply some logic to this game, it really doesn't work down here: the other imaginary people who visited me all knew things that only their real counterparts would know, and they could all exert force if need be – and they often did. You see, Bill's been watching the human race for millennia on end, and he's stored away a sizeable cornucopia of information… and now that he's the master of our reality, there's nothing to stop him from summoning up every single phantom of the human mind and bringing them into physical existence – just to make sure I know how badly I failed. In the last few visits, I've seen Dipper, Mabel, Fiddleford, Soos, Wendy – even Mom and Dad – and they've all done their part to remind me of my follies. And now you're here, so…"
He shrugged. "I suppose that completes the game. So come on, then, get it over with: tell me everything you've ever wanted to say to me but couldn't for fear of upsetting the kids. Tell me I'm a lunatic. Tell me I'm a dangerous know-it-all. Tell me I betrayed my family and left you to spend your days on the run or in prison. Tell me I should never have been allowed out of Glass-Shard Beach. Tell me I'm the worst excuse for a brother in history. Go on, say what you want to say." There was a slightly manic edge to his voice, now. "Hit me, if that's part of the game plan. Break out the knives and carve off another slice if you feel like it. I've more than earned my suffering by now, I think."
Stan took an even deeper breath. This was bad: he'd thought he'd seen Ford at his most deranged before, back on the day he'd first stumbled into Gravity Falls; this, however, was something much, much worse. "Ford," he said tentatively, "if all the hallucinations were solid and had the same memories as the real McCoy… so what? I could the one genuine human being that snuck into the game. So just suppose, for the sake of argument, that I'm the real Stanley Pines. Do you have any proof that I'm not your brother?"
Ford's desperate smile collapsed. "My brother's dead," he said quietly.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"Stanley Pines died in the Fearamid a very long time ago. He was trying to save the world from my mistakes – because I was gullible enough to accept Bill's bargain the first time. But because I was foolish enough to choose conflict over resolution at very moment we could have finished the Circle, Stanley died that day. Bill let him linger for a good long while, you see: he made me watch as he slowly bled out, made sure I felt the moment that his heart stopped. And then… when he brought me here, Bill brought Stan's body to stay with me. He made sure I could see it for every hour of my imprisonment: he wanted me to watch as the body rotted away, to take in the smell of decomposition, to witness everything that made him recognizable as human being just… vanishing. Eventually, all that was left was his skeleton… and even Bill got bored with that after a while. So you see, friend, you're not the real Stanley; you can't be him, because he's dead – because of me."
Stan had heard enough: he didn't know how he'd gotten here, he didn't know where this prison was, and he hadn't the slightest clue if there was some kind of safe haven nearby, and frankly he didn't care. All that mattered was ending this madness right now, before it got any worse.
"I'm getting you out of here, Ford," he said solemnly.
"Aha." That deranged smile again. "Yes. That's just what Dipper said, on his first visit. He unlocked my restraints, told me he was here to rescue me… but then he showed me what Bill had done to him – what was left of him – all because of me. You'll pardon me if I don't play along, but this little game of yours depends on me having hope to spare, and I'm running a little low on that particular commodity."
"Look, what do I have to say to make you believe me? I'm not trying to trick you, torture you, or reveal that I've been tortured or whatever else you're worrying about: I'm the real Stan Pines and I'm here to rescue you!"
Ford sighed. "I hate to sound like a broken record, but just about every other vision I've experienced in the last few days insisted that they were the real deal as well. What makes you different from all the other real Dippers and real Mabels and real Fiddlefords I've met in the last few years?"
"Alright then, smartass, then why haven't I showed up before up until now? If all this was set up just to torture you, then why haven't I appeared until today?"
"I imagine because Bill was saving the worst for last: he thought that, after making me watch Stanley die the first time, bringing him back as an illusion would hurt me more than any other vision he'd subjected me to." He smiled, and for the first time, Stan saw tears in those bloodshot eyes. "He was right."
"Ford-"
"I wish you really were here, Stanley," said Ford quietly, "just so I could tell you how sorry I am. It should have been me that day: it was my screw-up, and nobody else should have had to pay for it but me… but you did. Time and time again, people have been paying for my mistakes, my gullibility, my paranoia, and my obsessions. I didn't want to get anyone involved in my problems, but I did: sometimes it was because I was lonely, sometimes it was because I didn't know how to deal with the madness I'd stirred up on my own, but whatever the case, I kept dragging people into my problems… and I kept hurting them: Fiddleford, Dipper, Mabel, you… and now here I am, alone for all eternity, with no-one to blame but myself."
"You're not-"
"I should have found a way to hide that journal without you, Stanley. I should have just found some courier willing to ship it off to some godforsaken corner of the Earth and left it at that; I should have found some way to end the threat of Bill on my own, even if it meant flinging myself into the portal of my own accord, even if it meant burning out every last synapse in my brain – just so the knowledge of the portal would be lost forever. I know it would have meant never seeing you again… but at least you'd still be alive – you, Mabel, Dipper, everyone now dead under Bill's reign. Without me, you might have actually found a new life for yourself somewhere out there: you could have made a success of yourself, even started a family; you could have had grandchildren by now if it hadn't been for me and my endless need to drag people into my own madness. Because of me, you ended up stuck in Gravity Falls, running a miserable little tourist trap, trying to make up for a mistake you should never have felt responsible for… and eventually dying in an attempt to make amends for my folly."
"I-"
"If you really were here, Stanley, you know what I'd say?" Ford took a deep breath, trying and visibly failing to blink away the tears. "You should never have tried to save me from the portal," he said. "You should have left the portal to rust, walked away from Gravity Falls, and forgotten all about me… and not just because it would have saved the world, but because you'd have been happier that way, because you'd still be alive now, because I don't deserve to be saved."
There was a pause, as the echoes slowly died away. For twelve long seconds, Stan could only try to process everything he'd just heard, grappling with so many emotions it was almost impossible to count them all: guilt, fear, anger, self-loathing, desperation… but most of all, pity.
Then, for the first time in a very long while, inspiration struck: suddenly, he knew exactly what he had to say.
"When did we get so good at lying, Ford?" he asked quietly.
"… beg pardon?"
"When did we become liars? I'm just wondering when we decided to start lying to everyone, because I can't figure out when and where it all began. I mean, do you think it was the day I decided not to tell you what happened to your science project?"
"Or when I tried to reassure you about the West Coast Tech debacle without meaning a word of it?"
"Oh hush, you," grumbled Stan – but without malice. "This isn't a contest, I'm trying to make a point: we've lied to each other, we've lied to people who we should have been honest with – God only knows we both kept too much from Dipper and Mabel until it was almost too late… and we've lied to ourselves. From everything I've heard from McGucket and Dipper, you got into the habit of ignoring Bill's nastier habits because you didn't want to go without his advice; me, I kept telling myself that the golden score was just around the corner, and one day all those schemes were gonna pay off and make me rich. So many times, I came close to calling you – I actually had the phone in my hand once, actually dialled your number – but I didn't want to admit that needed help. Did you ever have a moment like that? When you could have walked away from Bill and made everything right, but couldn't bring yourself to actually do it?"
Ford nodded, shamefaced.
"Thought so. And I'm pretty sure we both believed some of the bullshit we told each other, because it was easier than thinking about the truth. When I finally brought you back through the portal, and we had to explain everything to the kids, I didn't ask questions about your story; I didn't think it was weird that you didn't mention what almost drove you crazy while you were building the portal, because I didn't want to imagine that you might have had a point during that argument thirty years ago. And I'm betting you didn't call me out when I lied about how well I was doing before I came to Gravity Falls, because you didn't want to imagine that I might have been serious about what I told you all those years ago. Am I right?"
"Pretty much. You said there was a point to this, Stanley."
"The point, you stubborn jackass, is that you're kidding yourself if you think I'd have been able to make a life for myself outside Gravity Falls. The day you sent that postcard, I was hiding in a dead-end motel, wondering if I'd live long enough to see daylight before the leg-breakers came knocking. I was banned in almost every single state in the country, wanted by the cops in all of them, and had a price on my head that every thug from California to Colombia wanted to cash in. I didn't have a life out there, Ford: just a whole lot of unpaid debts and failed schemes. I wouldn't have had success, I wouldn't have had a family – not with all my screwed up relationships and failed marriages – and I definitely wouldn't have had a future. I wouldn't be alive today-"
"That's enough," said Ford suddenly. The despairing smile was gone from his face; if anything, he looked afraid now… and perhaps just a tiny bit hopeful.
"I wouldn't be alive today if you hadn't brought me to Gravity Falls," Stan continued. "Out there, I had nothing. In Gravity Falls, I had a home, I had a business, and I even had a mission to keep me going. I probably wouldn't have met Dipper and Mabel if it hadn't been for you, do you know that?"
"You've made your point, you don't have to say anything else-"
"Ford, listen: I don't regret coming to Gravity Falls, even if it did end in tears. And yeah, sure, you made mistakes, you helped start Weirdmageddon – but so did I: as far as I'm concerned, we both screwed up the Circle in the end. But you know what? I'm still alive, and you're still alive, and…" He sighed. "I never thought I'd end up saying anything this clichéd, but where there's life, there's-"
"…hope," finished Ford, almost inaudibly. "Does it look like we've got much of that at the moment?"
But Stan wasn't interested in giving up. "We can still fix this, Ford," he plunged on. "I don't know how, but we can find a way – you can find a way if you just put your mind to it. Back when this all started, you told Dipper 'being a hero means fighting back even when it seems impossible.' I think it's time we both started taking your advice."
Ford blinked, an expression of utter bewilderment stamped on his face. "I don't understand," he said softly. "You seem just like him, but… you can't be, but…" For a moment, he could only flounder in disbelief. "What do you want, really? Why are you here?"
"Because you're my brother," said Stan. "And you're worth saving."
And without another word, he reached down and threw his arms around him, drawing Ford into a massive bear hug.
For five seconds, Ford remained perfectly still, as if not sure what to make of this unexpected turn of events; then, reaching out with his one remaining arm, he returned the hug.
"Stan… thank you…"
Far above the game, Axolotl smiled – or more accurately, his host body smiled.
The connection had been established.
Now, all the brothers needed to do was find the doorway and make contact… and deal with Self-Loathing.
"Wake up, you piece of shit!"
Stan's eyes fluttered open. He had just enough time to take in the silhouette that now towered over him before Self-Loathing's right foot slammed into his ribcage with a staccato succession of splintering bones. Immediately, Stan doubled over in pain, hands instinctively rising to cover his body in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the next attack – to no avail: for Self-Loathing's fist dealt him a crashing blow to the side of the head, the incarnated personality trait easily weaving and lunging past Stan's defences.
"Get up!" Self-Loathing roared. "Get on your feet!"
In spite of himself, Stan found himself lurching awkwardly to his feet almost on reflex. As he did so, he tried to figure out what had just happened: he'd been asleep, that much was obvious, just as it was clear that Self-Loathing had found a way in while Stan had been unconscious. However, he also distinctly recalled dreaming about a meeting with Ford, finding him mutilated and half-insane; he remembered saying things to Ford, things that had been on his mind for years on end, even hugging him… and then, he'd woken up to find Self-Loathing kicking him in the side.
Judging by the way he was holding the razor, Self-Loathing was probably still intending to make him slit his wrists… but at this point, Stan wasn't willing to make any bets, not with that enraged look on his ugly mug.
"I gave you a chance for a dignified exit, you filthy bastard," the apparition snarled. "I gave you the perfect opportunity to make peace with your miserable excuse for a life, and you threw it back in my face. Now, you're going to face reality even if I have to force this razor into your hands and move your arms into position!"
Stan groaned. "You woke me up for this? Jesus, if you really wanted me dead that badly, why didn't you just cut my throat before I woke up?"
"What, and let you die without acknowledge what a worthless sack of shit you've always been? No, it has to be you, Stanley. You have to make the cut; you have to be the one to end it all. It… you…" Self-Loathing paused, gritting his teeth for a moment, as if suppressing an explosion; oh yes, he was good and angry now – almost too angry to speak. "It has to be you," he concluded.
"The way you were kicking me just then, I'd have thought you'd want to kill me yourself."
"It has to be you," snapped Self-Loathing, but the conviction was gone from his voice.
"Why? You against getting your hands dirty?" In spite of himself, Stan offered a mocking grin. "Is my Self-Loathing squeamish or something?"
For the briefest of instants, Self-Loathing's face went blank. "Squeamish?" he whispered. "Squeamish? Do you have any idea how long I've hated you, Stanley? Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you to die? Oh, it's been a long time, believe me: from the moment I first came into existence, I've wanted nothing more than to watch you wither and die, and every single day I spent witnessing your stupidity, your failures, and your awful fashion sense only made my loathing a thousand times more powerful. You know what it's like to be one of your emotions, to spend a lifetime attached to someone like you? You know what it's like to be trapped in your head, unable to look away as you keep making an embarrassment of yourself, unable to blot out the sound of your infuriating voice? Can you imagine the endless frustration and shame I feel every day of your meaningless existence? I've been in that empty old head of yours for close to sixty years, Stan, unable to escape but only watch while you continuously ruin your life like a rental car in a demolition derby and blame someone else on every occasion. From the moment I gained self-awareness, I've wanted to kill you, and believe me I'd like nothing better than to peel the flesh from your bones and burst your eyes in their sockets… but that's not the way this works. You have to admit that you're a waste of humanity, and you have to exit on your own."
"Oh really?" Stan chuckled. He was improvising like crazy at this point, and had no idea where he was taking this little conversation, but he wasn't going to give Self-Loathing the satisfaction of watching him play along. So he plunged onwards: "You make it sound as if you'd have more fun killing me yourself, pal. So why not have fun with this? If you've wanted me dead this long, who cares if I'm the one to do the deed or not? Why not use that razor yourself?"
"Because that wasn't part of the deal!" roared Self-Loathing.
Stan waited for a moment, waiting for the echoes to die away; then, in the silence that followed, he asked "What deal?" in a tone of purest innocence.
The apparition said nothing; from the mortified look on his face, it was clear he'd said too much.
"You made a deal with Bill, didn't you?" said Stan, unable to hide the triumph in his voice. "He wanted me dead all along – probably because he took the whole assassination attempt personally. I mean, he made you real, gave you this museum and everything you needed to rub my face in every bad thing I've ever done in my life – or might've done – and he gave you the razor. But it has to be a suicide, doesn't it? You can't just kill me, no matter how much you want to; you have to make me cut my wrists and bleed out, and that's the only way this will work out for you. If I don't kill myself, the deal's off. Am I right or am I correct?"
This time, Self-Loathing couldn't even speak: he could only growl, language briefly deserting him as his anger slowly boiled over.
"What did Bill promise you, huh? Ultimate power? A planet to rule as you please? A life of your own outside my head? Whatever he's offering, he won't give it to you, pal. You're betting on a rigged fight: no matter what happens to day, we both lose. He's the only winner in this game."
"Take the razor, Stanley," Self-Loathing snarled.
"You're not giving me much incentive, buddy."
"It's the only way out of here, and you know it. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life here, in this monument to your own worthlessness?"
"No, but it's better than playing along with you."
"Goddammit Stanley, take the razor!"
"The answer's still no."
Self-Loathing's face contorted with rage. "You think you're better than… than all this?!" He gestured wildly around him, pointing out the exhibits. "You think you're more than just a failure? You think you'll somehow make things right if you outrun me a little longer?"
"Nope," said Stan. He was grinning wildly, somehow exhilarated despite the danger. "I don't think I'm better than anyone. Not at all. I'm a lying, selfish, stupid, cowardly, money-crazed old bastard with too much pride and not enough humility; I've screwed up everything I've ever touched, I've made a mess of every single meaningful relationship I've ever had, I've taken problems that I could have solved in about half a minute and strung them out for decades, and chances are I'm gonna keep on making mistakes for as long as I'm alive. Every exhibit in this museum's been honest and accurate from beginning to end."
"Then why do you persist? Why don't you take the exit that I've offered?!"
"I'm a lot of things, friend, but I'm not one of Bill's toys. I'm not playing along with that bastard's games. Not like you."
With a howl of rage, Self-Loathing lunged forward, seizing Stan by the arm and trying to force the razor into his right hand… and that was when Stan lashed out with a left hook, catching the apparition hard in the cheek. It hurt like hell and probably did more damage to Stan's knuckles than the monster's face, but the force of the impact was just enough to dislodge him.
Stunned, Self-Loathing stumbled backwards, a look of astonishment gracing his cinderblock features. Then, his expression soured once again, turning foul and angry – angrier than ever before.
"Alright," he hissed. "Alright. If that's the way you want it… I've been delaying this little pleasure for far too long. If you want to go out like a coward, that's fine by me. Bill's not watching, anyway; what he doesn't know won't kill him. And who knows… maybe I can make it look like you really did a number on yourself."
As the monster took a step forward, Stan aimed a right cross at Self-Loathing's jaw, but this time the impact didn't even phase him.
"You really think you can kill me, Stan?" Self-Loathing laughed. "I'm part of you, remember? I'm a piece of your psyche made flesh! You can hurt me all you like, but you'll never be able to destroy me... so I can afford to take my time." A horrible smile appeared on his face. "I'm going to enjoy this."
Ford's eyes shot open.
For a moment, he had no idea where he was: the throne was gone, the cold walls and life-support systems of his prison had vanished, and the thick shadows had been dispersed by torchlight. And for some reason, he was lying on the floor... and somehow able to sit up. Slowly, he looked down at himself: gone were the rags and the tattered blanket that had been his only clothing throughout his imprisonment; gone were the intravenous tubing jabbed into his remaining veins; and come to think of it…
His limbs had returned.
Both legs and the arm were back in place. No scars could be found at the amputation site, nor was there any sign of discolouration, surgical trauma, or even Weirdness exposure. It was if they'd never been removed.
And then, like a punch in the gut, the answer hit him: he was still in the Labyrinth, and his limbs had never been removed at all. He hadn't been relocated or dismembered or tortured – not physically at any rate; he'd just been wandering through another one of the Labyrinth's many waking dreams. True, this one had been a bit more intense than most and maybe it had even lasted for a century in dreaming time, but in the end, it was just another illusion.
Sighing, Ford got to his feet, cursing himself for forgetting the difference between reality and hallucination so ready. He'd tried to keep the truth of what he was experiencing in his head, but the last few thousand consecutive visions had worn away most of his will to resist… and this would probably only continue as he went on journeying through the maze. But he had to persist: following the note's advice was the only option he had at this point.
But as he staggered upright, he noticed the door set in the wall directly across from him: as far as doors went, it was pretty ordinary – just a polished mahogany hinge-and-lintel model with a handle. However, it was immediately distinct from the archaic Greco-Roman interior of the Labyrinth, most of which hadn't even demonstrated a single hinge, let alone a door. And the more Ford looked at it, the more out-of-place it seemed, almost as if it had been built to get his attention.
Then, he remembered.
There will be a door, the note had said.
Endure the nightmares… and you will find absolution in a dream, and allies in the "real."
Did this mean that the dream he'd just experienced had been his absolution? Had the conversation he'd had with Stanley been real all along? Had his confession been real? Had the hug been real?
You're worth saving.
Have I been forgiven? He wondered to himself. Is that why I feel this way? Is this why I feel better?
But if all that had actually happened, if Mr A really had come through, where did this door lead? Who was the ally he was supposed to find in the real world? Was this Stanley as well?
Ford took a deep breath. He couldn't afford to ask these questions now: the note had said he'd have to be ready to take advantage of what little help Mr A could offer.
So, opening the door, he found himself greeted by a long hallway stretching off into the shadows of the unknown.
On instinct, he reached into his coat, drew out the hand-crafted flask that had been his sole companion the last few weeks, and took a hefty swing. Immediately, he regretted it: around the time the dream had descended on him, he'd already been a little bit on the tipsy side – which might explain why he'd been so talkative with Stan – but with this next belt of hooch, he'd probably be completely hammered by the time he reached the other side of the corridor.
Giving himself a little shake, he stepped through the door and began the long march into the darkness of the hallway.
As he walked, he opened his new ethereal eyes and studied the world through Weirdness Vision: at once, he realized that he wasn't just crossing a corridor, but actually passing into another world, perhaps another pocket reality created by Bill.
Seeing nothing threatening on approach through Weirdness vision, he strode on, not stopping until the door on the opposite side finally loomed out of the shadows. For some reason, there was a sign reading "EMPLOYEES ONLY" on it.
Well that's nothing if not nonsensical, Ford mused.
Pushing past it, he immediately found himself greeted by a world so unlike the Labyrinth that he had to stop and stare for a moment as he processed the sudden change: all around him, gleaming marble floors and polished glass display cabinets went on for as far as the eye could see, and every column-lined wall was adorned with paintings, photographs, and dioramas fit only for the greatest of all museums.
But something was wrong.
From what little he could see of the exhibits, this museum didn't commemorate some fascinating period of history or scientific field of study; in fact, most of the exhibits seemed to be discussing Stanley's life – all of it in increasingly unpleasant ways. In the corridor outside the room he'd arrived in, display cases dissected the clothes Stanley had worn in downright insulting tones; in another exhibit in the adjoining room, Stanley's health was discussed in sickening detail, many of the information plaques examining every single addiction, health problem or illness he'd ever had in his life, most of which they seemed to blame on Stanley himself. With every room, the tone of the plaques grew harsher and more vindictive, until Ford could barely bring himself to read them – not only because the text itself was nothing short of disgusting, but that the content itself sparked something in Ford that he hadn't felt in years.
Rage.
It felt strange to feel anger for Stan rather than at him, especially after he'd spent so many decades resenting him over what had happened between them. But after the sight of Stanley "dying" at Bill's hands, after so much time spent alone in the Labyrinth and its many dreams, and with the heart-to-heart with Stan (real or imagined) still fresh in his mind, all the old frustrations had been pushed to one side. Then again, even if he had still resented his brother, he probably wouldn't have been able to agree with anything this library said: this wasn't a fair accounting of flaws – this was emotional torture, pure and simple.
This was sick.
And then he found "THE PRICE OF FAILURE" exhibit.
One by one, the hideous dioramas rose up to meet him like ghastly monuments, each one another insult to Stanley. And at the end of the aisle, beneath a plaque so hurtful and repulsive that Ford physically recoiled at the sight of it, he saw… them.
Stanley Pines lay in a whimpering heap, bruised and lacerated from head to toe, his Mr Mystery outfit befouled with blood and sweat and god only knew what else. Even from here, Ford could clearly tell he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life, and probably slashed violently enough to open a vein or three… and judging by the watery hiss of his breath, he'd obviously sustained some serious damage to his lungs – perhaps even a pneumothorax. Whatever had happened to him, he probably didn't have long to live without medical attention.
And standing over him with a blooded razor clutched in his massive fist was a figure that had once commanded Ford's respect, adoration and love for all the years of his childhood, adolescence, and even through his days at college; this was a face he'd learned to hate in their last conversations together, when the man's heartlessness and utter avarice had grown too great for Ford to ignore or excuse. The figure now standing before him was impossible, and judging by the incongruous words he was hissing at Stanley's bloodied body, it probably wasn't even the genuine article. With his new Weirdness Vision, he could see that the figure was clearly a created entity given form and shape by Bill…
But that didn't stop Ford's blood from chilling when the figure turned, and he saw that the face staring back at him was none other than that of Filbrick Pines.
There was a pause, as the cinderblock face turned pale and wan, the features slackening with an emotion that Ford had never seen on his father's face in his entire life: fear.
"Oh… Ford, it's… good to see you. Now, I know how this must look, but it's nowhere near as bad as it seems. Now, I'm guessing that Bill had to have let you out for a very good reason: you've probably finished his game, am I right? Well, as you can see there's nothing to complain to Bill about: I was just about to get him to do the deed. He'll kill himself, I promise – you don't need to say anything to Bill!"
Ford blinked. Drunk as he was, it wasn't hard to piece together the implications: this creature thought that Ford had surrendered his humanity back in the dome and become another one of the Henchmaniacs. And putting aside the fact that the creature was either going to kill Stan or make him commit suicide, Bill had clearly thought that Ford would have been able to see all this – the emotional torment, the physical torture, the bloodshed, the abuse, the forced suicide – without ever once caring about Stan.
Once again, anger flared in the back of Ford's brain… and this time, nothing – not even the face of his father – could stop it.
With a roar of drunken rage, he put his head down and charged.
As Ford Pines galloped towards him, Self-Loathing realized – too late – his one weakness.
Built from Stanley's own emotions, he'd been built specifically to deal with Stan. If the target ever found the will to retaliate, he was essentially invulnerable to harm, if not precisely resistant to short-term injury. After all, one could fight their own demons, even debilitate them for a time, but they couldn't exactly kill them.
Unfortunately, built specifically as he was, this was an approach designed to work with Stanley Pines and nobody else. After all, he wasn't made to be anyone else's self-loathing. At the time of his incarnation, Self-Loathing hadn't given too much thought to this particular problem: after all, Bill had promised him that he'd be alone except for Stan. Visitors, guests or intruders simply weren't part of the game plan…
But now that Ford was here, Self-Loathing found himself faced with a very immediate problem: Ford could harm him, overwhelm him… and even kill him.
He was still reflecting on this problem when Ford crashed headlong into him.
The first punch caught him hard in the stomach, and it hurt worse than any of the middling injuries Stan had inflicted on him, doubling him over and almost emptying his stomach (a logical impossibility given that Self-Loathing hadn't eaten anything). The second hammered into his jaw with a sickening crunch, flinging him backwards against the nearest display case violently enough to shatter the glass. The third punch got him in the throat, almost rupturing his larynx, and suddenly Self-Loathing was struggling to breathe; he reached out to steady himself, to try and hold back the next attack, to do something – anything – but the next blow hit him square in the ribs with a loud crack.
In desperation, Self-Loathing lashed out with a wild haymaker, dealing Ford a stunning blow to the left cheekbone. He kicked for the groin, he raked flesh with fingernails, he headbutted wildly (losing his hat in the process), he used every dirty trick that Stanley had ever used in his long and sickening life. But Ford was too angry, too pumped with adrenaline and too drunk to even notice the assault… and more to the point, he was still fresh and ready to fight, while Self-Loathing had exhausted his reserves of strength in pursuing and torturing Stan.
Bellowing like a wounded bull, Ford picked up Self-Loathing by the shirt collar and slammed him facedown into the display case with a musical crash of splintering glass and shattering dioramas.
"COWARD!" he roared.
Before Self-Loathing could react, he found himself yanked out of the display case by the scruff of his neck, only to be flung bodily into the next display case.
"HYPOCRITE!"
Once again, the ritual was repeated: launched across the room, he could only fail for a grip on the ceiling as it roared past him, landing with a crash in the ruins of the next diorama in line.
"LYING, CHEATING, SELFISH, GREEDY OLD BASTARD!" Ford concluded.
In hindsight, taking Filbrick's form for this particular session might have been a bad idea.
By now, Self-Loathing knew that there was no way he could possibly defeat Ford; he simply wasn't built to tackle sentient beings other than Stan. So, hauling himself from the ruins of the display case, plucking bits of errant glass from his flesh as he went, he made a run for the door, preparing to dissolve into incorporeal essence again – only for Ford to trip him up before he could even reach the end of the aisle. Dazed from the impact with the ground, he couldn't concentrate on the transition, leaving him helpless as Ford moved in for the kill.
"Wait," Self-Loathing panted breathlessly. "We're on the same side! Bill gave you powers, just like he gave me powers! We should be working together – you hate Stan as much as I've hated him! You want this as much as I do!"
If anything, Ford grew even angrier. "Wrong again, old man," he snarled. "You'll never hurt him ever again."
And with that, he raised his foot and brought it crashing down on Self-Loathing's skull, ending the incarnate emotion's brief physical existence with a wet crunch of splintering bone.
It took Ford barely ten minutes to haul Stanley back through the Labyrinth to the Dome, and by then it was almost too late.
Already rendered unconscious over the course of the Filbrick-thing's assault, Stanley had been slipping away as soon as he left the museum: maybe the place had been keeping him alive for the sake of some future torture, or maybe the attack and improvised rescue had left him with more injuries than Ford could perceive.
By now, though, it was a race against time to see which injuries would kill him first: blood loss, internal bruising, bone shards, or the pneumothorax… and with the limited means Ford had at his disposal, there weren't any reliable means of treating any of them. Improvisation was possible, but without antiseptic, he'd be condemning Stanley to infection and death regardless of how well the operation went.
There was one reliable method left to him; in fact, it was the only reason why he'd brought Stanley to the Dome in the first place. After all, Bill had promised that any wish he made within the Dome would be granted, so long as it didn't endanger him or his regime: if Bill hadn't intervened in the rescue so far, he hopefully wouldn't stop Ford from wishing Stanley back to health – assuming he was even watching this latest stage of his game.
True, there were dangers to this last gambit: once again, every wish brought Ford closer to becoming a Henchmaniac, and he didn't know how many he had left before his sanity spiralled down the plughole once and for all...
But he'd do it all the same.
Because he hadn't come this far to see Stanley die.
Because Stanley would do the same for him.
Because Stanley was worth saving.
So, taking a deep breath and focussing all his attention on the ailing figure lying before him, Ford said the only words that he could possibly say:
"Save him."
Immediately, energy swirled across the rotunda, funnelling down into Stanley's body. Moments later, wounds all over Stan's body began vanishing: cuts sealed themselves in seconds, bruises faded into nothingness, bones shifted back into position – even Stan's breathing returned to normal.
Then the energy changed course, redirecting itself at Ford in a distorting surge of Weirdness. And as the mutating wave swept over him, Ford could only hope and pray that whatever became of him, Stan wouldn't be endangered by it.
And then the Weirdness permeated his body, and deepest sleep was all Ford knew.
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A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is The Ladder by Maurice Jarre.
Up next, a race against time begins, and outside observers are forced to take a dangerous shortcut to save a player.
Or, if you prefer...
Gbovi szh uvd uirvmwh rm gsrh wrnvmhrlm
Zmw uvdvi hgroo drgs yvhg rmgvmgrlmh
Yfg ru sv dzmgh gl hzev gsv wzb
Qlsm nrtsg yv gsv lmob dzb
Too much? Let me know!