And we're back. This is a day off for me, which is why you are seeing this chapter so soon after the last, but don't get your hopes up for this to be the frequency of updates all the time. It will be as work allows.

Ford and Stan locked themselves in the basement lab, forbidding the younger twins from coming down until they gave the all clear.

Stan set the unconscious teen on a well-lit medical tabel that Ford just happened to have; he said it was for dissection of specimens that had died in the woods of natural causes. Stan chose to stay out of it; he could interrogate his brother later.

"Stan, get me that white bag in the corner," Ford waved in the general direction of the south wall as he pulled on a pair of six fingered sterile gloves, and a surgical mask. Stan collected the bag, and set it on a nearby table, as Ford tossed him a pair of gloves and mask.

"I don't think I'm qualified to help you poindexter," Stan stated as he pulled on the gloves, the extra finger dangling awkwardly.

"I don't intend to have you perform surgery, but I also don't want you contaminating anything," Ford said shortly. He opened the bag and removed a pair of scissors, which made quick work of the boys tattered clothes.

"Why does he have that green stuff in his blood?" Stan asked over his brother's shoulder, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

"It's ectoplasm, a uniquely ghostly substance. This child is a half ghost, a very rare creature that an old colleague of mine once theorized about. But the circumstances that would need to arise for one to form is extremely unlikely to happen in nature."

"In english please," Stan groaned.

"He was most likely made in a lab. There's a 75% chance it was on purpose." While Ford was talking, his hands were busy cleaning the halfa's wounds, focusing particularly to those on his throat, being that they were the most life threatening.

Ford handed a clean cloth and bottle of sterile water to Stan, "I want to to clean the lesser cuts on his arms, legs, and torso, while I prepare the antivenom." Stan grumbled at his brothers back, but dutifully did as he was told.

As the blood and dirt was washed away, the old con man noticed old scars on the boy. They reminded him of the ones he'd earned in dirty street fights, burns, knife wounds, and tears caused by high velocity impacts, or fists.

Ford returned with a syringe holding a strange purple liquid. He wiped the boy's inner elbow with a alcohol pad, found the vein, and pressed down the plunger. After tossing the used syringe in a hazardous waste bin, he turned back to the boys throat.

"Stan, get me the little yellow kit from the bag." Gently, he cleaned the wounds with alcohol, and prodded the gashes, getting a look at how deep they went. The catberus' teeth had somehow missed most of the major arteries, but much of the delicate cartilage of the larynx, the voice box, was severely damaged. Ford didn't have the knowledge to repair this damage, and he almost considered taking the boy to a proper hospital, but that thought left his mind the moment he remembered what the scientific community would do if they found out what this boy was.

Over the winter, Ford had visited several seminars and gatherings within his field of study, the strange and weird. One of these seminars was on the topic of ghosts, where me met a pair of ghost hunters by the name of Jack and Maddie Fenton. The question of what they do to the ghosts they capture came up, and Ford wasn't surprised to learn that they dissected and then eliminated them. But those were full ghosts, creatures that weren't alive, just collections of animated ecto-plasma. This was a child who had somehow both died, and survived. Ford was not going to let anyone with ill intent get their hands on this kid.

Stan tapped his brother on the shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"You good? You went into your head there," Stan searched his brothers eyes, but Ford just shrugged him off and took the yellow case from his hand.

"I'm perfectly fine, just deciding what kind of suture I want to use." Stan knew better than to try to drill his brother into spilling what he was actually thinking about, as that was a sure fire way to get shut out for a week. Instead, he watched with interest as the nimble fingered scientist stitched up the boys throat, and several other large wounds.

The smaller cuts, Stan cleaned and bandaged. After Ford was sure his patent was stable, he unpacked his X-ray machine and took pictures of the Halfa's skeleton, to make sure nothing more than his ribs were broken.

Satisfied that he'd taken care of every injury he could, Ford had Stan help him set up a cot in the back part of the lab, near his workstation, and transferred the boy to that. He set up an IV, so he could easily give him antibiotics, painkillers, and fluids.

"Okay, you can let the kids down now," Ford sat back in a chair and rubbed his temples. As Stan left through the elevator, Ford looked at the thin form under a simple cotton blanket. He too had noticed the old wounds on the boy, and was already formulating a theory on how he'd gotten so many; a theory that led down a dark, unstable path.

The elevator opened again, and his brother, grand niblings, Wendy, and Soos entered the lab, the latter two apparently had been called over by the younger twins.

"What's going on boss man?" Soos asked Ford, who gestured for them all to sit.

"I'm going to assume the kids told you two about the catberus?" Wendy and Soos nodded.

"Well then, the boy the catberus brought here is a half ghost, sometimes referred to as a halfa. Until today, they were just theoretical beings, belonging neither to the human world, nor the ghost one. And I don't mean the afterlife, but a strange parallel world of sorts that is intermingled with our own. Those who study this world call it the ghost zone; I in fact know a brilliant pair of scientist that have managed to create a stable portal to this ghost zone, though I haven't had the opportunity to see it myself. These ghosts have many of the same abilities associated with the kind of ghosts that haunt their place of death, including intangibility and invisibility. The scientists I mention also say ghosts can shoot beams of ectoplasm, and some have elemental powers."

"Question," Wendy interrupted with a raised hand. "This is all super interesting, but is the kid going to be okay?"

"Oh, right. Yes, he should be fine. Although there was some damage to his larynx, so he may have some difficulty speaking for a while," Ford waved his hand in a noncommittal gesture that caused his brother to narrow his eyes.

"Now, back to what I was saying," Ford continued. "Until the boy wakes up, we won't know exactly what powers he has, but I want to be cautious. There is a high probability he is an escaped lab experiment…"

"You're not going to send him back to a lab are you grunkle Ford!" Mabel demand.

"Of course he isn't sweety," Stan answered for his brother, before glaring at the scientist, who glared right back.

"I would never do such a thing. That's the very reason I was against taking him to a hospital. If the wrong people find out what he is, they will want to tear him apart molecule by molecule."

Soos gasped at this revelation, and the other three looked grim.

"So, we're going to be hiding him then?" Dipper spoke up for the first time.

"If that's what it takes," Ford answered simply.

"We won't know the whole story till he wakes up," Stan stated. "And until he does, you four need to get back upstairs. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I want the shack spotless for the tourists." The four groaned and stood up, marching for the exit.

"And don't forget to restock the shelves, I noticed a severe lack of overpriced nicknacks in the gift shop!"

Once they had left, Stan turned to his brother.

"Thanks Stanley," Ford held his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. He slid out of his chair and sat on the floor, his back pressed against the wall.

"You're scared," Stan noted.

"I am not! I'm concerned about the boy. Who knows what kind of mental state he will be in when he wakes up. What if the damage to his throat is more severe than I realize, and he won't be able to talk again, what if…"

"Yeah, you're scared," Stan interpreted. He sat down next to his brother, their shoulders pressing together.

"How do you always see through me Stanley?" Ford asked, his face pressed into his hands.

"I'm a con man, I gotta know how to read people. It's okay to be scared Ford. It looks like this kid is going to throw us into a whole different type of adventure, but I doubt he is evil or anything."

"That's not what I'm scared of."

"Then what are…"

"I'm scared that I don't know how to care for an abused child."

Dun dun dunnnn. Let me know what you think. I have some ideas of where this is going swirling around in my head, but if you have anything you want to see, let me know.