Author's note: Hmm. This chapter's a bit clunky for my taste, but I couldn't really think of a better way to cut it. By the way, a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed. You guys have all been super encouraging and I really appreciate everything you have to say.

Chapter 4

Perseverance is not a long race; it is many short races one after the other. - Walter Elliot

Stan debated with himself for a little while about how he was going to carry out the rest of his escape. On the one hand, he could start off by picking at the cuffs still attached to his left wrist thereby giving him early access to both hands (one of which did not have a dislocated thumb), and making the task of untangling his legs infinitely easier. On the other hand, he could try and forgo picking the cuffs entirely and instead only focus on undoing the lock that was currently keeping his legs chained up. By loosening the chains first and then slipping the cuffs free from them afterward, he could leave the handcuffs on without having to waste any time picking them at all. Removing them fully could certainly wait till he wasn't stuck in the car anymore and his life wasn't in immediate, mortal danger.

The later appeared to be the better option but unfortunately for Stan the lock appeared to be all the way down by his knees, the point which was currently farthest away from his head. He couldn't get to it without having at least one arm underneath him to prop himself up, and that arm couldn't be the same as the one he was going to use to reach down and pick the lock.

"Boy, Jorge and his goons really didn't want me getting out of this one alive, did they."

Stan let out a frustrated sigh. His previous burst of adrenalin was already wearing off, and the heat was starting to get to him again. It was more than a little worrying that he wasn't really sweating all that much anymore despite the fact that the temperature in the trunk had only gotten worse and worse as the minutes ticked by. Apparently he had already lost too much water to continue doing that effectively. In fact, if it wasn't for the small trickle of blood from his torn up mouth currently pooling in his throat, he didn't think he would've had enough liquid there to even swallow properly.

To put it simply, he was really hot, he was really thirsty, and he wanted out of this personal hell as quickly as possible.

But there was really no way to get around it. He was going to have to undo his other arm first.

Using his right hand, Stan bent, shaped, and mutilated the wires around until they became a somewhat more effective picking tool. It was hardly an easy feat seeing as he couldn't exactly count on his ever so helpful opposable thumb to aid him, but his teeth managed as a decent substitute, and it wasn't long before he produced something that would be capable of getting the job done. It wasn't the perfect picking tool by any stretch of the imagination, but it didn't need to be. His own skill could make up for any deficiencies in that area. Hopefully.

Being in trouble with the law as often as he was, Stan had an almost absurd amount of experience getting out of handcuffs. As such, it wasn't completely unreasonable for him to assume that the task of picking these ones would be fairly easy, regardless of his present circumstances. As was the case for most things in Stan's life, however, the task ended up being quite difficult and took a lot longer than he'd really wanted it to.

Stan lay there quietly for several long, drawn out minutes (Well, quietly save for the occasional curse muttered in impatient frustration). His eyes were closed in concentration. His ears, completely tuned in to the soft clicks emanating from the locking mechanism behind him. He tried to make it so there was nothing else in his mind save for his hands, the tumblers in the lock, and the small cluster of carefully shaped wires that moved as delicately and precisely as possible between the two. There was no feverish heat, no sharp mutilated pain in his face, mouth, thumb, and side. No pounding in his head, and no aching in his throat. There were just the thin metal strands rolling around amidst the tips of his fingers, and the hot, thick metal circle that bound his wrist.

But Stan wasn't good at concentrating for long periods of time, and it was taking too long. It was taking way too long. He wanted out now!

He was so thirsty….. If only he could wet his mouth just a little bit. Just a small mouthful of water, that was all he really needed. Stan was sure that there had to be a water bottle somewhere in whosever's car this was. Maybe… maybe he could find it once he got out of the trunk. It wouldn't matter if it were hot, or old, or nasty tasting, he would drink the whole thing without hesitation or complaint. He would gulp it down like it was a breath of fresh air to a man choking and spluttering in suffocation. He could let it sooth the cracking dryness of his sore tongue and burning throat.

Wouldn't that be nice. Wouldn't that be so, so nice.

Stan's fingers stopped moving. His mind began to wander to a far off place. A place where an ice-cold glass of water sat alone on a bar counter. A drop of condensation seductively slipping down its side and pooling onto the varnished wood below. The pool of water was all around him, wrapping every inch of his body in blissful refreshing coolness. The waves of the water lapped gently against his face. There was the muted rumbling of a waterfall cascading off in the distance; its chilled mist hovering in the air for a few moments, before descending lightly onto his skin and sending a thrill of goose bumps rushing up and down his arms. It was cloudy outside. A biting wind was blowing and twisting the steam rising off the beach into delicate, spiderweb thin, wisps. Raindrops pelted against the surface of the rolling ocean waves. He was staring out at the sea. They both were. It was quiet.

Stan's eyes snapped opened his eyes with a start. He panted heavily for a few seconds, blinking sluggishly, and then ran a dry tongue over his cracked, bleeding lips.

He had to get out of there. Quickly.

Stan did finally manage to get the cuffs off, but by the time he was through, it had felt as though it had taken hours to do so. Every single second that he'd spent focused on it, every minute with his attention completely and utterly centered on the task, had been agonizingly slow and full of mistakes. It was probably the longest time it had ever taken him to get out of a pair handcuffs, and that was including the times that he'd first been learning this particular skill.

But it had been worth it. Even if he didn't make it out of this alive, the sheer relief he'd felt at getting a chance to stretch out his cramped shoulders and legs alone (though admittedly the confined quarters didn't offer a whole lot to room to stretch out in), made it well worth the struggle. Not to mention the immense satisfaction he'd received upon bringing both of his arms out in front of him to rub at his chafed, scabbing wrists.

The sensation, in fact, had been so nice, and so comforting, that he'd nearly fallen asleep right after he'd finished the job. Fortunately, Stan now had his newly freed, non-dislocated, left hand to help slap himself awake (and boy did that slapping really smart with his face being as banged up as it was).

He couldn't afford stop now. He was almost free.

To Stan's great consolation (and surprise considering how his luck had been fairing thus far), the lock holding the chains around his legs came off with much less difficulty than the cuffs had. Now that the bonds holding his feet and hands were no longer tangled up in each other behind him, he was able to bring his knees up close to his face, and actually get a good look at what it was that he was doing. And really, that made all the difference in the world. With the added bonus of sight on his side, and a renewed encouragement adding to his determination, dealing with the lock ended up taking only a few minutes compared to the relative hours that he'd felt the cuffs must've taken, and he was done with it long before he had the presence of mind to start doubting himself again.

"Yes. There we go, there we go." Stan let out a relieved breath, as the chains binding him were yanked and kicked off to the far corner of the trunk. Getting a chance to rotate and stretch his sore ankles was a balm, one that he hadn't quite realized how badly he'd missed till now. There was just one last big hurdle to deal with. One last obstacle to overcome before he'd finally reach the finish line and get out of this dumb mess. He could almost taste the nasty plastic of the hot bottled water.

It was time to take care of the car trunk; the vessel that Jorge had intended to be Stan's coffin.

Stan considered the problem for a moment, and concluded that there was no way he was going to be able to kick the trunk open, or use any similar impact based methods of forcing it. The metal body surrounding him looked pretty heavy duty, for one thing, and while the area he was confined in had a decent legnth, it was so flat that he could barely roll over without scraping his elbows on the floor or roof. Even if he could manage to angle himself into a position where he'd be able to hit some strategic point near the latch or hinges, it wasn't likely to have very much oomph behind it. Defiantly not enough to pop the trunk open, it seemed.

Courtesy of Stan's violent head-butting earlier, however, forcing it open wasn't the only option that was currently available to him. There was now a hole in the trunk, one that had formerly been the home of a taillight, and thankfully it appeared to be just big enough for one of his arms to fit through. If Stan could maneuver that arm around to the lock on the outside of the car trunk, he might just be able to pick his way out of there like he had for the cuffs and chains.

Yes, Stan thought to himself. This was doable. He could manage this. He was going to get out of there.

"Ha, betcha didn't think I'd use my head to get out of this one, didja Jorge. DIDJA STANFORD! Used it physically and mentally. Bet neither of ya thought I was gonna make it out of here at all. Huh! Just goes to show ya, you should never underestimate Stan Pines!" He gave a small cackle after that. The boast ended up sounding a lot more gasping, tired, and hoarse, then Stan would have liked it to, but it did a lot to raise his spirits nonetheless. He could hardly keep the cocky grin off from his face, even though the smile was stretching the cuts on his lips and cheeks.

After fixing his makeshift pick to try and undo the damages it had incurred on its previous mission, Stan inched himself over to the punched out taillight, and stuck his arm out all the way to his shoulder. The limb was bent around toward where he estimated the lock must be, and he started gently running his fingers over the scorching metal surface to feel out its exact location.

"Ha, there you are," He murmured, shifting his picking tool up to rest between his thumb and index finger. He was just about to stick it into the lock but then paused abruptly. A sudden, dawning realization came upon him like an avalanche coming upon a couple of unsuspecting skiers, and it was enough to nearly knock his breath away. He ran his other fingers over the lock for a second time.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no!" In his eagerness to get out, Stan had made a crucial error. He'd formed his plan on the basis that the locking mechanism of the trunk would be similar to that of the cuffs and chains that had bound him previously. It had completely slipped his mind that the two were, in fact, entirely different beasts.

Car locks, along with many other tumbler based locks, possessed a small metal plug that was constantly pushing outwards. While the makeshift pick Stan was currently using had been appropriate for the jobs he'd needed it to do before, it wouldn't be able to push back against the especially durable spring-loaded car plug in the slightest. It was just too flimsy. He was going to need two tools now, one stiff enough to provide the torque necessary to hold and turn the plug, and the other to do the actual picking.

This was going to be a problem.

Not only was Stan unable to fit another arm out of the taillight, meaning that he would somehow have to find a way of juggling both tasks with one hand, but the second tool he needed would have to be both strong enough to hold back the plug, and yet slim enough to fit deeply into the lock. The miserable frayed wires that still remained from his earlier chewing spree weren't going to do him any good. After all, they were the same material as his current pick. But then, what else was he supposed to use?

Stan took a deep calming breath, attempting to ruthlessly squash the small seed of panicked doubt that was trying to take root in the back of his mind again. He could still get out of this. He could still figure a way out of this. He just had to keep his head on straight.

Right, no problem.

Ok, so the wires weren't going to be an option, but what else was in the trunk with him? The lock, the chains, the cuffs….. that… that was it really. None of those would do. They were all far too big to fit into the small keyhole. Ok. Ok so what about on his person? Surely he had to have something on his person that was capable of holding the plug back. Tips of his shoelaces? No, no they were too thick. Nothing in his pockets except for a gum wrapper and some lint. Not even any spare change. Wait, he'd had a lighter on him earlier, hadn't he? What had happened to that? Probably something he'd lost in the scuffle, but... well, it didn't really matter. It wouldn't have been very useful right now anyways. The buttons on his shirt were too thick and short, as was the zipper on his pants. There… there had to be something else.

Stan thought about it for another few minutes. The cuffs were really the only items that fit into the 'maybe' category while all the other potential picking assistants were pretty definitively in the 'no way in hell' category. Stan's previous mistreatment of them proved that they were more than sturdy enough. If he were to use the pointy tips on the end of the open cuffs, they might just be thin enough as well. He didn't really have a better option at the moment anyways.

Stan brought his arm back into the car to make the transfer, and the small chain that linked the cuffs rattled loudly between his slightly trembling fingers. If this didn't work… No, he wasn't going to let himself think that way.

He took a few seconds to reposition both the pick and the cuffs in his hands, before reaching his arm back out through the former taillight. His fingers once again brushed up against the small metal knot of weights and springs that stood as a gatekeeper between him and his freedom. Stan brought up the tip of the cuffs to rest gently on the metal plug within the keyhole and took a moment to focus his mind, carefully gathering his strength. Then he pressed down hard. He jammed it in as deeply, and as viciously as he could. As far back as the tip was able to go.

But it didn't go as far as he'd needed it to. It went in only about half way and then got stuck. It was just too thick. Stan let out a frustrated string of curses that slowly devolved into the sort of begging, lucky chanting, that he used whenever he was gambling and losing badly. He curled his hand into a fist and pounded at the cuff, desperately trying to wedge it in even further. But it just wasn't budging. He would have to make do with it as it was.

Stan knew by this point that this wasn't going to work. That little voice in the back of his head, the practical one that told him not to do stupid things, the one that he constantly ignored, the one that sounded suspiciously like him, was now telling Stan that it wasn't going to work. Stan did the usual and ignored it.

Taking a shaky breath, he started applying pressure to the first set of tumblers. Step by step, setback after setback, grueling millimeter by grueling millimeter, Stan began to make some progress. He picked. He listened. He tapped the pins. He jammed the cuffs in and out. And he managed to make it all the way to the fourth pin before the plug just couldn't be pushed back any further. He made numerous attempts at pushing it back anyways, too many to count, but in the end it didn't make any difference. He couldn't pick the lock any further, and no amount of forcing the tip of the cuffs into the keyhole was going to change that.

Stan let both the cuffs and the pick slide out of his loose fingers, and clatter to the dusty desert ground below.

What now?

He stared blankly at the roof of the trunk for a good long while, waiting for an idea to come to him. Waiting. Waiting. Everything hurt. Everything from the back of his head, all the way to the tips of his toes, was sore or aching or hurting in some manner. Especially the left side of his stomach. He was burned out, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He was hot, He was thirsty. He was tired. He was very, very tired.

A thick, soft, warm wall of fog began slipping in and out of his thoughts, muting and smothering them. It was silent and seamless, like a weightless phantom gliding throughout the decaying rooms of his mind. The arm that was still sticking outside of the car trunk dangled limply below. His eyelids were heavy. Everything was heavy. Heavy, and muffled, and washed-out. Stan blinked slowly. Then he blinked again. And again. Each time his eyes stayed closed a little longer than they had previously.

'There had to be a way out.'

'There was no way out. '

'He could figure this out.'

'He couldn't.'

'He was going to make it; he was going to make it out of there alive. He had to.'

'He was trapped; he was going to die in there.'

'But he was so close, he was almost there. He was so close. He'd tried so hard.'

'Close didn't matter. Trying didn't matter. It never had. Results mattered.'

'No, but… Stanford. What about him? He hadn't…. things between them were still…. they were supposed to… He had planned this out. He had it all planned out. Eventually, they were supposed to…'

'Stanford hadn't contacted him in over seven years. He didn't care. He never had. He was doing just fine without Stanley. He didn't need him. He didn't want him. No one wanted him. He was a liar, a cheat, a no-good parasite. The world was probably better off without him.'

'Maybe…. maybe he could…'

'...'

'Did…. did he even have his own dream anymore? Did he have any goals for the future that didn't revolve around fixing his own past mistakes? Was that really all his life had become?'

'...'

'He wasn't actually leaving all that much behind, was he.'

'…'

'No…. No it didn't really matter. Nothing really mattered.'

'…'

'…'

'….'