Author's note: All right so I just want to say that there's a slight insinuation in this chapter that everything having to do with Stanford was either a hallucination on Stanley's part, or a trick on behalf of the 'special guest', but that isn't entirely accurate. Keep in mind that Stanley isn't very observant in the state he's in, and that our 'special guest' isn't quite as omnipotent as he pretends to be. Rest assured, I do have plans for Stanford, and a lot of little clues I dropped about him are going to come into play in the 10th chapter. Yeah, 10th, not 9th. This chapter was dragging on for too long so I decided to split it up into two parts.

Oh, and to answer a question that an anonymous reviewer asked; no, I didn't plan for 'the voice' aka our special guest to make an appearance from the beginning. Actually almost everything after chapter 4 is very different than what this story was originally going to be. It was only supposed to be about 10,000 words long, but somehow it's grown into this behemoth. It was also supposed to end on a very bittersweet and angry note, but I'm a sucker for happy-ish endings, and judging by the reviews so are a lot of other people, so I ended up tweaking it a little.

Chapter 7

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it. - Rabindranath Tagore

Stan's right hand shot out at the last moment to wedge itself between the descending hood of the trunk and its intended destination and the heavy metal door slammed hard onto his knuckles with a stomach-flipping crunch. Aside from giving a small grunt of annoyance he barely took any notice of it. He was far too eager to be bothered by something as trivial as a few bruised or broken fingers, nearly tripping over himself in his desire to comply with the frantic, heart-racing energy that was beating like a jackhammer throughout his aching body. The promise of freedom, and even more so his brother, had completely blinded him to any sort of pain or sense of danger that he might have otherwise experienced.

Grabbing the edge of the hood with his other hand, Stan wrenched the trunk open again as wide and as fast as he could. The force of the movement was nearly enough to strain the muscles in his stiff, sore shoulder, and it stretched the skin around the wound he'd received to his side last night in a way that would have been quite painful if he'd been self-aware enough to recognize it. At the same time his legs started scrambling underneath him with all the grace and coordination of a child first learning how to ice-skate, and Stan made a hasty, half-hearted attempt to right them before thinking 'to hell with it', and launching himself full bodily out of the hot, dark, deadly nightmare that had almost been his tomb. In his hurry he made a misstep, stumbled over the lip of the bumper with an undignified yelp, and then landed face first onto the hard desert ground below.

A cloud of dirt was kicked up by his antics, and it did a good job of blocking his view of the surrounding area, as well as coating the entirety of his person in a nice blanket of dry filth. Stan stood up quickly in an attempt to raise himself above the veil of grime and try to catch sight of where Stanford had gone off to. He choked and spluttered as he accidentally inhaled a lungful of dust on the way up and ended up toppling over into the dirt again almost immediately afterward. The ground was lurching and swaying unsteadily beneath him like the deck of a ship on rough waters, and it was making it almost impossible for him to find his balance. The bright intensity of the sun's dizzying brilliance pierced through the backs of his eyes like sharp needles into his brain, stunning him and slowing his movements. It seemed as though the elements themselves, along with all the combined events of his previous ordeal, were now truly taking their toll on him.

Stan spent the next few minutes unsuccessfully fighting off wave after wave of throat burning nausea. Even though there wasn't really anything in his stomach to throw up, not even any water, he was still reduced to panting and dry heaving; forced to curl up on the hot dusty ground just to keep the world from spinning out of control around him. Slowly the air surrounding Stan began to clear, and it was then, while hunched over and attempting not to retch his guts out, that he finally caught sight of his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Stanford was leaning up against a Joshua tree about ten yards away from the car. His arms were haphazardly spread eagle over the branches like an old forgotten scarecrow in a field of dead wheat, and his head was tilted slightly forward casting long dark shadows across his face. He was watching the spectacle Stanley was making of himself with an air of dispassion and cool detachment. Not moving a muscle to come to his aid. Remaining perfectly, eerily, still.

It was the first time Stanley had ever seen his brother in person since the night he'd been kicked out of his home more than seven years ago, and he looked just about the same as Stanley remembered, almost unnaturally so. Despite all the time that had passed, he didn't seem to have aged a day, as though he'd been pulled straight from a memory, or torn out from an often handled photograph. Of course, maybe Stanley shouldn't have been surprised to find that even the sands of time would choose to favor his already smarter and luckier brother over him, that was just the way things were, wasn't it. He was almost tempted to let himself get jealous or bitter about that, but in the end, was just too relieved by being in his brother's presence at all to really be bothered by it. No, there was something else nibbling at his pride already, something he felt to be more important.

"I didn't say I needed your help." Stan spat in between shaking breaths. He was loud enough for his voice to carry across the barren waste of sagebrush and rocks between the two, even with his forehead still pressed to the ground. "I just…. I would've done it on my own just fine. I... I just ….. I didn't want ya to leave me alone again. I didn't want ya to help me, though. I could have done it on my own"

But even if his ego had taken a bit of a blow, and despite the dismissiveness of his words, Stan really was genuinely grateful for the assistance. The fact that his brother had cared enough about him to come to his rescue at all was making it nearly impossible for him to restrain the warm smile slowly growing on his face. It didn't matter that he was hurting. It didn't matter that he was an exhausted, hot and thirsty, broken and bleeding mess because Stanford was here. With him. And the loss of the burden of loneliness, the one that he'd been dragging around like a heavy stone for all these years of exile, was comfort enough to make all other discomforts bearable. Because unlike that one, all of his other pains were merely temporary difficulties, and they would pass with time instead of grow.

Even if his life wasn't yet everything that he wanted, at this moment it was at least everything that he needed, and he had no intention of losing that progress again in some stupid fight. He would humble himself if need be. He would be patient. He would work harder. He would do anything it took to stay within the oasis of Stanford's good graces. He'd meant what he'd been desperately shouting, or thinking, or whatever, earlier while flailing around in the trunk, every word of it. He truly was sorry, and he had every intention of making it up to his brother. Somehow.

Something that sounded like laughter echoed across the surrounding desert plain, loud and grating enough to make Stan's ears ring. If he'd felt light-headed and out of breath before, the sensation was only doubled now. The cackling bounced between the empty sky and the earth with a force that suggested its origin to be a creature of immense size and power, a stifling presence.

It was coming from Stanford.

"You didn't need my help to get out of there, huh. That's rich." His brother rolled and cracked his neck stiffly as if waking up from a long and uncomfortable sleep. "Is that how you always cope with being an incapable, unwanted, waste of space? Flat out denial? I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, though. That seems to be the way you deal with everything in your life that goes wrong, which is, well…" He gave a crooked smirk that stretched tightly over his features, "everything in your life."

Stan sat up a little straighter and stared at his brother with an expression of fatigued bewilderment. The voice that had come out of Stanford's mouth was undeniably his, but something about it seemed slightly off to Stanley. Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the words he chose to use. Maybe it had something to do with inflection, or the emphasis put on certain syllables that he wouldn't have normally. It was almost as if some quieter undertone were trying to wear the skin of his brothers voice to disguise itself, but couldn't help the fact that the borrowed husk wasn't quite tailored to its mannerisms. To someone who didn't know Stanford as well as Stanley did, it might have been an easy thing to miss, but…

On second thought, when was the last time he'd actually spoken with his brother besides the two aborted phone calls from when he'd hit a real rough patch six months ago? As far as he could recall, the last real, face-to-face conversation that the two had shared had been on the night that Stanley had gotten tossed to the curb, and years and years had passed since that incident. Who's to say that this wasn't just how Stanford talked now? A lot of major changes could occur to someone's life in the span of a few moments, as Stanley was well aware, let alone almost three-fourths of a decade. Even if he might have looked the same, that didn't necessarily mean that Stanford was going to be the same person that Stanley remembered.

The idea that his twin might now be a stranger to him instilled a deeper, more desperate, terror in Stanley than he had experienced even at his lowest points in the trunk.

"I missed you." It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it was what had come out anyways, and Stanley found that he didn't have the heart to refute it or take it back. He decided to roll with it. "I…. I've missed you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-Thank you." He made another attempt to stand up and walk to where his brother was draped across the tree, but his legs weren't cooperating with his demands in the slightest and he fell over on his hands and knees again.

"Yeesh. You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you." Stanford's neck popped as he twisted his head to the side. He almost seemed amused by Stanley's actions, if not somewhat annoyed or pitying. "Can't say I really blame you for being kinda out of it, though. Exactly how many times did you smack your head around in there? If we include both the brawl with the taillight and your little tantrum from a few moments ago, I think it's got to be at least around twenty to twenty-five plus."

As if in response to this Stan felt the pounding in his head start to pick up even more potently, and he pushed his rough, scabbed face into his hands in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Both the front and the back of his brain were now beating in a rhythmic discord, one that filled his ears till they overflowed and dulled the world around him. It was like a thick stinging tar, miring his mind and slowing it almost to a standstill. His thoughts struggled sluggishly to try and keep up with the dry rasping of his mouth.

"How…were-. But you weren't really there before, were you? That was just my imagination earlier, but you're here now. I watched you get me out of the trunk." Stan's head gave an especially large and nauseating throb as he tried to go over the events of the past couple hours. He closed his eyes and whispered into his palm, "But… why? If you were there all that time… w-why didn't you get me out sooner?"

"Hmmm, what was that? I can't hear you when you're mumbling. Try speaking up a little next time, or actually, here's a better idea. Shut up, and don't say anything at all, because that was a stupid question and deep down you already know the answer even if you won't admit it to yourself. You want him to be here so badly that you've already accepted the situation even if it doesn't make any sense. I barely have to do anything. I don't even have to put out my A game right now because it doesn't actually matter if I'm sloppy about this or not. You're still gong to justify, or rationalize, or outright ignore every little inconsistency or mistake if it means keeping this illusion going. Heck, you're even willing diminish your own accomplishment and give him the credit for your escape, so long as it means that you exist in a reality where your brother hasn't completely forgotten about you." Stanford gave a bellowing laugh, one that was strong enough to shake his whole body and knock one of his arms out of the tree completely. It dangled limply by his side. "It's kinda hilarious actually. Talk about easy pickings."

A shiver ran up Stan's spine despite the oppressiveness of the heat still searing throughout the dry air. Even though there wasn't a single cloud in the pastel blue sky the world around him seemed to be gradually turning a darker and darker shade, more like it was being drained of light than cast in shadow. It was as if some large, invisible hand had reached up to curl its fingers around the sun, diminishing and deadening its glow. In the dimness, Stanford looked more solid and real than Stanley felt.

Stan's parched lips struggled around the words he was trying to form, "I-I don't understand, what do you mean? What are we talkin' about here Ford?" He attempted a small smile, "You helped me out… you're here. You're here, I see you right in front of me. Look… look I-I know I've messed up a lot in the past, but… It's gonna be different. Things are gonna be ok. It's gonna be better between us now. I… I'll do better. Ok? I'm trying…."Stan's voice cracked into a breathy whisper and his heart started fluttering like a hummingbird in his ribcage. He looked up into Stanford's eyes and let his shoulders sag in defeat. "Please… please. I'm trying."

"Heh, you still don't get it, do you." Stanford's own smile morphed into an exasperated grimace. " You seem to be under the impression that this is something you can fix, but the truth is this has nothing to do with you. This has nothing to do with what you want and everything to do with what I want. And here's a huge shocker that I'm sure absolutely no one saw coming, sarcasm by the way if your brain's still running a little too slow to keep up, I. DON'T. WANT. YOU. I have big plans for the near future, and if you try and drop by now you'll just end up being a spanner in the works. So here's the deal, when I-" His brother made little quotations with his fingers, "try to contact you, ignore my summons and don't come. How does that sound?"

"I-I… w-… but you're here. You wouldn't have come if you…" Stan shook his head, and then trailed off despondently. Stanford had said a lot of things, but only one sentence had managed to stick with Stanley. I don't want you. I don't want you. I don't want you. It clattered loudly throughout his mind like the gonging of a great brass bell, repeating over and over again until the words had lost their meaning and transformed into a collection of razor sharp glass syllables that cut into the soft flesh of his heart. It was that string of words said by that person, that represented a final door being slammed closed on Stanley's face, and a porch light being shut off for good. It was all his childhood fears inching forth from the black abyss of his nightmares to glare at him from the backseat of his car while he was driving alone and in silence. It was every hopeless whisper that leaked from his clenched teeth when he'd lie awake in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, too distraught to go back to sleep but too exhausted to try and do otherwise. It was the dissatisfied, mournful look that he'd give to the cracked motel wall as yet another birthday passed by uncelebrated.

Stanley looked down at the cracked lens of the heavy compass that was being cradled delicately in his trembling hands. He allowed a moment for himself to take everything in. The agonizing pain. The panicked desolation. The bitter jealousy. The unbearable loneliness. The desperate longing. The aching emptiness. All the wasted years of his life. He sat there, and just watched himself bleed.

Then he felt it, the ever familiar burn of anger creeping out from the wounds in his heart like a dragon slowly waking from its slumber and stretching its limbs out of the various new holes in its cave. It started warming the rest of his chest in an unholy scalding blaze that ate its way through everything. Even the pounding in his head, and all his despair and hopeful eagerness from earlier became nothing more than dry tinder lighting up like matchsticks to fuel the hellfire. Stan's throat tightened as the hot smoke of his own contempt choked him, and he glared up at his brother in overwhelming animosity.

"Why! WHY! Why are you doing this! Why would you bother coming if ya didn't want me in the first place! After all this time, after all these years, are you really just tryin' to get rid of me again? You're… If you didn't want to see me again…" Stan let out a roar of frustration, and he closed his eyes and clenched his fists till the knuckles turned white as bone. He continued on, voice trembling in barely contained wrath and grief. "You gave me hope, y-you bastard. You gave me hope t-that you actually wanted… that you-" a noise between a snarl and a sob slipped past his lips without his consent "-You gave me hope and then you took it away! YOU TOOK IT AWAY! I would have rather you left me in the goddamn trunk to die, you bastard! You selfish bastard. YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST LEFT ME TO ROT!"

"So, should I take that as a 'yes, I'm going to stay away' or…"

Stan felt something in his mind snap like a long, glowing hot stick of charcoal suddenly splitting itself in a wood-burning stove. He stared at the ground for a few seconds and just enjoyed the feeling of his own pulse thrumming throughout his body, as his brain was flooded with a thick, unnatural calm. Without any clear idea of what he was going to do, or even what he was doing, he put his hand on the searing metal of the bumper and started hauling himself up. His legs tried to waver beneath him again, but he locked his knees into place and forced them to remain steady. Then he turned around and fixed his eyes the trunk. With one arm he wrenched open the hood, and with the other he grabbed the chains still lying tangled up near the corner of the compartment. His fingers curled firmly around the metal links even as his dislocated thumb creaked and popped with the strain, and he jerked the entire length out of the car with one sharp swing of his arm. The chains clinked noisily together in the surrounding silence, and a small puff of dirt kicked up when the end not ensnared in his fist touched upon the ground.

" Uhhh… What exactly are you planning to do with that?" It was the first time since Stanley had gotten out of the trunk that Stanford's voice had conveyed something aside from condescending apathy or disturbing glee. It spoke of apprehension; of the wariness one might give to a dog that had twisted up its lips to bare its teeth and growl.

Stan turned back around, but even though he was glaring directly at his brother he found himself having a hard time recognizing his face. The sun was brightening again, and Stanford seemed to be wavering and dissolving in the light. A blood red mark appeared next to his temple, then vanished. His skin suddenly darkened and then lightened again.

Stan started haltingly staggering forward, his feet shifting solidly beneath him in a way that made it feel as though they weren't actually attached to the rest of his still dizzy and disoriented body. The chains dragged on the ground behind him, lunging forward and then bunching up to match his jolting movements. Slowly, he began making his way to where his brother was sprawled out against the tree, his vision turning the world a deeper and deeper shade of crimson with every heavy thud of his foot and each aching thump of his heart.

Stanford's eyes widened in sudden trepidation and flickered momentarily into glowing yellow silts. "Whoa! Whoa, there buddy. You're a little peeved I get it, but I don't think you quite realize the implications of what you're doing here. Why not just take a little breather and relax while your judgment clears a little, ok."

Stan stumbled over a bit of sagebrush that had the misfortune of getting caught in his warpath but didn't halt otherwise.

"I mean think about it. You wouldn't willingly hurt your own twin brother if you were in your right mind, now would you? Your other half?"

Stan tried to make a noise. He tried to convey to Stanford that even abandoning him completely would have been kinder than teasing and tormenting him with a false hope, and that if he valued his life he should turn tail and never cross Stanley's path ever again. But the capability to form words was beyond him at this point. Instead, Stan simply pressed his lips into a tight, thin line till they became bloodless and white. He put another foot forward.

"Look I can tell that you have a lot of anger issues, and inferiority issues, and codependence issues that you kinda need to work on-"

Stan was only a few feet from him now, his arm heavy and pulsing with energy. Ready to strike.

"-BUT I'M NOT HIM, I'M NOT YOUR BROTHER! I'm not Stanford, ok! If you think about it I never actually claimed to be. You just assumed."

That got Stanley to stop. He stared in frustrated perplexity at the figure who was now claiming to not actually be his brother, understanding the words but not quite comprehending their meaning. It didn't make any sense. He looked like Stanford and sounded like Stanford, so who else could it be?

Not Stanford seemed to sense that he wasn't going to get a lot of time to try and explain himself before Stanley decided to strike him down anyways, just to be on the safe side, so he spoke as quickly and briefly as was possible for him. Unfortunately for Stanley's sluggish mind, that ended up being quite fast and not so brief.

"Yeah, I know how it must look from your perspective, but really, I'm not Stanford. Can't really blame you for hating him, though. I've been inside his head and you'd be surprised how little you actually mean to him. Honestly, even I was a bit surprised. Truth is, he just sees you as a toxic parasite who's gotten exactly what he deserves for selfishly destroying his science fair project and only chance at getting into his dream school. And can you really blame the guy? I mean, think about it. In a way, this is exactly what you deserve Stan Pines. Karmatic justice."

Stan bit down on his tongue indignantly at that remark "No! It was an accident. I-I didn't mean-"

"Sure it was. But hey, think of it this way. You sabotaged his life, and now he gets to enjoy watching you sabotage your own life while triumphantly overcoming the obstacles you set in his way. So at least he's getting a little satisfaction out of that, right? That can be considered a positive. At least your continued existence is benefiting him in some way."

Stan raised his fist again threateningly, already angry enough to take out the person in front of him regardless of whom it was or wasn't. While Not Stanford obviously didn't regret his cruel jabs in the slightest, he at least seemed to acknowledge this as a queue to change his tune a little.

"Your mind, on the other hand," he continued, trying to sound a little friendlier, "seems to have its entire focal point built around him. Even his presence in your dream was so powerful and realistic, that I got duped into thinking it really was him for a moment. So kudos there, believe it or not, that doesn't actually happen every day. It's kinda sad, though, isn't it? To have someone mean so much to you, only to be burdened with the knowledge that they don't really care about you at all? I have to say, even though I'm not a huge fan of the emotion you meat bags call love, I do have a have a weakness for love unrequited. Mostly, because it tends to be accompanied by a lot of pain, frustration, and bitterness, and I find 'negative' emotions like that to be a lot easier to manipulate."

"Y-you're…" Stan's thoughts trailed off blankly for a few seconds before he refocused them. "You're the voice from earlier. The one I heard in the trunk. You're… who are you?"

"Who me? Oh, so maybe you are a little more self-aware than I first pegged you to be. This should be fun." Not Stanford gave a delighted grin that a cat would give to a mouse that it was batting and biffing around. "As for your question, I'm your subconscious, and I'm just telling it like it is."

"No. You're… "

"I'm what."

"You can't… No. I… This doesn't-"

"Yes it does."

"No, stop! You're not! You can't be because you don't sound like-"

"Sound like what?"

"Y-You don't sound like me!"

"Neither does your subconscious"

"What are you talking abo-…Yes it does!"

"No, it doesn't. Come on Stanley, be reasonable and actually think about this for a moment. Listen to me. Remember."

The look on Not Stanford's face morphed dramatically into something that was soft and sympathetic. Understanding. Staring into the imitation of his brother's eyes took Stanley back to when the two of them were still kids, and he felt the ground shifting beneath him as he was dragged backward through several well-worn memories. He remembered when Stanford would worriedly hover and fuss over him after he'd gotten hurt in a fight, or doing something equally reckless or dangerous. And he would either moan about how painful his injuries were, or boast about whatever he might have accomplished while his brother liberally poured peroxide on his cuts and bandaged him up. And Stanford would always complain that if Stanley had just taken his advice, if he'd only listened to him for once, then he wouldn't have gotten into this mess to begin with.

Even if Stanley had been especially upset, or crying at the time, and he tended to be a very hard crier, just seeing his brother's gentle smile and concerned stare would give him the courage to dry his tears and put on a tough front. After all, things couldn't really be that bad if he had someone who cared about him like this. Someone who was still willing to help him even if he did make mistakes and even if he didn't always take his brother's advice. Someone who would always have his back, and who's back he would always have in return. It was something that would light a fire within Stanley, and yet at the same time soothe him. He would be filled with comforting warmth akin to wrapping himself in a toasty blanket fresh out of the dryer on a rainy winter morning.

The memory was enough to make Stan's eyes water even as dehydrated as he was. Robbed of all other comfort as he was now the loss felt especially keen, and even if this wasn't actually his brother, the imitation was close enough to the real deal to be an alleviating balm. Stan grabbed at his heart in a last ditch effort to try and contain some of the warmth Not Stanford's smile was currently giving him before that too slipped away from him. His earlier protests were all but forgotten, calmed and subdued by the tender gleam in Not Stanford's eyes; the one that promised him that everything was alright. That everything was as it should be. Stanley felt his inner fire being quenched and restrained by the reassurances. He stared blankly in front of him into the wavering, reality-distorting heat of the white-hot desert, his body slowly collapsing to the ground in exhaustion.

"See, now you're getting it. Your subconscious, that little voice in your head that cautions you against stupid or foolhardy actions, the one that you obviously don't pay enough attention to if your life's turned out like this, it sounds like Stanford, right? Doesn't it? Come on now, nod along with me."

Stan nodded dumbly. Part of him still wanted to argue more, but his inner fire had all but burned out, and his mind was as vacant and barren as the desert around him. He didn't have the energy to try and resist. He couldn't think of a reason not to just cooperate.

Now that the strength and force of his anger had fled from him again, his body began to feel like it was falling apart. He could feel his heart pounding under the palm of his hand, hard and sluggishly, jarringly skipping a beat every now and then. His face felt feverishly hot and his limbs were weak, aching, and weary as if overcome by a sickness. And even though he was inhaling deeply, deliberately, he couldn't quite shake off the weightless, white static of lightheadedness that was stealing his breath away.

"Now tell me, who do I sound like? Go on, go ahead and say it."

"Ford." The name tumbled out over Stan's dry lips listlessly. His body trembled as another wave of nausea passed over him, and his head bowed as it suddenly became too heavy for his neck to keep supporting.

"And who do I look like?" The hands on Not Stanford's arms, one outstretched and one dangling loosely, twisted as he gave a vague gesture to his body.

"Ford." Stan repeated in defeat.

"Sooooooo, if I look like Stanford and talk like Stanford, but he's not actually here because the two don't keep in touch, and he has no way of knowing what's happened to you, and obviously wouldn't be able get here in time even if he did, then I must be your subconscious. Right?"

Stan nodded again slowly, feeling more than a little confused and frustrated with the situation. It didn't really make sense, but then nothing that had happened from the moment that he'd gotten out of the trunk really made sense, and he wasn't willing to entertain the idea that he was still trapped in there somehow and dreaming all of this up.

"Good." Stan's subconscious seemed to be quite pleased that it had once more gained control of the situation, and the same cocky, condescending attitude that had defined it so prominently before, returned again in full force. "Now that we're in agreement about that, there's something I want to try and explain to you. I know I'm a fast talker, and you're barely conscious and really not in the best state of mind to be discussing complicated issues, but I think that might actually end up working to my-" Stan's subconscious seemed to catch itself on the word and quickly amended the statement. "-to OUR advantage, so try to keep up, alright?"

Stan didn't respond. His subconscious snapped the fingers of the hand that was hanging by its side, the one that was right in front of Stan's face, to get his attention. Stan blinked blearily a few times before reiterating " Mm- fine, fine'll keep up" in a slurred mutter, and then bobbed his head up and down just in case it hadn't heard him.

"See, don't things go so much more smoothly when you listen to me. You really should try it more often. Now, back to what I was saying earlier… Hmmm. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, your atrocious listening skills. You know that's probably one of your biggest problems, though I could understand how you'd overlook it seeing as you already have a mountain full of big problems that need to be worked on as it is, and sometimes things like this can get lost in the clutter. But the point I'm trying to get at here is …."

Stan's concentration started wavering again. His subconscious shook its hand in front of his face to refocus him, before pointing upward in a gesture meant to indicate that he wanted Stan to look at him while he was talking. Stan complied and lifted his head to lock eyes with the image of his brother towering high above him. A pair glowing yellow slits seemed to reach down through the sockets of his skull and hold his mind in place, and Stan soon found that he wasn't capable of looking away from them, even if he'd wanted to. And now that his sluggish sense of danger had finally caught up with the rest of his brain and was sounding an alarm in his head telling him that looking into those eyes had been a very, very bad idea, Stan found that he really, really wanted to look away. But it was too late. Every other feeling in Stan's body melted into nothingness as his subconscious took complete and unwavering control of his attention.