Author's note: Sorry about that mini hiatus, my midterms were an absolute nightmare to get through. Anyways my schedule should be going back to normal now, so hopefully I'll be able to keep these updates on time. In the mean time I hope you enjoy the latest chapter, it was a real beast to write.
Chapter 12
He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. - Friedrich Nietzsche
"Ugh, this heat is absolutely killin' me."
"Eh, like you really have any room to complain. You weren't the one who had to spend the last seven hours hiding under a pile of blankets in the back seat. Heaven help me, I think I've started to develop a sense of empathy for my mother's pork enchiladas."
"Yeah, well I'm also not the one who was dumb enough to think that he could embezzle almost ten grand from Jorge and get away with it scot-free. You brought all of this down on yourself, I didn't. So pipe down already will ya. I'll gripe about the damn heat all I want."
"Compinche Maldita! There's no need to snap. You seem to be in an even worse mood than usual. What's the problem?"
"I already told ya what the problem is, I'm burning up over here. Gah, it's got to be practically midnight by now. Why the hell is it still as hot as Satan's asscrack!?"
"Meh, compared to where I grew up this isn't so bad. I mean, since we're in the desert at least we don't have to deal with the bugs and humidity making things worse."
"Ugh heh, don't even mention humidity. You're gonna give me flashbacks of my time in Colombian prison. You wouldn't believe how impossible it was to get any decent shut eye in that joint, and I'm not even talking about being kept up out of the paranoia that one of my cell mates was gonna try and shiv me while I was unconscious. Nah, the worst thing by far was just how muggy and miserable the whole complex was. Not a single fan or A.C. in the place 'cept for in the guards quarters. I swear I'd only average about three hours of sleep a night while I was holed up in there. Urk, but in a way this is almost worse. I feel like I'm being baked alive here. What do ya figure the temperature is right now anyways?"
"Well if I had to guess, I'd say that it's only about eighty-nine to… maybe ninety-two at the moment? But deserts can take a while to cool down, so I bet it'll be a lot better come dawn."
"Yeah, you're probably right, but… Gah, I don't know. That still feels like a really long way off. There's just no way I'm gonna be able to fall asleep until it drops at least a couple of degrees. You may have gotten to loaf around all day in the back, but I've been behind the wheel since three AM this morning and I'm completely spent. All I want right now is five, or maybe six good hours of sleep. That really isn't so much to ask for, is it?"
"If the heat's really bugging you that badly then why don't you try drinking some more water. That might help you to cool down a little."
"Mmmh yeah, I think I left my water bottle in the front seat of the car and I don't really feel like getting up to go get it at the moment. Do ya have yours on you right now?"
"Yeah alright, just let me… wait… Ah ok, here you go huevón. Catch it, catch it!"
"Gah! Hey pendejo, if you're going to toss it like that why don't you actually try aiming for me instead of four feet above my head. How the hell was I supposed to grab that?"
"Sorry, my hand slipped a little. But… pendejo, huh. I'm surprised that you managed to pronounce it correctly considering how you butchered my native language back when we were trying to load up supplies in Nicaragua. See Stanley, what did I tell you. We'll make a fluent Spanish speaker of you yet."
"Heh, I don't need to learn it to the point where I'm fluent. I just need to know enough so that you'll stop feeling so clever when ya try to insult me to my face. And so I can insult you back appropriately."
"Fair enough. Did you see where the water bottle ended up landing?"
"How could I have? Some idiot decided to throw it at me when it's pitch black out here right now. I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. If I had to guess by the sound alone, I'd say that it probably landed somewhere in the sagebrush a few feet away from the Joshua tree over there."
"Are you going to go and get it?"
"Look buddy, you're the one who threw it all screwy so why don't you get up and go get it, huh."
"Eh, if it's all the way over there then it doesn't really seem worth the effort."
"Yeah, but I'm the one you accuse of being lazy, huh. Pfft. Hypocrite."
"Meh, it's not such a big deal when I have another one on me anyways. Besides, I'm tired too. I'd rather just accept it as lost then try and go hunting for it in the dark. I'll tell you what though, ever since we ran into that trouble back at the gas station near the Texan border I've been shaking like crazy. I'm really hankering for a good smoke to calm my nerves a little, so how about a trade, eh? I'll give you the other water bottle in exchange for some cigs and the use of your lighter."
"Sounds good to me, just so long as you actually give me the water this time instead of throwing it since you apparently can't aim for shit."
"Eh, the heat really is worsening your temper. You're not going to let this go, are you. Dale cabron! It was an accident."
"Shut up ya… ya… Hijo le puta."
"Almost, but not quite. I believe the phrase you're actually looking for is 'hijo de puta'. Heh, good try anyways pendejo."
"Shut up!"
Francisco 'Frankie' Pedrosa. Stan remembered the name now. It was the name of the man whom Stan had been trying to sneak across the border and out of the reach of Colombia's most powerful weapon and drug cartel. The name of the man who'd been shot in the head last night by Jorge and his merry band of goons after the pair of them had been ambushed. The man who'd had his body draped across the open arms of the Joshua tree in a mock crucifixion to warn all others who would ever dare to try and cross or steal from someone as influential and ruthless Jorge. The man whose dim eyes had lifelessly stared back at Stan as he'd been knocked unconscious and forcibly stuffed into the trunk. The man who, despite being quite undeniably dead for almost twelve hours now, had just been up walking around, talking, and trying to run Stan over with a car.
The image Frankie's stiffly warped and deformed expression as the creature inhabiting his body had conversed with Stan stuck upon the edges of his mind with all the gooey and disgustingly gummy consistency of slowly drying blood. He winced a little, the corner of his mouth drawing down as he was overcome by a lightheaded mixture of grief, pity, anger, tired apathy, and a tingling fear that sent goose bumps racing across the dry, scabbing, sunburnt skin of his lower back. The water bottle that his associate had lost in the sagebrush the night before made a soft crunch as his grip around it slightly tightened.
"Though you may not have been consciously aware of it at the time, some part of you still remembered where salvation might be found and sought it out there. You were always reaching towards what it was that you needed the most, even when you were too far gone to know that you needed it. In that respect at least, you and your brother are not so different after all."
As Stanford said this his voice gradually began to split down the middle, and by the end it had stretched itself out into two slightly familiar, breathy, echoing rasps. The visage of his young and brightly smiling face was washed away in the sallow light of the high desert sun and transformed into something infinitely darker. As he faded, Stanley was allowed one last glimpse of his brother's innocently unguarded and kind expression before it was consumed by the pitch-black outline of the figure, and placed gently back into the memory from which it had been borrowed.
The grim and despairingly bitter part of Stan's mind wondered if he'd ever see a similar, perhaps slightly more world weary and wizened look, ever cross his brother's features like that one day in the future. He pondered how hopelessly stacked against him the odds were that the expression, if it did by chance reappear, might ever again be aimed in his direction of all places.
"Enough." The phantom of the compass rasped out in a stern and withdrawn hush. "I took the form that I knew you would respond to regardless of how lost you were, but now that your mind is clearer you must accept it as false and move on. You have only just escaped the madness that took you earlier. Do not allow your imagined sorrows and hurt to drag you back into its wake so quickly. You have proven yourself fully capable of conquering despair before when you were within the car trunk, have you not?"
The tone of the shadow's words then softened a little into something slightly kinder. "You have what it is that you need. You have earned it in spite of the trials you were forced to overcome, and all of the obstacles that were placed within your path. Drink now, and restore your strength."
Stanley nodded slightly, too tired at the moment to feel up to forming words. A series of coughs racked his body as he drowsily sucked in a large lungful of dusty brown air. The pressure pressing steadily behind the backs of his eyes was slowly growing even more unbearable, and it pinched painfully within the bridge of his nose.
But the… shadow, or… specter of the compass, or silhouette thingy, was right. At least, it sounded right.
Stan slowly began focusing his weary and stinging eyes on the bottle that was being crushed in his grip, doing a fairly good job of swallowing the rising lump of dejected hurt within the back of his throat in the process. A strange, yet familiar sense of determination and purpose sparked within the shallow rising and falling of his chest, and the madness that had taken him earlier was being washed away by the promise that the water nestled securely beneath his hand was quietly whispering to him.
Right then and there he knew that he should start taking the steps necessary to unscrew the cap of the bottle and bring it up to his lips to get a drink, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not yet.
"Mmmh… Th-the… I don't… b-but the compass… where did it-" Stan had to pause for a second to catch his breath. The effort required for him to from coherent thoughts, let alone translate them through the overheated synapses of his brain and to his dry and cracked lips, left him struggling around in an uncomfortably hot daze. It was like trying to sift through several layers of suffocating, thick, warm wool blankets that were being continuously piled on top of him. The image of the dark shape and the brightly shining bottle stretched out within his field of vision was still swimming and blurring like raindrops streaking across a windshield, and he eventually had to give up any idea that it might clear on its own before simply continuing. "I was holding the compass before, where did… did it, um… go?"
The silhouette was silent at first, tilting its head to the side a little as though it were looking upon something that it hadn't expected to see; something that it wasn't quite sure what to make of.
"The object upon which my runes are inscribed, the compass, was never physically here to begin with." The dark shape explained slowly. "It couldn't have possibly been so. In reality, it was always the water bottle that you were trying to hold on to. Your own mind reconfigured it so that the water took the form of what to you represents a connection with your brother; of what to you is a reminder of the goal that you have been pushing yourself so far beyond your natural limits to achieve. Because for you, despite what you may attempt to claim otherwise, living only for yourself is simply not enough."
The dark head bowed at this, as though it were cautiously contemplating a territory that was a bit beyond the scope of its range. "If you had only seen the water bottle there and not the promise of reuniting with your brother, I can't help but wonder if you would have fought for it so desperately, or if you would have even reached out for it at all."
The figure made a strange sound then, something between the whistling creaking of wind winding through the dead branches of a leafless oak, and the flowing whisper of a stream of cool sand sliding down a gentle incline. To Stanley the noise almost seemed… somber. But before his sluggish mind could even gather the wit to comment on that, the shadow shook itself out of its own internal musings and spoke to him again. "I suppose, that isn't actually what's important right now. What is important is that you start drinking immediately. Regardless of your seemingly unconquerable tenacity in clinging to life, you are in fact on the very cusp of death, and it will claim you if you do not remedy this dire situation soon. This is something that you must do on your own. I cannot help you with it."
"Mmmh…. Right. 'k." Stanley dragged himself through the thick, cottony wall of the stunned stupor that had sprung up in his mind under the suns oppressive and suffocating swelter. He managed a couple of sluggish blinks and a listless nod of agreement at the figures advice, and then refocused his attention on the water. His unsteady gaze gradually shifted down to land upon the lightly dusted, shining plastic that sat with a firm and reassuring warmth beneath his hand. His bright red, peeling, dry fingers scraped and chaffed uncomfortably against each other as his grip curled a little more securely around his hard earned prize. The strained muscles in his arm tensed and twitched feebly in a mixture of shaky determination, relief, and dizzying apprehension.
This was it. This was the key he required to save himself. The only possible hope he had of making it out of this desert alive. The base that he needed to launch himself from in order to begin his journey to the ultimate end of where the needle of the compass had been so unwaveringly pointing. It was within his power to achieve this, to bring the neck of the bottle up to his lips and reclaim the life that the water would grant him. He could do this.
The white noise of the desert droned on in an unbroken, muted symphony, its landscape shifting and swirling around in a drowsy and mesmerizing spin that flipped the sky and the ground, one over the other in perfectly regulated tempo. Unrelenting, scorching heat from the unflinching sun above crashed down onto the blades of Stan's shoulders in a ceaseless torrent of heavy, stinging pain that stole the breath from his lungs. A whisper of faint, arid air leaked out carelessly from his partially open mouth and scratched weakly at his rough lips. The seconds ticked on lethargically, one by one, disappearing into the bright shine of the hot golden rays suspended in the crystal clear water before him, and into the dark shapeless abyss of the shadow sitting just beyond.
He needed to do something to bring the water nearer to him. He needed to spur his weary muscles into some kind of action.
But just as before, he made no efforts to bring the bottle any closer to himself. He didn't attempt to end his suffering and save his own life. He didn't try to force his stiff and unfeeling arms to lift what he had been so desperately clinging to and bring it up to his lips. He wasn't even all that excited about the prospects of letting the smooth flow of liquid pour passed the long and aching crack that now split his brittle, dry tongue in two, and down into the rest of him.
Stanley did absolutely nothing.
He couldn't. He just couldn't. No… no, he… not yet. There was still… still… not yet. Not yet, it was…There was something that he… it was… Something was bothering him.
A thought, an idea, had stretched out its roots grown in his mind like a vibrant and robust weed choking every thing else in him, even that nagging and persistent survival instinct, into utter nonexistence. There was something that was bothering him, something that was draping heavily over his floating head in a weighted blanket of softly burning purpose. Something had started sparking and reheating the now fuelless fire in his chest, and completely clearing his clouded eyes of the aimless fear that had produced such an impossible and hopeless haze in his mind earlier.
Stanley lifted his gaze again to stare in a half-lidded, unwavering focus at the midnight black shadow before him. With some effort, he managed to force his weak and whispered voice to a pitch slightly louder than the sound of his own faint pulse pounding in his ears.
"You… I… I probably… probably think you're still jus' some hallucination 'r… I don't know… something along those lines, I guess. But I, uh… I mean… I don't usually say sappy junk like this, but… thanks, and all that. Thanks for, uh, helping me when I started freaking out earlier." He couldn't help the small cough that followed this as his trembling breath desperately toiled to keep up with the dizzying stream of words pouring from his mouth. The dull pounding against the sides of his skull made it feel as though the world around his head was moving around in weightless pulses.
He didn't let it distract him, however. Not this time. There was something important that he had to say, that he had to do.
"I… thank you. When I…" He trailed off blankly for a few seconds, and the dark and dusky shape remained quiet as it patiently waited for him to collect the loose strings of whatever thought his ragged mind was trying to pull together.
"After I drink some water… 'nd w-when I'm… not so close to death anymore, you're gonna disappear again. I… Right?"
The shaded head of the opaque silhouette gave a small and serene nod at this. "Yes." It hissed softly. "That is correct. Like the physical body of the compass, I only exist within your half aware mind. Once you become fully conscious there will be no foothold upon which I can imprint myself, and I will completely vanish."
"But that thing…t-the yellow eyed freak, or demon, or whatever…" Stan shivered a little. Thin streaks of frigid, cloying ice began to spread out jaggedly into the veins within his neck at the mere memory of the toxic silted eyes and their soft golden glow casting unnatural light over the scabbed, decayed, and shadowed features of his former business associate. Cold, foreboding fingers scraped lightly upon the back of his head in a stark and polar opposite defiance to the grueling swelter of the achingly bright sun.
"When he was… was talking about scratching the back of the compass… is that you? I… I mean, will… will that actually kill ya?"
"Is that why you hesitate?" The shadow shook its head aloofly as though Stan were a small child that had uttered something charmingly silly or nonsensical. "While I have little doubt that the demon will indeed carry out its threat, you have no need to concern yourself with my well-being."
"The…th-the hell I don't." Stan ground out lowly between his struggling breaths. His cheeks flushed a little as the warm embers in the centers of his eyes fixed themselves in a singeing glare upon the figure before him, and his jaw set itself stubbornly. "Even 'f you're jus' some kinda… kinda… matter, doesn't matter. Y-you still helped me. Saved my life twice now. I…I know that 'm not exactly the most stand-up, good-guy in the world, but…. 'ven I understand the weight of a… 'f a life debt."
The owner of the eerily echoing and raspy voice set the outline of its shoulders back. It seemed to regard Stan with cool and unmoved detachment. "You owe me no debt," It stated simply, "and there is nothing that I intend to collect from you. As an entity that was never truly alive to begin with, I cannot die in any way that you would possibly find relatable. Destroying the magic runes on my back will inevitably cause my entire existence to cease, but I am not the kind of creature that regrets or mourns its own passing. I simply am, or I am not, and I attach no feelings of gain or loss to either circumstance."
Stan gave an irritated huff and had to resist the urge to wince as this grip on the bottle slightly loosened from his raw, red fingers without his consent. "Y-yeah, well 's… as someone who's always been told how worthless his life is b-by everyone 'round him, I… I don't think lives are worthless. Any lives. M-my life ain't worthless. Frankie's life w-wasn't either." His voice cracked a little on the last word. Stan allowed his eyes to slip closed for a moment as the simmering blue flames in his heart dimmed and wilted somewhat under the weight of his own doubt.
Yeah, right. A couple of crooked, thieving, lazy grifters, what the hell were they any good for? They couldn't even look out for themselves, much less anyone else. All they did was bring trouble and-
Stanley stopped himself. He didn't have the time or energy to waste on that kind of thinking.
He opened his eyes again, and the scorching fire that surged throughout him turned into something more steadfast and dark crimson as he continued on with what he'd been saying previously. Even if the vitality of his voice had been muted and drained severely, to the point where it was barely louder than the faded buzzing of some beetle's wings far off in the distance, it held no less boldness within it than it had before.
"If…even if you don't assign any gain or loss to it… 'r whatever the hell you just said, I… I do. So you… so you're u-up… I mean the compass part of you anyways, it's up with my brother, right? There's gotta be somethin' I can do to help. I'll… uh, you… 'm gonna make it up there before he kills ya, 'lright. So jus', j-just try and hang on till then. I'll make it up. Even 'f I couldn't… not with Frankie… but… but I-"
"Do not be foolish." The words of the shade were spoken more forcefully than any previously, and its overlapping voices were thrown slightly out of synch by the suddenness of its remark. "Even if you were in the peak of health instead of your current condition you still could not possibly get there in time to stop the inevitability of my destruction. The distance between here and where my physical form now resides at is simply too great. My doom is upon me, and I will meet it."
The inky black outline then drew itself up stiffly, resting between Stanley and the blinding glare of the sun behind it. Dark and smoky tendrils seemed to coil and relax within the shape before it spoke again in a more controlled and softer tone. "Were I the kind of creature that was capable of appreciating such concern, I would thank you for it. It is unnecessary, however, and you have other priorities that you must focus your energy upon. Your life is no longer in mortal danger so long as you allow yourself the water that your body requires. Cease this pointless stalling and draw your efforts to sustaining that instead."
Stanley shook his head in helpless frustration, his fevered cheek scraping harshly against the rough ground. "N-no. NO. I… I can't. Not yet. I-I… it's not jus' you, I… Stanford too. He's my brother, 'nd that thing was after him too. I wanna help him. I-I need to make sure that he's ok."
The bottomless black apparition made an odd scraping sound. If the thing had been human, Stanley might have taken the noise to be a sigh. "In the end and in spite of all my efforts, I was unable to reveal to your brother the true nature of his own heart. Regardless, while he still does not recognize that it is you which he so desperately seeks, his life is in no immediate mortal danger. The best way you can reach him now is to reclaim your strength and find another way to open his eyes."
It moved one of its limbs to gesture to the water clutched in his hand. "Drink, and live on to meet him and accomplish this one day in the future."
"Yeah, and how d' ya suppose I make him see, huh?" Stan's gravelly voice choked out in a sudden and vicious burst of acidity. The beginnings of the dark red inferno in his chest started bleeding hot air into his breath, and the light behind his eyes pulsed with a desperate flare of searing and stinging intensity.
"H-how am I supposed to make him realize anythin' when he doesn't even see his brother when he looks at me. I can't help him if he won't let me in, a-and…and he's not going to. He won't because… he… he won't forgive me. I was stupid. I was stupid and I screwed him over too badly." Stan's brows drew together in a twitching reluctance as sorrow and anger warred over the expression on his face.
"H-he won't forgive me. I… I'm not an idiot. 't least, not that big 'f one. I know that I can't… can't make him." He coughed a little again and averted his perturbed gaze to the decayed and broken bits of an old tumbleweed that was resting beside his face.
"Doesn-…'oesn't work that way." He trailed off lamely.
The dark passenger within Stanley's faltering and fading field of vision was silent for a long while; its intangible lightless void of a body smoothly inching itself closer as it studied him intently. Stanley tried his hardest to hold his own glare steady under the cool and gradually increasing pressure of its presence, fighting against the feather-light sensation that overtook his guts as the figure seemed to look straight into the center of his entire being.
"You have a goal, don't you?" It whispered softly, its tone reserved and puzzled. "Were you not just promising earlier that you would try to earn enough money so that you could prove your apology genuine? You have a path that you intend to follow in order to reach him, that you have been following for the last seven years. Why is that route not still viable in your mind? Tell me, what has now changed in you."
A sudden roar of desperate, cracking laughter jarringly tore through the tense hush of the empty desert. The sore haze of exhaustion that had been persistently tugging at the edges of Stan's thoughts suddenly swelled up like a balloon and then split down the middle completely. A dim and bitter heat was released into the sluggish stirrings of his mind, and it lit within him an energetic and manic despair that gave a frightening energy to his shaking voice. He felt as though the hidden corners of his heart had been delicately glazed in thick gasoline and then viciously struck upon by and old and splintering match. He was hot and weightless. Wild and unregulated.
"Heh, is… is that supposed to be some kinda joke or somethin'? W-what the hell kinda magical compass 'r ya supposed to be anyways! You… do you… y-you really think I ever put any stock in that money garbage when my old man first told me to-… heh. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Heh. You really think I don't know that it isn't actually going to solve anything. IT'S PAPER! It's just goddamn strips of green, dyed paper! If he doesn't see me now, if he doe-doesn't… then… t-then it doesn't make a difference, does it. All of the money in the world isn't going to c-change that! It won't make him actually accept me." Stan shook his head dismissively as an uncomfortable smile stretched itself tightly across his face.
"The only reason, only-only reason I clung to it at all is 'cause it was all that I had. A-all that I had. Didn't have anything else. Didn't have anyone else. No one. I'm always alone nowadays. There's no one else here." Stan's voice petered off into a listless nothingness and was quickly followed by the sound of dry hacking as he choked on the aching and scorching sting of his own breath for a few seconds. The fire within him seemed to be burning through the air in his lungs, leaving him reeling under a sudden spell of dizziness.
Another round of corrosive laughter started seeping out from his dust-caked and peeling lips like scalding water boiling over from a long unattended pot. The parts of Stan's body that hadn't been rendered unresponsive by the consuming, destructive force of the sun's desiccating rays shook frantically along with his heaving chest. "It w-was, was the only hope that I had. Because if earning enough money doesn't buy back my family's love, then I don't know what will. Don't, d-don't know what will. What will? Nothing. Nothing will. Maybe…maybe none of them ever really gave a damn 'bout me in the first place. Useless. Weak. Just want to get rid of him. Heh. I don't… don't know. Don't know."
As swiftly as the horrifyingly severe energy had first washed over him, it now drained away from his body and mind again just as rapidly. Exhaustion tugged with an aching persistence upon his heavy eyelids, and Stan couldn't resist the urge to let them gently draw closed for a moment. Grief, hopeless, lightless, deep abyss, bottom of the ocean grief, raked its blunt and forceful hands across the lines of his face. It morphed his expression into the kind of worn grimace that spoke of a profound and rotting pain, a twisted root of decaying hurt.
"No, that's not right." He spoke a little more softly this time, though no less scathingly. "I've... I-I've always known that it's not actually going to work in the long run. It… couldn't. That's why I-I…"
Stan stopped himself from saying anything more and curled a little into the uncomfortable heat rolling like a bubbling ocean of thick, torrid blood within him. The terrible reality of the truth caused his lips to obstinately stick together, and he hoped that the savage pressure of his energy might completely die out before it forced him to expose the source of the infection; the sickness that had inflamed and swelled the tissue of his heart ever since Stanford had been called alone into the principals office seven years ago. Stanley usually had no problem letting his complaints be heard by everyone and anyone who was willing to listen, but this was… different. It was such a sensitive, sore and vulnerable section of himself, one that had been shredded to a stinging pulp so thoroughly, that had he been in a slightly more sound state of mind he would have preferred to suffer in silence rather than risk airing it out in the open.
"It's w-why I haven't really been trying all this time." He finally whispered faintly as he looked on in bitter contempt at the bright shining of the water dancing in his slightly shaking hand.
"Why I've…why I've just sort of been ok with failing over and over again. Cause I-I know… I know that once I do make enough money it won't give me what I want. It's a false hope, it always has been. B-but…" Stan's lips forced themselves closed again. He didn't want to say anything more. He'd never been this honest in his life. Not with his parents. Not with Stanford. Not even with himself. And now, now he was confessing all of this to a complete stranger. To some… spirit, or magic that might not actually be real to begin with.
What the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this to himself?
A movement from the dark shape above him caught Stan's attention. It seemed to almost be… lowering itself. Bringing its shadowed form down to his level as much as it could. It didn't say anything at first, didn't try to break the silence, but nonetheless Stanley found the smoothly gliding and surreal gesture to be somewhat comforting.
"Speak clearly." The phantom then commanded after a few seconds of quiet had stretched between them. The black smoke of its body tentatively retreated back to reveal some lighter shapes hidden within its form. "Say what you truly intend to. Or am I to assume that you still find the future to be so desolate that you cannot possibly imagine it getting any better; that you would rather cling to past memories of your desire than the actual person himself."
Stan averted his eyes for a moment before allowing himself to look deeply within the somehow existent and nonexistent outer edges of the shade's inky form. He saw two separate images of his brother wrapped securely within the murky darkness. One was wearing the childish and openly loving gaze that Stanley had grown familiar and unfamiliar with almost a lifetime ago. The other's face was saturated by the closed off, guarded, and worn expression that Stanley had observed while the pair had met upon the crimson-tinged beach in that odd dream. Both lay beside of each other, and then gradually began to overlap. The older version of his brother completely overtook the younger one, overpowering it as the beam of a flashlight is washed out by the powerful glare of the sun.
Stanley let his gaze fall again and turned away from the encompassing darkness of the shade, disliking the message that it was attempting to convey even as he knew it to be right. He was dimly surprised upon doing this to find that the area around him had transformed seamlessly into a reoccurring place within his dreams. He was on a boat again, the Stan O'War in the middle of a softly glowing sea.
A small collection of albatross, a twitching and sickly mass of grimy plumage, were shuffling around the deck in a sort of finicky displeasure. They pecked and picked at the splintering wooden hull, as well as other objects that were scattered upon and crammed into the skeleton of the decaying ship. Old toys, drawings, and beach junk that he and his brother had created, discovered, and played with together were sticking out at odd angles from between the wooden slats, and they made perfect targets for the curious maliciousness of Stan's feathered shipmates. He dully observed one of them tearing apart a frayed paper with his and Stanford's handprints on it for a few moments before something else caught his attention.
Far above Stan, almost beyond the reach of his sight till they drew closer, was another flock of birds. They were somewhat similar looking to the sea-born avian, especially from a distance, but altogether entirely different creatures upon closer inspection. Unlike the dried out husks of the birds beside him, the ones flying overhead were bight and full of life. The sunlight seemed to catch within the span of their wings.
Then they descend from the light blue sky in an almost silent hurricane. Doves, deceptively gentle, swirled down upon the spot where he lay and enclosed him within the eye of a pearly alabaster storm. The anemic, squawking albatross began to fly in a blind panic, crashing into the sides of Stanley's ship with a careless and destructive recklessness. It was pure snow-white bird verses pure snow-white bird, but it really wasn't a fight so much as it was a massacre. The albatross were frail, and decrepit, and held together by crusty clumpings of dust and feathers. All it took was one quick slash of sharp scaly claws, and the shrieking birds were dispelled in trembling whips of pale smoke and powdery mist. And as they disappeared, the past relics of his childhood slipped also off from the ship and sunk deeply into the waiting arms of the sea below. The ship in his heart was still being tossed around the rough and wild waves of the ocean, but the deck was at least now a little more clear and steady.
"No." Stan's tired voice whispered softly, and the illusion around him immediately dissipated at his protest. "N-no, that isn't what I… you don't get it. That's not what… I… I get that he's not the same person, that things will never go back to the way they were. Wouldn't have been able to wake up when ya first met me 'f I didn't already know that."
And he really did know that.
Given everything that had already happened between them… yes, it was unlikely that Stanford would ever fully regain his trust in him. He wasn't even sure if he himself would be capable of feeling that he could really rely on his brother for anything again. Even if they were eventually able to patch things up, it was impossible for the dynamics between them to ever truly be the same as they had been when they were kids. Forgiveness didn't make time move backward or completely erase past hurts from memory, and both of them were likely very different people than they had been seven years ago.
But maybe... maybe they could one day get to the point where they knew each other again.
"It's… it's not what 'm tryin' to say." He murmured.
"Then why are you doing this?" The shadow asked sternly, though not unkindly.
Stanley took in a deep breath and let the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat. His eyes were steady and focused as he gathered up what torn shreds remained of his mind, and he continued on with what he had been rasping before. This time around, however, it was in a more constant and controlled certainty, more determined to press on even though the truth was painful.
Because if he wanted this dark figure's help, if he wanted one last chance to reach his brother in the only was that he really felt might actually succeed, it was necessary.
For Stanford's sake and for his own, it was necessary.
"It's just that… Trying to earn back that money, i-it's a false hope. I know." He murmured, stilling the slight waver that was attempting to thread its way into his voice. "But it's…it's all that I have. And even a false hope that eventually ends in painful and bitter disappointment like I know this one is eventually going to, 's still better than no hope at all. And ya…y-ya just can't live with no hope. I… I-I know that from experience, much as I wish I didn't. If you try and go at your life without any hope, ya… ya just stop caring. Ya stop caring about your family, about the world, and even about yourself. All 'f the things that made you happy before jus' don't really matter. Ya can't bring yourself to do anything because it all feels so pointless. The days just start blurring into one another and you don't even notice that they're passing because to you it feels like time is standing still. Th-the world…. Heh."
Dry stinging pricked at the corners of Stanley's eyes in a deep-seated way that he knew no amount of blinking would clear, so he didn't bother. "The world changes around you, but you're trapped."
A heavy weight settled itself within Stanley's chest at this, but oddly enough he didn't feel like he was being dragged down by it. The burden was still there, the ball of poisonous lead that had caused the fiery infection in is heart was now laid plain and out in the open, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been before. It was somber in the way that driving into the dark and empty streets on that terrible night seven years ago had been; away from the soft and ever distanced roar of the ocean, of his home, of his family, and his life in Glass Shard Beach New Jersey. The sudden feeling of being uprooted and left impossibly alone. But like then, the dull and desolate pain felt manageable. It just… it just was.
"And you wanna know what the worst part about all of it is?" Stan's mouth parted again and twitched slightly as though he was going to laugh, but instead the corners of his lips simply turned down in a grim acceptance. "It's that it doesn't even hurt. I-It doesn't… doesn't hurt at all. And maybe… heh, m-maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing 'f it also wasn't also guaranteed to kill ya one way or another before too long. Yeah, I… l-living with a false hope may be a lot more painful in the end, but 'f ya… if ya try to live with n-no hope at all…"
Stanley lifted his eyes again to where he assumed the silhouette's were, and the fear sorrow, bitter rage, and hurt that had molded his face before began to soften away in the stark and open honesty of his worn expression. His voice turned low and gravely.
"Then I can tell you first hand, you won't be livin' for very long."
Stanley took another deep breath, nearly choking as the harsh air scraped passed his sore throat making the muscles in his chest spasm in exhaustion. The space just behind his forehead mutedly ached. He collected up what strength remained of his will as best as he could and brought his head up to meet the shade's. His eyes shined in a hopeless, and yet somehow unwavering determination as he made his quiet request.
"All that I have's a false hope, but it doesn't have to be that way. Not… n-not now. Please. You, y-you actually have a real shot at making this work. A real hope. Stanford, h-he recognized me for a second. He rea-, he really did. If that car hadn't… if we hadn't… I… i-it could have worked. You couldn't make him realize it was me on your own, and neither can I. But together maybe we can… I… I don't know. We have to give this another shot though. Please. Please, you're the only real hope I have. I-I can't do this on my own. Please help me one last… urg, o-one last time."
At the end of his plea, the dark shape of the shade cautiously pulled itself away from Stanley. It retreated from him as though it was overwhelmed, as though it had been burned by the vehement desperation overflowing through the cracks in his failing voice. It kneeled in complete silence before him for what felt like an eternity. And then, it began to fade and flicker away into the bright and blinding light of the desert.
Stanley couldn't help the flash naked hurt that tore itself across his face.
It was leaving him. He wasn't capable of holding it here any more than he was capable of holding onto Stanford. It didn't matter that he hadn't drunk from the water bottle yet to dispel the illusory shadow. It didn't matter that he had been honest and laid his soul bare. It didn't matter that he was willing to risk his own life to try and reach his brother.
It was leaving him.
He had already left him.
It was hopeless.
The arm stretched out in front of Stanley and holding onto the water bottle like a lifeline started to tremble. His cheeks flushed more impossibly red than the sun could burn them as he was overcome by delicate tendrils of fear scraping across his joints and making them creak. His voice lost nearly all of its earlier fortitude, and wheezed out from his lips in a despondent whimper. "No, I… P-please don't go, I-"
An inky black appendage shot forward like an arrow, cutting Stanley off suddenly with a small, choking gasp. He blinked in surprise for a moment before allowing his drained gaze to track the quick movement, and he was more than a little surprised to find the shade's hand was now lying atop his own. It wasn't the one that was currently holding onto the plastic bottle, but the hand that had been crushed earlier by the puppeteered corpse of his former associate. He looked back over to where he assumed that the shadow's featureless face would be, only to find that it was jarringly close to him. Staring deeply into him now, instead of the other way around.
"Do you realize what it is that you ask of me, that you ask of yourself?" Its layered voice hissed at him, as seemingly angry as it was unsure of itself.
It retracted its dark form a little then and continued on in a much more gentle tone to deliver a reminder; a warning. "Your body has reached its limits and is about to die. You cannot go without water for any longer than you already have. It is one thing for me to form a small illusion with just you, but if I was to try and pull both you and your brother into another dream right now, you would risk your own life expiring before we even finished." It shook its head dismissively. "It would be a senseless gamble."
Stanley clenched his teeth tightly together, already so set in what he wanted to try that nothing and no one could have convinced him to do otherwise. A solemn smile started tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I know." His throat weakly croaked out. "I know, but… senseless gambles are kinda my thing. Heh, right? And Stanford… Y-you have no idea how important he is. H-he's…he means so much to... t-to… And I'm not the only one who thinks that either. Our parents, and teachers, and everyone else too, everyone knows how important he is. The world knows how important he is. And I… I-I just want…" The heat within his chest swelled in such a painful and miserable love that he couldn't keep the ragged smile from wearing a path all the way across his face, and he shook his head slightly in exasperation with his own stupid heart.
"He's jus' worth so much more than me. Always has been. It doesn't matter what risks I'm forced to end up taking, 'r what I have to sacrifice. My brother is worth more than any risk." Stan's dry, hoarse voice raised in volume suddenly, and he fixed the shifting void before him with a steely glare. "Whatever it takes, just go ahead and do it."
The shadow stared into him for a few moments longer before abruptly turning its head away as though caught between a set of choices that it wasn't overly thrilled about. Something flashed within the black swirling mist of its face, a circle of brightly glowing letters or perhaps symbols of some sort, but it was drawn back in by the midnight gloom far too quickly for Stanley to really get a good look at it. The previously intangible weightlessness of its hand draped over his, suddenly started to feel a lot heavier. An acute shock of static electricity surged out from the point where its limb was touching his, and it sent a pulse of tingling goose bumps racing up the dry and blistering hot skin of his bright red arm.
Stanley's half-lidded eyes widened a little as he looked back at the shadow, and cracked open even further when it began shifting its appendage around to gain a tighter grip upon his hand. The dark face turned back to him then, seemingly more cool and composed than it had been previously. Its layered voice was tense and forebodingly hushed, and it rasped above him in an unfriendly, indifferent, and almost dangerous tone.
"Stanley Pines." The dry and airy characteristics of its speech ran over his name as though it were trying to gauge the meaning behind it, behind him, by mere sound alone. It gave an odd series of clicks like old gears stutteringly turning within a clock, and the noise of it echoed eerily through the oppressively hot, empty desert.
"Stanley Pines." It whispered again, this time with a little more focus behind its words. "Unlike your brother, by the measure of the world you are not a great man; not even a good one. You have a tendency to be unashamedly corrupt, lazy, reckless, dishonest, greedy, selfish, and wrathful. You make very little in the way of attempts to improve upon your own flaws, and in fact, often flaunt them about and use them as a shield from criticism just as much as you curse at them for holding you back. You have no high aspirations for yourself, no grand goals, not even a real dream for the future anymore. The sum of your life's efforts thus far have branded you as loser and a failure in the eyes the people you care most about, and it seems unlikely that you will ever genuinely change their minds on this matter."
Stan was a startled for a moment by the jarring shift in the shadow's attitude, as well as its harsh judgment of him. But like most situations in which he found himself suddenly insulted, his cynicism and wry sarcasm were lightning quick to come rearing to his defense. His brows drew together sharply and his mouth began to curve down into a sneer.
"Gee, t-thanks for that." He spat back at the silhouette, kicking up a small cloud of dust with the harsh exhale of his heated breath. His temper flared and blazed brightly in the hardened glare of his eyes. "Let me just add this to the huge list of useless and unhelpful trash you've been spewing at me this whole time. Anyone ever tell ya that you were a good motivational speaker, because being a professional liar myself I can pretty much guarantee that they were just pullin' your leg, or needle, or whatever the hell it is that you actually have!"
The dark shape of the head paused as it tilted slightly at him, and then continued on as though he hadn't said anything at all. "However, while all of those truths about you may be undeniable, what I say to you now is just as so." It's raspy voice trailed off for a moment as water on the shoreline thins out before gathering itself into a mighty wave.
"Though they may not be the kind to earn you the respect or even the acknowledgement of others, the tender and easy forgiveness of your heart, your courage, strength, loyalty, conviction, and unshakable, unconditional love, are all virtues of such quality and depth that they put the accomplishments of the great people of the world to utter shame and ruin."
Stanley's previous hotly racing thoughts ground to a crashing halt.
But the black silhouette kept going, holding his attention in a fixed focus. The grave and stern forcefulness of its voice was such that Stan couldn't find the nerve to argue against what it was saying, even if his heart didn't fully agree with it.
"The sole purpose for my existence, the functionality by which I abide and am bound by above all else, is guiding others to that which is the truest desire of their being. That I happened to preserve your life in a few instances before was merely a means to that end. As such, I should jump at the chance of leading you and your brother to each other, heedless of the danger that it might present to you."
"But you…" It paused, and the black mist within it rolled and swirled with all the watchful anticipation of a caged animal. "You move me to defy the mandate of the magic which governs me simply for the reason that I do not want to risk wasting your value. I speak fact when I say that you are of exceptional and noble worth Stanley Pines, regardless of the manner in which the world marks such things."
Stanley's eyes gradually widened in a sluggish shock at the shade's words, and his face morphed into an expression of guarded disbelief. He was accustomed to insults, mockery, vilification, and slander, and when he wasn't already encumbered by his own overwhelming doubts he could produce a million and one counters off the top of his head to ward off any potential attacks against his character.
But he had no response to this.
Genuine approval, sincere complements, they weren't something he'd ever really gotten a lot of experience dealing with.
In that way, the words the dark specter was saying now hurt him worse than its earlier condemnation ever could have. Even more than the stark and severe cruelty of the yellow-eyed creature had.
"Seeing you now as I do, I think I am beginning to understand the condition of your brother's desires far more completely." The shadow continued on, seemingly oblivious or otherwise outright ignoring the inner disquiet of its sole audience member.
"I make no claims to know what that man has done to allow him to hold such unconditional and absolute sway over the domain of your heart, but whatever it was that he did, it is undoubtedly the truest favor that he has ever done for himself. I see now how it is possible for his desire for you to be so fierce even while he is lost within the dense turmoil of his own empty self-assurances and unrestrained ambitions. It vexed me ceaselessly before that his heart and mind could be so powerfully and profoundly disharmonious with each other, but between you, the dream demon, and the unrelenting blindness that his own ego has inflicted upon him, such confusion is not just excusable, it is expected."
"I… I don't…" Stanley had to choke back his surprise as his stuttering and stumbling mind did its best to keep up with the conversation. "W-what exactly are you trying to say here? Are you… I mean, we're… are we gonna do this then? You're gonna help me get to him."
The shadow regarded him for a moment more before it's head gave a single, small, grim nod. "Much as I would prefer that you devote your remaining strength to preserving your own life, if this is truly what you wish then I will respect your decision and aid you. I make no promises that we will succeed, but I will do everything within my power to see that both of you find what it is that you are searching for. And though I know that your heart is set on this regardless of what warnings I might offer up, I feel it is only fair to tell you that the surest way for me to accomplish the task of reuniting you and your brother also has the potential to cause you grievous harm."
The tension in Stan's shoulders released in a sudden wave of relief, and he couldn't help but crack a tired smile. "Yeah, yeah I know… got it already. While we're off in lala land trying to slap some sense into Stanford, in reality I'm gonna be baking out h-here in the damn desert and probably dying of dehydration. Or somethin'. I don't got a problem with that."
"No. While that is a legitimate concern, it is not that of which I speak."
That puzzling comment made Stan raise an eyebrow. "Wait, then w-what are ya talkin' about?"
The edges of the pich-black phantom seemed to coil pensively within itself. Its dryly-whispered answer was thoughtful and… slightly hesitant. "The best and most effective way that I can see to reach you brother is through a demonstration of the heart. We need to present him with an inescapable truth; one that will persist with him beyond the scope of the mindscape; one that he will be unable to shake even as he inevitably tries to write off the dream as meaningless."
"Mmm'k." Stan hummed drowsily, doing his best to keep his focus as the scorched desert around him gave another nauseating tilt. "Right. That 'll sounds pretty good, so what's the catch?"
Dark shoulders stiffened, and the dissonant echoing of the shadow's voice rose slightly in volume as it took on a more blunt, matter-of-fact tone. "In order to do this, I intend to use you as somewhat of a prop. An example. I will need to alter your reality and inflict upon you the same sickness of the soul that has already consumed your brother. Where he has failed to conquer this, I believe that you possess the clear-hearted focus and steadfast passion necessary to succeed. The two of you seem to function in such a way that your strengths and weakness are mirror reflections of the other. Though your natures might seem similar at first glance, each of you is oriented so that you have what the other lacks. If I can show him this plainly, if I can reverse your positions and demonstrate to him why it is that his heart desires you so severely, perhaps then…"
As the scratchy musings of the specter trailed off, Stanley felt the beginnings of something bright and warm stirring in the center of his chest. It wasn't quite hope, but it was similar, and it put odd awareness and stubborn precision back into the centers of his eyes. The life sucking heat of the sun felt as though it held no sway over him anymore, not because he becoming numb to it like before, but because his will, the motivation that kept him moving forward, was stronger than the death that the merciless and scorching rays carried with them. Stronger than his own pain. He had a look about him that he hadn't worn in years; one that his mother had often claimed informed her of when he was plotting some kind of mischief. The muscles in his neck weakly twitched as he forced himself to turn his head up to the vaguely human shaped shadow that was still kneeling in a reserved grace before his prone and shaky form.
"D-do ya…" He stuttered breathlessly. "Do ya think he'll really-"
"It still might not work." The apparition cut off swiftly before he could vocalize his fragile sparking of optimism. "But I can conceive no better way of accomplishing this. Are you still sure that this is what you want to do? Are you certain that you would not rather end your suffering now and guarantee your survival by drinking your fill immediately?"
"Course I am. That's… T-that's a, uh…" Stan was forced to pause as his vision swam and tilted nauseatingly around him. The softly blurring edges of dark nothingness crept upon his view of the washed out desert landscape like night patiently stalking the footsteps of twilight. He tried blinking a little, but it didn't really help clear the image.
"It's a… a real stupid question to ask." He trailed off, dazed but no less fervent.
"Very well, but be cautious as the poison that I will flush into your heart is not strictly unpleasant by nature." The raspy voice of the lightless black silhouette was hushed now, even for it. "As is the case for most pride based afflictions of the soul, it is invigorating, empowering, influential, and addictive even as it destroys and binds you. Though you may be capable of fighting back against the damage that it causes at first, you may soon after find yourself unwilling to part with it. If held on for too long it eventually will wear you down just as completely as it has your brother, though it will deceive you into thinking that it is building you up."
A sound of metal popping and groaning temporarily distracted Stan as the frame of the car behind him protested against the full-blown wrath of the sun. When he turned back to look at the specter it had drawn itself up closely again, and when it spoke, it did so with a grave intensity.
"Listen closely, for here is where the true danger lies. If you give in to that sickness or allow it to take root in your heart, then I will be as helpless to aid you as I am in aiding him. If you resist me, I may not even be able to pull you back out from the dream. You will be lost just as he is now lost, and for you the consequences of that failure are much steeper than they are for your brother. He is not the one dying in a desert with minimal sanity intact, and he is not the one who will likely lose his life if he spends too much time asleep."
"Mmm, right. I'll try 'nd keep that in mind."
Stan let out a small gasp as the dark figures grip around his own crushed, sunburnt, and scabbing hand suddenly tightened to the point where it was breathtakingly painful. The acute soreness dispelled the last remaining clouds of sleepy haze that were meandering around the edges of his mind, as though it was a white-hot knife cutting through soft and rotted tissue. It was the most self-aware that Stanley had felt since he'd first woken up in the trunk. Like a crisp, golden dawn breaking sharply over the tempestuous and murky gloom of a wild midnight storm, the last remnants of scattered hysteria in his mind were all but completely melted away into a startling clarity.
Some of the same circular symbols that Stan had seen before started to flash red and then fade randomly within the somewhat human shaped body of the shadow as though it were a pulsing heart beat. The tempo of it quickly increased, becoming faster and faster till the whole of the apparition's form flared like the throbbing scarlet siren of a fire truck. Daylight fluctuated and warped as the sun was seemingly pulled again to a place somewhere behind Stan, but this time it was even further back so that earth's closest star was yanked completely under the horizon. The world was washed in a swiftly falling darkness. Sagebrush, rocks, and Joshua trees seemed to just blink completely out of existence, and the dry wasteland around Stan started to quake and stretch away violently in time to the powerful oscillation of the specter. He couldn't help but feel as though he was losing his balance even though he was lying unmoving on the ground. Twin raspy voices scraped loudly against Stan's eardrums, utterly drowning out the already deafening background roar of collapsing rubble and screeching, turbulent wind that now ripped through the desert.
"Stanley Pines, your love for you brother has driven you forward and granted you unyielding perseverance in spite of the seemingly impossible nature of your present circumstances. It spurred you on to break free from the metal binds that ensnared you. It gave you the raw power that you needed to overcome the car lock and open it from within. It granted you the clarity and unshakable foundations from which you were able to defy and prevail against a powerful demon. It allowed you to endue under the merciless hand of nature. It made it so that you could push passed that pain, failings, and weaknesses of your own body and soul. It even permitted you to resist death's many persistent attempts to lay claim to your life."
The shadow's other pulsing red limb jarringly twitched as it moved itself to cover the water bottle still grasped in Stan's other hand. Another small spark of electricity raced it way up his arm causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. His half-lidded eyes widened, and his heart fluttered wildly against his sternum. He felt completely transfixed by the phantom before him, too tense to even gather the nerve to breath.
"Now I ask you to call upon that love for me one last time. Give me one more demonstration of the terrible force that serves as the fuel for your fire, and the sheer might of your uncompromising loyalty. If your brother truly is worth so much to you, then prove it and pass my final test."
The red pulsing energy suddenly stopped as did the ear-splitting din. Everything stopped. The phantom's head was overtaken by three large crimson symbols. Blackness, the empty darkness between the stars, had now utterly consumed the world around him, and the softly glowing ruby of the characters on the shade's face were the only parts of it, or anything else really, that Stanley could still actually make out. The collection of letters the specter bore this time, however, were ones that he recognized and was capable of reading.
NNW
It was one of the cardinal directions on the compass, the trajectory he would have to travel from his current location in order to reach Stanford.
North-Northwest.
The dark hand covering the water bottle gradually drew back. In the dim red lighting, Stan could just barely make out his own scarlet tinged reflection staring back at him from within the plastic.
Except… it wasn't him. Not quite.
It was a younger version of himself with a face unmarred by cuts and bruises; undamaged by the merciless swelter of the sun. Stanley looked on in confusion at his mirror image, and as it stared right back at him a slow and arrogant smirk started growing upon its face. The likeness held a certain boldness in its eyes, a cocky confidence and self-assurance that Stanley had always tried to project to the people around him but had never truly felt.
But he could tell… he could tell just from a glance the person haughtily gazing back at him from the water bottle really felt this. Something about him spoke of a rebellious power and unquestionable capability. Something about the broad posture of his shoulders commanded respect. He wasn't the kind of person you would ever see anyone call a loser or a failure. He definitely didn't have the air of someone who might ever find himself homeless, sleeping over the steering wheel by the side of the road, or in line at a soup kitchen.
He looked like someone who was destined to be a great man.
The shadow suddenly let out a hissing sound as loud and ear-splitting as if thunder had erupted right next to his head. It caused Stanley to flinch and close his eyes against it. When his eyelids cracked open again, his entire reality changed.
A wry smile stretched its way across his mouth as he peered through a strange plastic film to see the scabbed, weak, and broken form of a man lying in the gloom before him. He looked like a complete mess. Like someone had beaten him to a pulp. Like he had been through hell, gotten lost along the way, and had then decided to walk back through it again. He was a vagabond with an angry scowl set deeply into his heavily lined face. A world-weary grifter with a dull and sorrowful gaze.
"Show me why even demons fail to displace you from your brother's heart." A pair of dissonant voices rasped from all around him in the darkness. "Show me that both of you are capable of conquering even the manipulations of an ancient magic such as I."
The last thought that ran its way through Stanley's head as he stared pityingly at the wreck of a man in front of him was how glad he was that he wasn't in that guy's shoes.
Then the alarm clock beside him blared, and he woke up.