"You're not just saying that, are you," Stan concluded once America had finished speaking. When the nation nodded, he sighed and carefully set down the precious pardon and ID on the skull next to his chair. "Alright, then." He spread his hands and shook his head slightly in bemusement. "Hit me with your best shot."
They'd all taken a break. Stretched their legs. Used the bathroom. Took a few minutes staring into the bathroom mirror clutching the sink with white-knuckled fingers and trying to not to hyperventilate. Or perhaps that was just Stan.
America didn't want to hurt him or use him, Stan reminded himself. He knew all the tricks of the trade and the strange blond man waiting in the living room wasn't lying or trying to hide things. He'd answered questions, told them what he wanted to do, and even did the leg work getting their lives straightened with the government. Stanley Pines had been resurrected from the dead and both Stanley and Stanford had been pardoned for any and all crimes committed over their lives. They had a blank slate and more freedom than they'd ever had before.
Most importantly, for the first time in Stan's life, there were no strings attached. Everything they'd been offered was something they could refuse with zero repercussions.
If anything, Stan mused as he stared into the cracked bathroom mirror, America had made it clear that he felt he owed them.
Part of him had been broken, twisted into some kind of Lovecraftian nightmare, and nearly shattered the living personification.
The way America looked at him and Ford, had looked at the kids after their birthday party-
Those stunning blue eyes had been worshipful, tearfully grateful, and filled with awe.
He's never seen eyes like that before. And probably never would again.
Taking one final deep breath, Stan squared his shoulders and straightened his back. Time to face the music.
"You sure you know what you're doing?" Nervousness was obvious in Stan's voice as he gingerly settled down into his armchair.
With a soft hum, America nudged his worn dining chair back a few paces. "Specifically? No," he replied as he shifted back towards Stan. "But that's actually a good thing. There are other nations who are what you'd imagine if I said sorcerer or magician. They have these massive, dusty tomes and spend hours arguing what's the best way to do, I shit you not, light a candle. Each of them insisting that their way is best."
"How would you light a candle?" Ford inquired with a raised brow. He'd taken up a perch on the T-Rex skull, wanting to be close to Stan while America was in his mind. Tucking his chin into his hand, he stared back at the nation, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"I'd use a light. Or a match."
Stan let out a sudden guffaw. "Probably faster than a bunch of chanting and hand waving," he chuckled.
"Especially when there's someone standing all up in your business going," his voice suddenly shifted pitch, "You're doing it wrong, that's terrible. You're not going to accomplish a thing that way." America's easy smile reappeared. "I swear, England, Norway, and Romania spend more time arguing over whose family's magic is better than actually doing magic. Meanwhile, as the most diverse country in the world, it's pretty clear to me that there's no way any one kind of magic is objectively better than another."
"You know multiple forms of magic, than?" Ford's fingers started to twitch with the nearly irresistible urge to start recording America's words.
America raised a hand, seesawing it back and forth. "I haven't sat down and studied but I can … well, follow along." Leaning back, he absently bounced his head off the high wooden chair back. "Some kinds of magic are better for some things than others. And some kinds work together better than others. I sort of … " his hand reached out again, twisting and turning as he mimed reaching out to grasp something. "When I need to do something, I can feel what will work and what won't. How to use part of, say, a Wiccan blessing with a Japanese binding spell. To meld all the different kinds of magic ever practiced on my shores to get what I want. It's hard to describe.
"Between just- not having the right words to talk about it and England's magic snobbery, I don't really talk about it with others," America concluded. With a small shrug, he added, "That's also basically how this is going to work. I can feel up here," he said, reaching up to tap the side of his head, "how to do this. But I don't quite have all the words to describe what's going to happen."
"Of course you don't," muttered Stan. He crossed his arms over his chest, discomfort still churning slightly in his gut. Glancing at Ford, Stan jerked his head at the nation standing in front of them. "What do you think, Poindexter?"
Pursing his lips, Ford took a moment to consider. "Well, I must confess, I've never heard of someone approaching magic or, ah, related fields, in such a fashion but it does makes sense when viewed through the lens of existing national personifications. England and- Norway, I believe you said?" America nodded. "Those are fairly homogeneous cultures, I believe, so it makes sense that their particular practice of magic would be distinct. And that would contrast with the United States which has always held itself up as a melting pot of cultures and views. So, ultimately, I believe America is correct in his summation that he can return your missing memories," he concluded.
"You can't get much better than the Stanford Pines seal of approval," Stan noted. "So, what do we do?"
"Well, first-" Picking up one last envelope, America handed it over to Ford. "This might take awhile. This is just, uh, a proposal. Take a look and let me know what you think." Then, he turned and dropped to the floor in front of Stan. He wriggled backwards until he was tucked up against the yellow chair and leaned a shoulder against the older looking man's leg. "This okay?" he asked, tilting back to look up at Stan.
Looking quizzical, Stan shrugged. "Sure, kid."
"Alright, just sit back and relax." Closing his eyes and letting his head fall back comfortably against the edge of the seat cushion, America let his hand fall onto Stan's foot and murmured softly under his breath, chanting an unknown incantation.
A burning, blue-white light suddenly burst from America's eyes and a matching beam flared above Stan's head, shooting up to the ceiling. The entire room was ablaze as a wave of heat rolled through the small space, followed by the smell of ozone as sparks of electricity crackled and popped. The beam of light swelled and erupted and a sourceless gust of wind ripped through the air. The thin TV antennae quivered and Ford clutched at the thick envelope in his hands as the sudden gale fought to rip it away. Then, with a pure white light shining from their eyes, America and Stan went limp, disappearing into the mindscape.
"Sweet Moses, I hate that." Groaning, Stan levered himself upright. The gray, dusty ground felt gritty beneath his fingers and the miasma in the air hovered with foreboding menace.
"You alright?"
Blinking, Stan stared as America emerged from the misty darkness. His bright yellow hair and cheery blue eyes gleamed with a strange light, almost as though he'd become luminous in the strange realm of the mindscape.
Unconcerned by their dour surroundings, America hurried over to Stan and reached out a friendly hand, helpfully pulling Stan up onto his feet with a single jerk. A jerk powerful enough that Stan actually left the ground for several long, terrifying moments.
"Are ya trying to give me a heart attack?" Now back on the ground, Stan pressed his hand to his chest. "Give a guy some warning next time."
"Sorry," America apologized in a sheepish voice. "So," he continued, slowly turning in a circle to take in their surroundings. "This is your mindscape."
"Yeah, and it's even worse than I remember." Stan couldn't suppress the grimace that crossed his face. "Ford helped me figure out how to hide this when Bill entered my mind. I guess I was kinda hoping it'd stay that way. Instead of going back to … this."
The mindscape looked much like the one he'd explored now and then over the last thirty years. The first journal, as well as some scattered notes he'd found in the back of drawers and shoved under rugs, had detailed the basics of the mindscape, how to enter it, and so on. And while Stan had remained focused on the portal, the few times a year he was struck down with the flu or some other illness proved to be the perfect time to poke around the strange realm that was his own mind.
He'd never enjoyed it. Never found the kind of peace and clarity many of the notes had eluded to. Ford described his mindscape as vast outer space-like realm filled with all sorts of random objects: mementos of their childhood, the weird and strange creatures and objects he studied, as well as other more abstract concepts.
Unfortunately for Stan, his own mindscape proved to be a hellish reflection of the worst parts of himself. The landscape and everything in it that weren't memories were bleak, dark greys and blacks. The land was dead, crumbling, and littered with broken versions of things like the old beach side swing set and the Stanmobile. Worst of all was the shattered, twisted facsimile of Ford's home. The structure was decrepit, falling apart, and slowly collapsing over a frighteningly high cliff. And each year, as the structure transformed into the Mystery Shack, it grew worse, larger, and more battered.
And now, the dilapidated structure and surroundings were worse than ever. Chunks of the building and the landscape, the swings, the Stanmobile- they were gone. And judging by the way things were starting to tilt, everything was on the verge of collapse.
Just like me. Bitterness clogged his throat.
"This isn't the worst I've seen," America finally pronounced. "Not by a longshot. And it'll look a lot better once we get all your missing memories put back!"
"Hate to break it to ya, but this was all already broken before Bill." Crossing his arms, Stan stared unhappily at the expression of his own inner demons standing all around them.
"You've lived a hard life, Stan," America countered. He folded his own arms, mimicking Stan's stance. "I'd be more worried if your mind didn't reflect that. This?" he waved a hand in the air, gesturing to the broken landscape, "is far, far from the worst mind I've ever encountered. This country is made up of wonderful, brilliant people. And also horrible, sociopaths. Every extreme, good and bad. Sinners and saints. You're not the worst person to walk my lands. You're not in the top ten, the top five hundred, or the top thousand. There is a long, long list of serial killers, murders, thieves, and monsters ahead of you.
"You were unfairly kicked out of your own home before you were ready for independence but still managed to survive. You stole, lied, and cheated so you could survive just one more day. And deep down, you hated it. You hated being pushed to do those things. You hated that people suffered for it." Stepping forward, America placed his hands on Stan's shoulders. "You never wanted to hurt people, not if they hadn't done something to deserve it. You're a good man, Stanley Pines, and I can see it even if you don't."
It must have been a side effect of being in the mindscape. As America spoke, Stan could just make out flickering images reflecting in the nation's blue eyes. For a brief moment, he saw Chicago, long ago, and a man in a bowler hat with a thick, bushy mustache. The man smiled, but Stan saw too many teeth and he could feel the evil pouring off him. Then the image blurred and he was in California staring a wild-eyed man with crazed black hair and a beard and goatee. Again the image shifted and two police officers (no, not police, just dressed like police) were strolling up to a museum in Boston. Over and over, images flew across America's eyes, giving Stan a small glimpse at men and women, Americans, who had done truly terrible things. To themselves. To others. And then America blinked and the images faded.
"Alright, alright, I get it." Stan brushed America's hands away, mentally shaking away the memory of the many horrors America lived with. The horrors he'd only gotten the barest glimpse of. "I'm small fry compared to others. So, how do we do this?"
Laughing, America held out a hand, palm up. "I'll show you."