With Stan's hand tucked securely in his, America led him over to the battered swing sitting off to the side. It was hard to focus, to keep his mind fixed squarely on the task at hand. The mindscape amplified the natural connection between Nation and citizen to a ridiculous degree, making it all but impossible to block out the heady swirl of thoughts, feelings, impressions, perceptions, and more that made up the underlying structure of the black-and-white world.
Stan and anyone else who ventured into his mind would see only the hazy landscape, the scattered structures and the teetering, twisted monolith that was the Mystery Shack. And America saw that, too. But there was more. While the humans saw the visual form that made up this mindscape, America could see what he thought of as the substructure: the foundation, the framing and support beams, the wires and pipes that lurked behind the walls of this metaphorical "house". Construction, America had always thought, paralleled the mind quite well.
As the pair reached the broken swings, America nodded in quiet satisfaction as he felt Stan slip his hand free. Even broken, the playset held a great deal of meaning to Stan and Ford. But not so much importance that correcting the damage here would result is a cascade of information that Stan's mind simply didn't have the structure in place yet to understand. Which made it an excellent place to get started.
"Everything around us has layers and layers of meaning," America began, eyes slowly tracing the up one side of the battered wooden frame and up to the thin metal bar at the top. "We're not worried about the symbolism and stuff. That," he glanced over at Stan with a small grin, "is waaay outside my paygrade. But that doesn't mean we can't use that metaphysical stuff to our advantage. So, looking at this, what's wrong with it? And I don't mean," he quickly added, "anything about the cracks in the support struts or the broken swing. What's wrong with it now compared to before the memory gun?"
Stan stood quietly for a moment, frowning as he studied the former beach-side playset. "Well," he finally said, "there are parts missing. Part of that strut," he pointed first to the gap in one of the wooden beams then to the swings themselves, "and the ropes that should be holding the seats." Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Pretty sure those should have fallen. Them floating in the air like that is … freaky."
"That's just proof of how much of your memories you've already recovered," explained America. "The… your mind knows that it's missing pieces. So it's putting everything back where it belongs while it heals. And thus, floating swings!"
Stan was still frowning, a look of discomfort on his face as he continued to stare at the broken swingset. "Would- would the missing pieces -my memories- eventually come back on their own?" An unpleasant sensation began to twist in his stomach. Being back here… it was starting to remind him how broken he was. Soft whispers began to murmur in the back of his head, too soft to make out but given time, he suspected they would grow louder.
Sensing Stan's growing turmoil, America bit his lip for a moment before answering. "Some of them. Probably a lot of them. But I don't think they all would. What worries me is that, well, some memories are more like support beams. Your mind won't be able to hold these gaps open forever," he continued, nodding at the ghostly voids in the playset, "and that could eventually bring, well, a lot crashing down. Maybe everything. Or the blanks are insignificant and you live out the rest of your life with no further complications." He shrugged. "There's just no way to know without taking a look. And if we're already doing that…" he voice trailed off.
"Then we may as well try and fix things," Stan finished with a soft sigh. Crossing his arms against his chest, Stan couldn't help but hunch in on himself. There were really only two choices, weren't there? Bring everything back, the good and the bad (it was going to be all bad, wasn't it?) or risk losing his mind entirely.
"I can put the missing memories back," America stated, voice calm and level. "You'll be able to find the gaps in your mind, feel which are the big ones and the order we should go in. It'll take time and you'll have to process each memory, integrate it back into your mind. I'll do what I can do help. This," he gestured to the swing set, "is one of the smaller holes. It shouldn't ripple out and trigger too many other memories to return so you shouldn't get overwhelmed. But it's your call, Stan. We can leave now or we can give this one a try. It's your decision."
"Those are pretty shitty options." Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Stan studied the broken swingset, America waiting quietly, patiently beside him. As he stared at the worn wood and metal, he could feel the gaps in his memory. He knew he and Ford had spent hours on and around these swings, playing and running and getting into trouble. But nothing specific. No solid, set moments came to mind. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen the swings in person. Maybe… maybe trying this one memory would be okay. See what happened.
Decision made, Stan squared his shoulders, unconsciously shifting his stance from tired old man to experienced boxing champ, he gave America a short nod. "Do it." Without any hesitation, America reached out and plunged his hand directly in the gap where the ropes should have hung. And Stan remembered.
Violent tremors wracked his body as Stan sat on his swing. The ropes, long since worn smooth by hundreds of playing children, cut into his hands as he clutched at them, trying and failing to stay upright. He couldn't stop the broken sobs, the tears rolling hot down his face, or the snot dripping from his nose onto his shirt. He didn't even try.
He was… was… homeless. He had no home. No parents. No gruff, stern father. No wild, story-filled mother. No…
No brothers.
No twin.
His final, desperate plea for a High-Six hung unanswered and forlorn back ho- back at the pawn shop.
He'd driven to the beach on automatic, retracing the route he and F-Ford had taken for years and years until he'd ended up at the swings. Their swings. The royal thrones of the Kings of New Jersey. Now they were just lifeless pieces of wood.
A hard breeze suddenly blew in off the ocean, carrying cold air that bit deep in his thin undershirt and shocked him into silence. For a moment.
The tears returned but with less intensity. He- he needed to think. To plan. He'd have to work extra hard now that he didn't have Ford's big brain to lean- drag-
He needed to work extra hard.
He couldn't go back to school. Ford would ignore him. Crampelter and his goons would fall into a frenzy like sharks smelling blood in the water. He'd put a target on both their backs. Ford was- was strong. Stronger than he knew. He'd- he'd be better off if Stan wasn't there to drag him down.
He had a change of clothes and a few random canned goods that had been in the bag D- Fillbrick had thrown at him. His boxing gear was in the trunk, along with a decent amount of spare change. The Stanmobile would be good shelter until he could get a job. Wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in-
Craa-aack.
The swing collapsed out from under him, wood flying as he crashed to the ground. The sand, packed down by countless feet stomping and swinging back and forth, was cold and hard as he slammed into. Pain exploded first in his butt then his head as he hit the ground. The broken swing, thrashing back and forth, collided his the side of his head as he rebounded upwards. Jagged wood tore into his skin and he could feel splinters digging into his flesh.
Stan dropped back down to the ground. Between crying harder than ever before and now this… he felt like he'd been worked over in the boxing ring by someone 100 pounds heavier and 10 years more experienced. The remains of the swing swayed back and forth above him, inches from his nose. He lay there, tired and hurting inside and out. Once the pain had dropped to manageable levels, he'd get up. Find a place to park the Stanmobile so he could get some sleep. And then… he'd show them. He'd make the millions he'd cost Ford. He'd make it up to his brother, shove his boot up Filbrick ass, and take their mother far, far away from Glass Shard Beach. He. Would. Do. It.
Stan came back to himself slowly, sensation returning to his limbs a bit at a time. He was shaking, the shock of remembering that night on the beach- he could still feel the cold Atlantic air, the pain of the jagged wood piercing his skin, the grit of cold sand under his fingers. At the same time, he could also feel strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close to a strong chest and a cheek pressed against his head.
"You're safe. You have a warm home," a voice murmured against his head. It had been saying that for a while, he realized. "You have a warm bed, lots of food. Your family loves you and can't wait for you to come home." Over and over, the voice spoke, tirelessly repeating the same words. Slowly, the biting ocean air disappeared, the splinters digging into his skin faded, and he felt grass, not sand, under his hands.
With clumsy hands, Stan reached up and awkwardly patted the arm wrapped protectively around him. "I'm… I'm okay now," he stuttered. Above him, America just hummed and continued to hold tight. And that- that was okay. He was okay.
Eventually, the nation sighed and fell silent, loosening his hold and letting Stan slip free. He watched, waiting patiently for Stan to say something.
"That was intense," the older looking man finally said.
"There are others that will be worse," America replied. "Much worse. But there are good ones, too. And I'll be there every time if you're willing to continue."
Stan sat quiet on the ground for several minutes, legs splayed out in front of him as he leaned back onto his hands. The swingset was, well, not fixed but whole again. The broken seat still hung limp its rope but it was like that in real life. Or, had been, the last time he'd seen it. Another sign of his broken life. But happily other memories had returned besides that one terrible night, slotting themselves neatly into place in his mind. The time he and Ford had successfully chased Crampelter away from their "thrones", the time Ford had very nearly managed to swing all the way around, swinging over sideways to kiss Carla as the sun set after their first date.
The holes in his mind suddenly didn't seem nearly so big. The rough edges, the spots where there was just -nothing- suddenly didn't feel nearly so harsh. Perhaps, with America there to anchor him and protect him, perhaps he could see it through. Endure every missing dark moment, find lost moments of peace and happiness.
"You'll stay?" The words tumbled out of Stan's mouth before he realized it.
America nodded. "Through each and everyone," he promised.
"Right. Let's keep going."