B I N O M I (　｀□´)

Stanford shot up, grabbing his laser pistol from under the pillow on instinct and flipping onto the floor in a tangle of blankets. 

There was an echo of loud clangs and bangs and something that might have been music over the loud cheers and whistles. There was a thump from behind him. (Who’s Shootin’, get down!) Bill muttered in a thick doubled Spanish accent. 

It took a few moments for their situation to settle into his morning fog. They were safe. It was just a radio. No one was trying to break down their door, the window’s curtain was doing a poor job of keeping the room dark, but the glass was still intact. A quick visual sweep of the room revealed nothing to be out of place. Nothing except for the brown carpet looking more tan to yellow in sunlight

“Stan…?”

“Que? Oh…..oh. Right…shhhiiiit! My head. Daeh eht ni dekcik tog I ekil leef ti seod kcuf eht yhw os s'yeldaS'O ot og t'ndid I”

Stanford stood as he squinted and let the backwards language filter through his mind for a few moments. He rolled his shoulder and tried to work the kinks out of his neck.   

“You are not hungover. Not from a few beers…” Stan would not be hungover, and Bill would not be affected. But whomever his partner was now going through outbursts of magic…well, he wasn’t sure of anything much anymore. 

Bill groaned, his voice taking on Stan’s smoker’s gruff, but still echoing in double. “Fuck. No, not, god it feels like coke withdrawls.”

The implications of that statement were gut churning.  

Stanford grabbed a penlight from one of his many jacket pockets and tilted Bill’s head up to check his eye. It was yellow with a double iris. Bill squeezed his eye shut and blinked a few times before the effect faded and Stan’s brown shone through. He gritted his teeth and pulled back, swallowing.    

Stanford rolled his eyes. He paused in the bathroom to fill a paper cup with water and grabbed the last aspirin from their med kit. He pressed it into Bill’s hand with a bit of force.  “I told you not to sleep with your dentures in.”

Stan took the pill and gulped down the water, ignoring the bit that trickled down his chin. He gasped and rolled his neck. “I didn’t.” 

“Then what are tho…..” Stanford grabbed at Stan’s jaw and yanked. He pulled the flesh of Stan’s cheek back and prodded at his teeth. They were solid. And rooted straight into the fleshy gums underneath instead of moulded plastic. They weren’t yellow and tar stained either.    

“Wha aaa ooh ooigg?” Stan tried to speak, but Stanford wasn’t letting go of his jaw. 

He ran a finger across the roots where they met gums. Wincing only a bit at Stan’s rancid morning breath. “They’re real.” he murmured, with only a touch of disbelief. 

Stan pulled away and shook his head, wincing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “That explains why my head feels like it's gonna split in two.” He licked at the inside of his mouth for a moment, “And why I can taste battery acid.” He fumbled for the blankets and found his dentures balled up in the fancy pillowcase. They were stained and yellow, and chipped in a few places. He’d tried fixing them with superglue, but it never held for long. And he wasn’t about to pay for new ones unless he absolutely had to. 

Now they were junk. 

“Told’ya it was tryin’ ta leak out. I’m jus’ happy its teeth where they’re suppose ta be.” He mumbled, flexing his jaw until it popped with an unhealthy sounding crunch. And an even unhealthier sounding groan.  

Stanford blinked. “Where…where else would they form?” He regretted the question as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Any orifice. Ears, eyes. Pores, gut valves.” Objectively horrifying, but nothing Stanford hadn’t expected. Or had been witness to in his travels. 

Stan grinned despite his aching head. “Anus.”

That however! Stanford pulled a face and shuddered. “Thanks for that nightmare.”

Stan giggled, then winced and held his head. “gimme a mo, let the meds work, ‘fore we head out…”

They did wait. About an hour, long enough for Stanford to shower, repack their bags and for the cleaning crew to make their rounds. Sanford went down to the front desk and paid for another day. 

Bill was hurling milky blue and sparkling goop into the toilet when he got back.

Stanford rubbed his back and gave him another cup of water. 

Stan leaned heavily against the toilet seat and rubbed at his temples and jaw. Stanford placed his hands over the pressure points at the base of Stan’s head and behind his ear, pressing lightly. He let his mind seek out the tendril that led to Bill’s mind. He prodded and tweaked and poked until he felt the nerves calm and pain signals fade.     

“Better?”

“Yeah…actually. The hell? How did…”

“I don’t know exactly. I…just reversed what I felt when you…erm….” Stanford paused, looking for the correct way to address the torture Bill put him through. “Hurt me.”  

Stan grimaced and had the nerve to look appropriately shamed and apologetic. “Okay, one, yeah we should probably talk about that because I deserve what’s coming, but…there is waaaayyyy more to that than just reversing it.”

“How so?”

“The fact that you did it without knowing how you did it is probably the scariest part of all this. Seriously, Sixer…. What….?”

“All I did was reverse what I remember happening. I remember seeing a bright blue light in my mind before everything hurt. I looked for that light and dimmed it.” Sanford huffed, becoming more impatient with Bill’s questions.  

Stan knelt on the floor of the bathroom staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “No, no.” Stan’s tone was increasing in pitch with each word as he tried to explain. “Reversing pain is either relieving the symptoms causing pain or numbing the nerve endings. All I did was light up every pain center in your brain with a nonstop signal. Reversing that would mean I would be feeling completely numb. I’m not.”

“Well maybe you don’t understand it as much as you say you do.” Sixer crossed his arms and leaned against the sink with a self righteous look. 

Bill sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a headache anymore, but that didn’t mean he had the patience to deal with whatever snit Sixer found himself in. And it wasn’t worth fighting about. Even if he really wanted to. “Ok, Sixer, I gotta pee and my breath smells significantly less fresh than yours. We’ll talk later. Out.”

After a few moments, Stanford allowed himself to be pushed from the bathroom to resume his packing and inventory. Not that he needed to. He’d catalogued everything they needed and the likelihood of finding it into a priority list. Medical and electrical supplies being at the very top.

Of course they didn’t actually need any supplies. Bill could just up and summon whatever they needed. Had been doing so for over a month. It would be stupidly easy. Go back to the boat. Take off the ward, let Bill magic up everything they needed and put it back on.

Stanford froze when the thought finished forming and he took a moment to actually examine what he just thought. 

Willingly taking off the ward because it was more convenient.  

He shook his head wildly. No, it was crazy thought proposed by the mayor of Crazytown. Stan was far safer to himself and to others so long as he wore that barrier. Stan was himself - as much as he could be - when he wore it. There had been no lapses in memory since. And Stan was effectively limited by his mortal body without access to Bill’s magic. Sure it was leaking, but it was a controlled leak. Like a dam or a pressure cooker. 

And it wasn’t like Stan could rightly complain. He had his own teeth back. So, it was a win-win. 

When Stan got out of the bathroom, Stanford pointedly ignored the streaks of brown in Stan’s hair the moment he absolutely did not notice them. 

*~*

“Okay. Supplies, ship maintenance and one more night before we head out again.” Stanford had gone over the list of supplies a few times to make sure they weren’t forgetting anything. Barring any unscheduled stops in the middle of the ocean, they needed enough food and water to make it to their next destination and enough wiring to fix whatever damage had been done to the electrical of the ship. Of course if the main computer systems were fried, then no amount of replacement circuit boards were going to fix the issue. And Colombia was not known for having an abundance of advanced computer chips.    

“Where’re we goin’ now? Back to Bermuda?” They were only in Columbia due to a series of unfortunate circumstances. There hadn’t really been a plan before. Ford had them moored in the center of the Bermuda Triangle as a sort of cage. Now it seemed the cage was no longer required. They were free to return home if they wished. 

But Stanford was still uneasy about it. There had been a sort of condensing. A cohesion, meshing. The personality that sat on the bed, flipping through a city map was familiar. Eerily and achingly familiar. But different. Different not that man was showing any characteristics that were unfamiliar. Different in that they were all existing at once. All overlapping and shifting, like a damaged kaleidoscope. Not Stan. Not Bill. But both. And Neither.

Stan had asked for a chance to earn trust.

Was Stanford willing to give it?  

“Home…Piedmont, at least.” Stanford said, zipping up his bag.  

 The beat of silence was palpable. “Fer real?” Bill’s voice was still doubled and echoing. Both the voices of his muse and brother overlapping with one another. It was happening more and more.   

Stanford sighed, pulling on a false confidence. “If anything goes wrong, I can always reach out to Time Baby.” It isn’t exactly a bluff. He’s not sure if he could reach out. He’d never tried.  

Stan pulls a face to rival the rock that looks like a face rock. “I would almost rather go back to the Theraprism…or the psych-ward.” 

“Misbehave and we can arrange that.” Stanford half-chuckles.

Stan throws him an absolutely salacious look that drips desire. “Misbehave? Me? I’ve been nothing of the sort.” 

Ford rolls his eyes and shrinks down their bags to pocket them. Ever the paranoid, he refused to leave anything behind. Years of being on the run had drilled in the habit of taking everything with you.     

They talked as they made their way down to the lobby. “Okay, so we should split up, you grab food and I’ll locate a mech-”

“Nope.” Stan said, pulling out his phone and opening the map app. 

“Why?”

“Not here. Splitting up is a very bad idea.” 

“It’ll take twice as long.” Stanford whined.

“And be twice as safe. Trust me, Columbia ain’t no safer now than it was 30 years ago. Especially for someone with my face.” Stan’s eye flickered between brown and yellow behind his thick bifocals. 

Stanford frowned. “As you’ve said, it’s been 30 years.”

“Well, then you can chalk it up to paranoia. I’m not in the mood to test my luck.”

*~*  

They called up Maxi and paid him double to take them to a safe market they could stock up on. Someplace where two “old gringos” would be more or less left alone. Stan knew they would end up paying more due to being foreign, but food was food, and as long as they haggled and didn’t flash how much they were working with (which still wasn’t as much as he would be comfortable with) most people would be willing to cut them a break. Sure there was a chance of getting swindled, but Stan was savvy enough, and fluent enough that it would be unlikely. Mostly. Probably. 

Heck, he had quick enough hands that it wouldn't make too much of a difference.

His only real concern was making sure they could either locate a mechanic, chop shop or computer parts place.

Stan winced when they went over a particularly massive speed bump. Pain was starting to creep back into his jaw and twist up to his temples. 

The heat wasn’t doing him any favors either.   

They pulled up in what looked like a well established street market. Tables and tents lined the street and down narrow side allies. The buildings had wide open doors propped open with signs, merchandise or the stray painted cinderblock. There were still guards every ten feet, but despite the bustle of people, security seemed to be much less tense. There was a myriad of smells, the air practically thick enough to taste. 

Stan felt Sixer grow stiff beside him. Tense. He regretted letting the nerd bring his alien side arm. Sure it didn’t look like a pistol, but if Sixer was gonna be this twitchy, he wasn’t ready for the ruckus that was gonna cause. Stan gripped Ford’s wrist, working at the fingers lightly until Stanford unclenched. “Just people nerd. Yeah, be aware, but this isn’t a war zone.”

“Somehow I doubt your certainty.”

“It’ll be fine. Food, cables and whatever else ya need. Then we jet.”

“Food today. The rest later. I don’t even know the state of our electrical. I don’t even know what I need!”

Stan gave Ford’s hand a light squeeze. “Fine, Fine. Food first. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and all it needs is a hard reboot.”

“We are never that lucky.”

Maxi waved them off when Stanford tried to tip him. “Call me when ya need to go back.” he said with a smile and drove off.  

The sun was low in the sky but it was already sweltering. Stan was hit with a wave of uncomfortable 30 year old nostalgia of sun bleached days and nights so humid he could chew the air. He discreetly adjusted himself in the shadow of a building, feeling the skin of his balls peel away from his thigh. He had already tucked any important documents and money in the hidden inseam pocket in his boxers. He wasn’t about to let his brother get pickpocketed. Although it might be worth it to see Nerbrain’s face when some twink felt him up to steal his wallet.   

He bit the inside of his lip and tamped down the surge of jealousy that wormed its way up his spine at that thought. 

OK, maybe not.  

Stocking their pantry would be the easiest to acquire. Food was cheap and plentiful as most of the market vendors were selling whatever was not sold to larger corporations. Getting their boat up and running would be harder, but he was confident they could figure it out. If not, well, their boat would still sail. They’de just have to navigate the old fashion way. 

He supposes he could use the ace up his sleeve if things got really catastrophically dicy, but….well, it was unlikely things would get to armageddon levels of fuckatude, so it was very much a last last last resort.

“Alright, how do you propose we get all this stuff back to the boat?” He asked, squirting through the glare on his glasses. 

Stanford pulled a folded satchel from the inner lining of his trench coat. “This.”

It was barely the size of a textbook. But when Sixer opened it, there was a mirror placed in the bottom of the bag. It’s twin back on the boat. Stan could see the familiar ceiling tiles of their galley reflected in the mirror. Anything that went into the bag would be safely transported to their boat in the harbor. And no evidence left behind if they were accused of lifting something.  

Stan’s grin stretched across his whole face. “Well look’it you!” He wasn’t sure whether to feel pride or surprise at Sixer’s quick thinking. Sure, the nerd was a certified genius in multiple dimensions, but he was less graceful when needing to think on his feet. Improvisation was a skill he’d never quite mastered.

“My first trial run of the bag of holding.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Lord, Nerd!”

They tried to blend in as much as they could. They weren’t the only tourists perusing their way through the market. They got a few second glances, but most people were focused on their own business. 

It was slow and tedious. Buying a few things from one stall, then a few more from one further away. Stan kept trying to joke with the vendors that they were the type of old men to eat the same thing for breakfast every day. A few avocados from here, ooh, these are more ripe than those, lets get some of these. Didn’t we already get rice? Yeah, and we finished it already. Grab a small bag if you want rice with dinner. 

Stan could feel the sweat dripping down his back and into every crevasse and fold he had forgotten he had. His boxers were riding up, his socks were damp and his jeans were too restrictive to prevent chaffing.

This was Hell.

How Stanford could handle it was beyond him, but the Nerd was moving through the crowd like a robot, stilted, tall and unaffected by the heat. 

Bastard.    

His only consolation was that Stanford never took more than a step or two away from him in any direction. It allowed him to keep an eye out for pickpockets. Stan had already swatted away two hands. Teenagers. Not worth his time and not worth traumatizing them with a broken hand. He was pretty sure the ruling body wasn’t the type to chop off thieving hands. 

Anymore, anyway.  

There was a local grocery chain at the end of the road where they loaded up on dry goods and cans and anything else that the street market didn’t provide. They hid in the back alley while they carefully packed everything through the portal mirror. Stan got to talking with the cashier about where to find a cell phone or computer shop and was directed to a place about two blocks over that probably had enough raw computer parts and wires to shoestring the ship’s computer mainframe should they need it. It didn’t take much to convince Ford to at least take a look at what was available, if nothing else they would know if they needed to go elsewhere for any repairs. 

The computer store was more than ‘two blocks over’, and even Ford was markedly perspiring through his sweater by the time they found the brick and mortar shop standing by itself with barred windows and doors and three security guards patrolling the perimeter. Stan went to speak to the one guarding the door, but got hardly a sound out before the guard was unlocking the door and ushering them inside. Score for racism, he guessed. 

A blast of coolish air hit them in the face. It was enough to ease the growing pain in Stan’s head for a moment. The store was organized like a computer chop shop. Circuit boards stacked on shelves with hastily drawn labels and coils of cables  hung on pegs on the back wall. Isle shelves with pull out drawers were filled with insulators, lights, diodes, and enough pieces to build your own motherboard. Stan winced at the prices. Not the best place to have sticky fingers, but if he paid attention to the position of the cameras, he could probably lift a few things, especially if Nerbrain got nerdy with the store clerk as a distraction. The clerk was effeminate, lithe and had long hair tied back. A little stubble on his chin and upper lip. Not exactly Paco the Pool boy, but he fit a Renaldo computer geek well enough. Stan was not going to bother investigating why he noticed any of that and instead directed Ford to be the distraction while he pilfered what he thought they would need. 

Stanford begrudgingly flirted with the geek who was overjoyed to have anyone to talk to while Stan did what he did best and slipped odds and ends into the ‘bag of holding’. It hurt his head too much to look at the Stan O War II’s mainframe from this far for too long, but he got a decent enough picture to know there were a few fried boards and corrosion that needed new wires and lots of soldering. Thankfully their nuclear engine was triple insulated from any power surges and was literally bomb proof. So long as they could get the satellite and the GPS up and running, they were golden. 

Well, not actually. But that was something he could discuss with a future therapist. Bill wondered if he could even still reach out to his old therapist or if the time fold would put them out of sync.

After several back and forth and stilted conversations and a prolonged trip to the back room for the clerk, Ford legitimately purchased a raspberry pi kit and a housing after being ‘convinced’ by the clerk that it would revolutionize his computing dreams. Stan had already secured enough supplies to Jerry rig three Stan O War II mainframes and was debating on if he wanted to try his skill at pocketing some of the ram cards in the glass cases when Ford loudly proclaimed he was grateful for the clerk’s suggestion and was excited to try it out. As clear as any signal that it was time to leave. Stan approached the counter and mumbled something about not knowing anything about computer gizmos and held out the bag for Ford to drop his new toy in. The clerk blinked in surprise, eyes darting back and forth between the twins for a moment. They said their thanks and headed outside.

Once safely back on the sweltering street, Stanford took back the bag of holding and directed them back towards the street market. Stan groaned at the prospect of walking back to the market in the heat, but Stanford shushed him and bribed him with cold drinks and food from the food truck stationed at the market’s center.    

Hell, anything to ease the heat that was trying to bake his brain. He could already feel the balm of something ice cold press against his throbbing temple. 

Stan led the way while Ford lagged behind, in no immediate hurry to be back amongst the bustling crowd. In all the time he’d know Stanford, the man had never liked crowds. Trending towards the peripheries or clinging to Stan if forced into the throng of it. Rubbing shoulders was always more comfortable in the alliterative sense over the physical. He can’t exactly say he disagrees.

They were a street over when Stan took them through an alleyway to save them several minutes and to give them a little shade before popping them back into the middle of the street market. Stan pressed his aching head to the relatively cool brickwork and waited for Stanford to catch up.

He waited. 

And waited. 

It was hard to hear with the crowd, but he thought he heard a soft buzzing sound. Quick. 

Stan turned and saw only the empty alley behind him.

Stan hadn’t been moving that fast. Maybe Ford had gotten distracted looking at some tile or some rare architecture.

Or maybe he was just not eager to go back into the crowd. That was fine. They could just call Maxi and get a ride back to the ship, or hotel, or hell wherever.  

Stan walked back through the alleyway to the back street and glanced both ways.

Empty.

No Stanford.

No anyone.

His gut lurched.

Stan kept backtracking, doubling back to make sure he hadn’t missed something. Ford sprawled out on the pavement to get a closer look at some tropical bug, or plant. 

Maybe some side shop with a window display that caught his attention. 

It was something stupid like that. Had to be. 

The streets were empty. They hadn’t exactly been bustling when they walked through, but not dead. Stan took a breath and tried to not let the stench of garbage bother him. He tried to feel out the area with his mind. But the nausea only got worse the further out he searched. I plucked at the string that led to Stanford’s mindscape and felt his knees give out. Pink and blue swirling and undulating symbols spun in front of his face. The seal was holding. Stronger than it had been. He reached for the unicorn braid around his neck and flinched when a flash of pain ran up his arm from his fingertips. No luck there. 

He’d just have to look the old fashion way. Not like he wasn’t well practiced. Stan cranked up the sound on his hearing aid and shifted his weight so that his footsteps made the barest whisper when they contacted the pavement. His eyes scanned each street as he passed by, every shadow, every cracked doorway. Doubling back to triple check that the mound of grey hair or red sweater wasn’t a lost nerd in Cartel territory.  

He’d made it all the way back to the computer shop. 

Nothing. 

Just the guards patrolling the store’s perimeter.

He didn’t approach the store. They hadn’t gotten caught. Stan was sure of it. He was lousy at many things but stealing was not one of them. And if they were caught someone would have tried to chase Stan down too. No, this was something else. 

Did Nerdbrain go back? Why? Stan scanned the street from the alleyway a few more times before taking a step to head back to the store to drag his brother out of some awkward social interaction when something off color caught his eye. Something black and far cleaner than the rest of the trash that littered the ground at his feet.  

A bag strap. 

Stan yanked it out from behind the trash pile with the toe of his shoe. 

Stanford’s nerd bag slid out from under a board, scuffed and slick with garbage water. Stan rifled through it and found nothing. Stanford’s new little computer kit was gone. 

So was the mirror.

Stan didn’t bother digging into the trash; there wasn't enough room for someone to hide. He snatched up the bag and paused for just long enough to be sure he wouldn’t be seen, and darted into the street, making a beeline for the next alley way. There were no doors except the computer shop, so the only place someone could take a person without attracting attention was a car. Likely not in an open street. 

Stan reached the alley and stopped. It was open at both ends though the buildings seemed to hang more. Dirty, trash filled with a dumpster to one side. Like all others, but it looked worse. Less like a place to throw trash and more like a place to throw bodies. There were chaotic scuffs and smears in the dirt. Dark stains littered the brick and asphalt in splotches and splatters. Body fluid, waste. All old and dry. 

Except… 

Stan looked closer and tapped his finger to one shiny spot. It came away thick and red.  

Blood. 

He knelt. More drops. A spray. Some gooey tissue along the base of the brick and dumpster. Stan snapped to his feet and scrambled up the side of the dumpster to throw open the lid.

Nothing. Nobody. No body at least. Just rotting trash.

When he stepped down, his foot slipped on something solid and Stan heard the clattering of something metal scrap against asphalt. 

He caught himself, wrenching his shoulder. He kicked at the thing and watched Ford’s alien pistol clatter against the far wall.

Shit.

He lifted it, hissing at the pain. The barrel was still hot and seared the skin from his fingers. 

Stan thumbed open the side panel to see the inner workings. It still showed 70% charge. It had been at full charge that morning.

Enough for at least one shot.   

FUCK!

Stan scanned the alley and tracked the fresh blood and tissue patterns. More tissue than blood. Not fatal. And there was no obvious trail of blood leading in or out of the alley, but there were distinct footprints and drag marks further down. 

It hadn't been quiet. There was no way the computer shop security hadn’t heard anything. 

Stan gritted his new teeth and felt something pop. He followed the alley to the next backstreet and found skid marks. Stark. Oily and melting onto the dull grey asphalt. Fresh enough that they felt tacky against the bottom of his shoe. The acrid chemical smell of hot rubber irritated his nose. They were pointed West, and away from the city center. 

Stan felt his skin grow cold and thick saliva collected at the back of his throat.

And saw red.

The guards around the computer shop had gathered on the far wall for a smoke break. Renaldo had already made a call to the boss and Andre had already been out to take care of business. They weren't needed for a while. The street was blocked off at both ends in case the policia got bored or were paid off enough to bother. None of them cared. They were paid to guard the shop and look the other way when Andre came knocking. San felt bad for the kid, Renaldo always got twitchy after he made a call, but it was either make a call or he would be the next one on Andre’s list. He took a slow drag off the cigarette that was more filter than tobacco while Juan and Julio traded raunchy jokes. Such was the life. Ransom was the best way to make money. People were desperate when people they cared about went missing. Sure San had people he cared about, but other people? Nah. He didn’t need to care about other people. Certainly not tourists who didn’t give a shit about him or his family. Still bothered him when they took kids though. Adults sure, but the kids hadn’t done anything but be in the wrong place. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to keep doing this. It was good money, and he didn’t have to deal with the drug side of things, but San was getting antsy. He wanted out. He was kind of glad the last one had been an old man, it meant less money…unless the guy himself was rich. Didn’t look rich, but they didn’t always. San kicked at the ground and blew out a cloud of smoke. 

They heard a soft buzzing before Juan’s head exploded into jelly mid sentence. Flecks of blood and gore splattered on the wall behind him as his body slumped to the ground. Julio turned and saw the glint of brass before his vision went dark. San backed up and missed the next punch aimed at his head and reached for his gun. He wasn't fast enough. He felt something wrap around his throat before he could scream. His eyes bulged as his feet left the ground. He kicked his legs wildly before the back of his head hit the brick of the building and he fell to the ground, choking and gagging. San blinked through watering eyes up at an old gringo who held a pistol to his forehead. The same old gringo who had been at the store not 20 minutes ago and he was sure Andre had already picked up.

San stared into one cold, brown eye and heard a buzz, then felt nothing.

Stan rifled through the guards pockets for anything useful. He pulled out two pistols, three mags, and a folding knife that so desperately wanted to be a cleaver. No phones. No id’s beyond the standard security nametags and badges clipped to each uniform. Stan dug through each wallet and lifted what money he could find. He kept digging, tearing open the seams of the uniform jackets and looking for hidden linings. Nothing. Nothing except the little shiny lapel badge with the security company logo on it. Stan ripped it off the lapel and rolled it in his fingers.          

Scratched into the back of the badge was a joined cross with a circle around it. 

Stan’s vision narrowed. Badge clenched so tight in his fist that ‘Juan Rodriguez’ was imprinted onto his palm. He didn’t care. He knew that cross. Had the damn thing branded on him half a lifetime ago. His vision blurred.

Bill felt his pocket buzz. The quiet tune stabbing through the quiet room. He blinked. He was inside the building now, tearing apart the backroom. He vaguely recalled he was looking for any contact info, any notes, a map, an address. A still breathing body was crumpled in the corner.  

He ripped the phone from his pocket and growled into the receiver.  “You tell me where you are, or I swear I will burn this fucking city to ashes…”

“Grunkle Stan?” Stan’s gut rolled hearing Mabel’s quiet voice on the other end of the line. He hadn’t heard her voice in, what had it been? Weeks? Months? He could hear the quiver in her voice.  

“Mabel…what…why?” Stan bit his tongue. He couldn't quite get rid of the echo lodged in the back of his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “What’s wrong?” Not that much better, but at least he sounded like himself. Well…  

“Where’s Grunkle Ford? Dipper says his phone goes straight to voicemail. Did, did something…did you…?”

Stan isn’t going to lie. The implication that he might do something to Stanford was a slap in the face, but he had far bigger problems to worry about. And Mabel didn’t deserve to be yelled at.  

“No! I didn’t!” He snarled, wincing at the prominent echo in his voice. “Ford was behind me, then he wasn’t. I’ll handle this. I will find him.” He sighed and squeezed the security badge in his hand tighter. He was going to tear the place to bloody ribbons if he had to. But the kids didn’t need to know the details. “Look, pumpkin’ Don’t answer any phone calls or texts from either Ford or me, ya got it. I text ya’ a code word when it’s safe.” Stan prayed she wouldn't ask why. 

Whatever burning questions she had, Mabel kept them to herself.  “Ok,” she said, voice surprisingly level, “what’s the code word?” she asked, sounding more serious than she ever had before. 

“You tell me…”.

Mabel hummed a moment before asking “Glitter Unicorn?”

“You got it. I’ll handle this. Just sit back and wait for my signal.” he said, hanging up before she got the chance to say anything else. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and kept tearing through the backroom when he heard another tune. This one coming from the body on the floor. Stan walked over and rolled the bastard over this his boot and dug out a flip phone. Someone named ‘Felicity’ was calling. He let it ring through, but opened the phone and flipped through the text messages and contacts. Would you look at that. He texted ‘Felicity’ a lot, but never in anything that name sense. Numbers and short phrases. ‘Brown hair, red jacket.’ ‘Short, green shoes.’ ‘Tall, man, grey hair, 8-ball?’. Bill checked the address book, and there was a little address along a familiar railway right under ‘Felicity’s’ name. A railway he used to meet Rico at many years ago. 

Growing up, they were two peas in a pod. Stanford was the brains, the cool twin with the cool extra finger and Stanley was the other one.

The two wouldn't go anywhere alone, even as toddlers it was hard to separate them when they needed to use the bathroom– eventually they learned there were just some things they had to do alone.

Still, Stan was always there to support his nerdy brother. When Ford had a presentation after school, he would skip boxing practice to make it, if Ford wanted to attend a new science club, Stan would tag along despite having no interest, Ford had some new quirky interest and wanted to ramble, Stan was there to listen always even when he didn't understand it.

The point is, Stan never really changed. He stayed the brother he always was, always sticking close just in case his twin needed someone, always there making jokes when his brother was upset and always there to punch bullies when Ford was threatened.

He didn't change. Ford did.

Suddenly, Ford didn't like when Stan distracted him from getting in too deep in his head. Suddenly, Ford found his jokes too childish. Suddenly, everything Stan did was annoying to Ford.

It was one day when he got into trouble in class for, admittedly, taking it too far that Ford seemed to finally snap. Stan had been desperate, okay? Ford hadn't been talking nearly as much with him, avoided working on the Stan O War and would roll his eyes whenever Stan suggested something nerdy just for him! So Sue him!

Stan had been getting low grades, the usual, messing about in class, in classic class clown action, and trying to get his brother to laugh just a little at him– Heck, Stan would've taken a slight huff with a smile! Then, the teacher ruined it for them all and sent Stan to the principal's office, whatever.

It was when Stan was finally free from the clutches of the principal that the trouble really began.

He raced out, catching Ford just in time to walk home together, called to him and barely managed to set his hand on his brother's shoulder before it was promptly smacked away by a– get this– six fingered hand!

“You always do this!” His brother had spun around, face screwing up into that angry owl look of his while Stan's hand was still frozen up from where it had been slapped away.

“For once in your life, can you take anything seriously?!” His brother shouted, which was rare and Stan definitely didn't like considering how much he was shouted at by adults already. He was never a fan of shouts but he simply lowered his hand, staring at his brother as he caught his breath.

A few students paused to watch and Stan could hear the whispers and snickers, his ears growing hot as he controlled his expression and bubbling embarrassment in order not to turn into self-defence fury.

Stanford surely could have waited until they got home to argue, couldn't he?

“Come on, Sixer, I was just messing around–”

“That's all you ever do, Stanley! Mess around! Mess things!” Stanford interrupted and then, with a cool and cruel voice proceeded to say “I refuse to be there to pick up after your messes anymore”

With that Stanford left, walking home alone despite the fact they had the same destination.

Okay. So maybe his attempt to get closer to his brother had been all wrong, yeah. Still, Stan was trying, Ford wasn't.

No, all Ford ever did was push him away but keep him on a leash, close enough to tug in case he needs him but making sure there is distance for God knows what.

Stanley didn't change, he stayed the same boy that Stanford would laugh, play and joke with. Stanford is the one who changed…

So why is Stanford the one who is angry here? If anything, Stanley is the one who should be angry here.

It had been nearly a week of petty harrumph and cold shoulders from Stanford and maybe a little bit of self-reflection from Stan and a lot of working in the shop or cleaning the house before Stan came to a realisation while laying in bed late that night…

He is so fucking bored.

Usually, he and Ford had things to do together from playing around, lounging together, reading (Stan reading comics), to random exploring and so on… Now everything seemed rather… stale.

It was like that time when his brother was sick and Stan hadn't been allowed near him at all. Stan had spent so long just messing around, maybe being more destructive than usual before just… deciding to sit down and space out. His mother had said it had been the greatest two days of her life, the day when Ford was slowly recovering from his fever and Stan finally managed to behave.

And maybe Stan would've been offended, maybe he was a little still, but to be honest…. Yeah. Valid. He was a nightmare as a kid.

It was during boxing that the boredom seemed to really creep in, though. The whispers of other students crawling up his spine a little more every day, the way some of the other teens would try poke him into fighting his own twin (“personally, I wouldn't let that slide”), the happy expression of his mother from having Stan behave once again, the indifferent look of his father instead of the usual scowl…

Stan stood in his usual pose, hopping foot from foot, and despite seeing the punch coming, he didn't react at all.

He was sent home. Busted lip and spinning head. Coach made sure to tell his father how disappointed he was and Ford didn't even bat an eye.

Unlike the night Ford snapped, his father didn't send him to his room without dinner. However, that usual disappointed scowl returned… Stan noticed it as his mother helped clean his face up.

☆

You may think it was a one time thing but Stan may or may have not let it occur more than once. He may have sat back, listening to his father shout about how he just had to be a failure in everything, including boxing.

“Stop that” Ford muttered when he entered his room with a few too many bruises, nose stuffed with paper to stop the bleeding.

“If you think you can get pity from getting beaten up, you are very wrong, Stanley”

Stanley did not stop.

A fight at school once or twice, boxing where he'd welcome the punches, dizzy spells from when his head was knocked too hard and maybe talking back to his father once or twice before standing back to receive a beating from him as well.

“Stop that! It's distracting” his twin would whine when his father spent a good while in a screaming match with him, only silenced by a belt.

Stan did not stop.

Eventually, whatever that boredom streak was, started turning internal.

Stan found himself biting his nails too far or scratching his scalp too much, testing random limits he may have such as how long he could stay underwater or how close he can get to a flame…

It was one certain morning that the boredom finally hit like a wave, rolling him and pulling him under, hitting him against the rocks until he is stopped of anything human, that Stan looked to his notebook and thought–

“Might as well”

Stan began paying attention in class. He began actually answering the problems on the board even though he couldn't see that well and the sheets of paper, taking notes of he wasn't busy doodling.

The first time he handed the answers on a little sheet over, he got yelled at for copying Ford which got said twin covering his work with his arm and turning his body against Stan like Stan wanted to steal all his pens and notebook.

Fortunately, Stan stayed behind to ask the teacher to move seats. He's sure Ford would be ecstatic over it and like that Stan could finally see the board.

The next morning, when the teacher made him and some girl in the front change seats, Stan didn't get to see his brother's satisfaction. Although… Ford seemed far more grumpy than usual by the time he arrived home.

There was a weird vibe settling in the school between Stan and his teachers. A sort of questioning and expectation from him.

Teachers began being nicer to him, being less snappy and making less back-handed comments, they didn't call on him as much or smack his hand with a ruler, Stan even managed to catch a little appreciative nod from his maths teacher and that's like getting a nobel prize for him.

At home, no one really questioned Stan. Then again, Stan supposes they were happy with the peace and quiet for once.

At home, there wasn't anymore loud laughs or dumb jokes, no random singing trying to coax a smile from Ford or their mother into a song. It was quiet just the way everyone must have always wanted.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Stan couldn't handle the silence. He would get in his car and drive off to the piercings where he could sit and watch the sunset while wasting his battery to listen to the radio. To listen to anything, anyone talking.

Other times he stayed home, unwilling to move and just stuck reading, writing or working on homework. Drawing didn't seem as fun nowadays, it wasn't so fun when there was no one to see his creations or encourage his stupid dreams…

Speaking of dreams, he wonders how the Stan O War is doing. The old gal must be rotting from the inside out if some teens haven't found her and made it their hang out drinking spot. Stan would bet the place was covered in piss and beer cans by now… the thought made his chest tighten.

Still, it had been a nice dream, leaving Glass Shard beach. An excuse he had made in order to help Ford find somewhere where he belonged when, really, it was just Stan being selfish again and wanting the safety of Ford and no one else to hurt them.

“What are you doing?”

Stan blinked, not having processed being talked to right away. Looking up, he found his twin hovering over him, looking down at where Stan laid on his bed.

Seeing his brother's impatient expression morph into annoyance, Stan realised he should probably answer.

“Uh… reading…?” Perhaps some sass managed to come out towards the end but it was all drowned out by the confusion.

“Since when do you read?” Ford huffed as though the very idea of it offended him.

“I've always read”

“Yeah. Comics.”

What…what was going on right now? Stan didn't know what to say or how to react to this conversation. He is a little hurt with the way Ford is talking to him, if he's honest, but with how everyone talks to Stan in the same manner… he supposes it was only a matter of time.

“Is this one of your new tactics?” His brother asked, arms crossing “first you let yourself lose in boxing matches on purpose– I've seen it, by the way, you could've easily blocked a lot of those punches.”

“Then you start arguments with father like you have some death wish, scratch your scalp until it bleeds and now… now you read” frustrated, Ford gestures towards the book Stan is holding.

“I mean– moving seats in class, really, Stanley? Just how immature can you be? I'm the one who is upset with you, not the other way around” finally, Stan sorta understands something Ford is saying because so far Ford has just been listing random shit Stan does.

“I couldn't see the board” Stan blinks again.

“Oh yeah, sure– Suddenly you can't see the blackboard”

“I've never been able to see the board?”

To this Ford blinks at him, all annoyance gone in seconds, replaced by confusion.

“And– well, I thought you'd like the change” Stan sits up a bit to shrug.

“Why would I like the change?” Ford immediately latched onto that as a reason to be upset with Stan again “We have always sat next to each other! Always!”

Once again, Stan doesn't know what to say to whatever Ford is saying and… it's quite nerve-wracking really. He always knew what to say and what Ford meant but… right now he couldn't find the reasoning behind this conversation.

Not to mention, it was weird. Stan was sure he should be jumping at the chance to talk to Ford again, that he should be happy that Ford is talking to him, that somehow his actions dragged a reaction from his brother again.

“Wait– you've been coming to my boxing matches” Stan closes his book and apparently that's not the right thing to say because Ford's face goes a little red from anger and he makes a frustrated sound.

“NO!”

“But earlier you said–”

“Whatever! Don't bother me! I'm studying!” With that, Ford cut their conversation (somehow it felt more of an interrogation) short and sat at his desk, grumbling to himself before muttering to Stan–