Blorbo Torment Nexus

Cannibal Stan Au I'm making. :) (cough* cough" bill cipher causes the cannibalism part.

Anyways I LOVED how this came out. I do think the colors needed work but I finnaly did good on the speach bubble placement and the panel placement!! I found a post on Pinterest saying that showing environment is big panels; showing action is slanty or long panels; and small changes in expressions are the tiny panels. Plus text at the top or to the side of the panel works better. And the character talking should be the maybe most of the time first thing you look at.

The police station was cold, almost freezing compared to the heat radiating outside. Ringing phones and low voices filled the air, too quiet to make out the words, just loud enough to feel the low buzz of energy radiating around the room. Some officers were hunched over their desks, while others walked briskly through the room and halls, some holding paperwork, others coffee or nothing at all.

All of them looked his way when he entered the room, and he stomped down the urge to freeze.

He wasn't a criminal, and had every right to be here. There was no need to feel out of place or on edge. Still, he couldn't help the soft sigh of relief when everyone returned to their tasks, satisfied that he was no one of note.

The officer leading him sent him a look, and he offered a nervous smile in return.

"He's right in here," the man said, stopping in front of a closed door, "now I know this isn't the typical way things are done, but he's been a bit of a... special case."

"So I've heard," he replied, straightening his tie, then moving to flatten his shirt, "how has he been holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," the officer grimaced, "lashing out, defiant, refusing to cooperate. Common behaviors for people in his situation. It won't be easy, taking him in like this."

"I know." A deep breath, "I'm ready."

The man nodded, opening the door and stepping inside, leaving it open for him to follow after. He took it in quickly, eyes darting from the barred window above, to the giant mirror nexf to him. A interrogation room, just like from the movies. It had a single metal table, one chair, and one occupant. The single occupant was hand cuffed to the table, or had been at some point.

He was currently standing on the chair, which was on top of the table, which he had slide against the wall so he could reach the vent.

He was already halfway through, only his legs kicking out.

"Of for the love of- Jameson! You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him!"

No one awnsered. The legs started kicking more frantically, sliding further into the vent. The officer lunged towards them, climbing into the rickety table and grabbing an ankle before it could disappear completely. The owner of it screamed something, words incomprehensible and echoes.

The officer jumped down off the table with only a small wobble, landing hard and setting the would be escape artist down on his feet.

Ford stared at him. At the curly brown locks, the raggedy clothes. The dark brown eyes, glaring out of a familiar face. The worn red jacket, probably bulging with stolen goods.

The child looked every bit Stanley Pines son.

"Get your hands off me!" The small boy yelled, trying to shake off the officers hands with a snarl, "this is unlawful imprisonment! You have no right to keep me here!"

"You had the chance to stay at the home," the officer replied, keeping his hands on the child's shoulders, "and you decided to try running away. Seven times."

"It was nine you-"

The boy froze as he caught sight of Ford standing there. His eyes flashed with recognition, then jumped to several other emotions too fast for Ford to make out before settling on a heart aching combination of anger and fear.

"Hello," Ford said awkwardly, tucking his hands behind his back, "I'm-"

"What's he doing here." The boy interrupted. His struggles stopped, replaced by a tight tension in his shoulders, like he was one second away from bolting.

Ford coughed, trying to push down the flash of hurt at the boys curt tone, "I'm here to pick you up. I'm-"

"No, you're not." The boy interrupted again, "it's- it's only been two weeks. That's," he glanced over at the officer, then back at Ford, "that's barely any time for- my uh, my dad. He's gonna come get me soon, so uh. I can't. Go anywhere with this total stranger."

The boy turned to look up at the officer, "I don't know that man. You can't send me with him, what if he's a child trafficker?"

"I'm not a stranger," Ford scoffed, hurt solidifying into a heavy weight in his chest, "I'm your uncle, Stanford Pines."

"No, I don't think you are."

"He looks exactly like your dad kid," the officer said with a roll of his eyes, "and he already filled out the paperwork. If your dad shows up,"

The officer gave Ford a knowing look, making it clear how likely he thought the chances of Stan popping up again after two weeks were.

Ford responded with his own level glare, but the man had already looked down at the boy.

"Then we'll tell him where to find you. Until then, he's your legal guardian, and you're no longer the states problem. Now lets go get your things."

The officer grabbed the boys arm and practically dragged him out of the room, with Ford quick to follow. He kept darting looks at Ford as they were led down cramped hallways back towards the front doors, eyes dark and face pensive.

Ford gave him a tight smile in return.

The boy looked away.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of signed papers and passed over objects as Ford finished collecting the rest of Stan and his sons things. Stanson, as Ford learned his nephew was called (and really, Stanson? Ford had always thought his brother creative but apparently he was no more better at naming children then their father), attempted to run off several times, but stopped once Ford was (finally) given the keys to the Stanley Mobile. Ford made sure to keep them tightly in his fist after the second time he found his nephews hand in his pocket.

"And there we go!"

Ford sighed in relief as the last paper was slid over, and he was finally given the last of Stan's things in a box, which handed over to Stanson to carry. He made sure the weight of it and his own backpack wouldn't knock him over, before looking back up to make sure there wasn't anything else he needed to sign. The woman handling it all smiled at him, before reaching over to pat Fords hands.

Her smile turned tight when he slid them out of reach.

"Good luck with that one," She said, tilting her head to Stanson's glowering form, "He's been more than a handful since he got brought in. Half feral really."

"I'm sure my nephew is perfectly civilized," Ford lied coolly, watching her smile falter, "and I won't be needing any of your luck. This arrangement is only temporary."

Her false sympathy turned frosty, and she muttered an "I see." before shooing him away to handle the next sorry sack who needed to deal with government paperwork. Ford didn't care to try and explain himself, just made sure Stanson was following him as he made his way out of the building and into the car lot.

It was obvious to him that Stanson would only be in his care for maybe a month before Stan came crawling out of whatever hole he was lying low in. While he was furious with his brother for abandoning his child, he also knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't do it unless he had to. Like if said child had been taken into police custody and unable to slip away.

All Ford had to do was take Stanson home, wait for Stan to track them down, or track his brother down himself if he took too long. Stan would worry himself into an early grave, Stanson wouldn't be wandering the streets, and Ford could bond with the whole child his brother made and didn't tell anyone about.

It was a fool poof plan.

"What the hell do you think you're doing."

Ford paused, turning to look at his nephew.

"I think that's obvious," he said, raising a brow as he continued to unlock his brothers car, "Now go around and buckle in."

He paused as he swung open the drivers side door. Mostly because of the wall of trash that greeted him, but also because -

"And watch your language."

There. That sounded like something an adult should tell a child. This would be easy.

"I'll watch your language!" Stanson snapped back, stomping over to try and wedge himself into the drivers seat, "Now scram! I'm the only one allowed to drive!"

Ford reached down, lifted Stanson up from under the arms, and set him out of the way. Then he looked down at all three feet of him and raised an eyebrow.

"And my dad." Stanson added in a rush, looking to the side, "Me and my dad are the only ones allowed to drive."

"My dad and I," Ford corrected, turning to eye the pile of crumbled bills, "And seeing as my brother is currently unavailable, and I'm not about to let a child drive all the way to Oregon-"

"I'm not going to Oregon."

"I will be the one driving." Ford ignored his nephews comment, moving to open the back door and gesture at the small narrow spot of clean there, "now hop in. I'll wait until we're somewhere more... discreet, before cleaning this out. Unless you want to continue to wait for your dad here?"

Stanson narrowed his eyes at Ford, anger clear on his tiny face and in the way his hands started gripping the cardboard box in his hands. After a moment they slid to eye a few officers loitering to the side, then at the parked cars around them.

Ford waited patiently, only a little very frustrated at having to add cleaning out Stan's car on top of taking care of his son.

"Fine." Stanson spat, stomping to squeeze into the backseat, "But only because you're my ticket outta this dump."

"Noted." Ford said dryly, closing the door and climbing into the drivers seat, sneering as his elbow brushed against some of the junk piled next to him. He started the car, rolled down the windows, and slowly, carefully, made his way out of the police station impound and onto the road.

Very slowly.

Very carefully.

He didn't want to jostle any of the piles, and he didn't know if Stanson got carsick easily.

He carefully pulled out of the lot, turned, and headed further into town. Scanning for any convenient locations to park and clear out the car, he made note of the 35 speed limit and adjusted his speed accordingly.

A dramatic groan erupted from the back seat, and Ford flicked his eyes at the mirror to see Stanson, crushed between more piles of junk, flopped over and looking devastated.

"Are you alright" Ford asked, slowing down further and getting a louder groan for the trouble, "if you're feeling unwell-"

"Unwell?" Stanson scoffed, then leaned forwards and glared at Ford over the seats, straining his seatbelt, "I'll tell you what's unwell. The fact that you're here driving my car like an old man. Look at yourself Ford, you're going ten under the speed limit."

"Uncle Stanford," Ford corrected, ignoring the pang at the way hearing his nephew say his childhood nickname with a voice so similar to his- "and there's nothing wrong with how fast I'm going."

A loud honk blasted behind them, and Ford flicked his eyes at the mirror to see a car behind them. Another glance to the side mirror showed a line of cars behind that one.

Stanson shot him a knowing look, and Ford crushed the urge to slow down further.

That wouldn't set a good example.

Instead he sped up and pulled into the first parking lot he found with an available dumpster.

"Wow, ditching me already?" Stanson asked, as Ford put the car into park and stepped out, "cant say I'm surprised. Anyway nice seeing you, let's agree to never do this again."

"I am not 'ditching you' Stanson," Ford said, walking around to open the passenger side door, "as I said at the station, I will be cleaning this out before-"

"Woah woah woah!"

Ford had barely started grabbing some of the crumpled papers before Stanson unbuckled and was scrambling over the seats, lunging for Fords hand. His fingers were small, and his grip weak, but Ford stilled anyway at the touch.

There was a desperate air around his nephew, a panic to his voice that was more than a child lashing out at an unfamiliar adult.

Ford didn't know what it was, and while he stopped moving he couldn't stop the well of irritation bubbling in his chest.

"You can't just start tossing my- my dads stuff!" Stanson cried, scrambling to shove more miscellaneous papers into the back with his free hand, "What gives you the right to bust in and start taking over, huh?"

The scooping was ineffective, as the backseat was already jam packed with cardboard boxes. plastic bags, and piles of clothes. Ford rolled his eyes, yanking his arm free and snatching a paper to give it a once over.

It was a parking ticket, issued several years ago and yellowed with age. The next one he grabbed was a scratched out lotto ticket that had been crumpled into a ball, and the one after that was a flier for some kind of mud wrestling competition in Oklahoma. Inter spread amongst the heap were a few empty take out boxes, some long empty drinks, and lists of crossed out numbers.

Nothing of worth to anyone really.

"The government gave me the right, if you remember," Ford said, grabbing each paper and giving it a quick once over, before tossing it in a plastic bag he'd also found in the pile, along with the fast food trash, "Less than an hour ago. You were there. And until your father shows himself I will continue to have the right to both you, and everything in the car."

Stanson's face reddened, and he stopped trying to shovel trash to instead huddle over the piles stacked next to him. He fists clenched one of the bags, and his eyes darted around wildly, jumping from object to object, before landing back on Ford and the shrinking pile of hoarded scrap paper.

"You can't-" he stuttered, hands shaking, "You don't-"

"I can, and I will," Ford declared, grabbing another bag and filling it up, "Now if there's anything in here of actual value please let me know, otherwise it won't be coming with us. And don't say everything."

Stanson's mouth snapped shut.

Ford finished tying up a few more bags, then looked up to see if Stanson had started sorting through anything. To no one's surprise, he hadn't. He fingers were still gripped tightly to the bag , and he'd looked down, face shadowed by his unruly brown curls.

He was shaking.

The irritation that had been buzzing under Fords skin since the first phone call several days faded, replaced by an itchiness he refused to name. Ford knew nothing about his nephew except his name, and he had no idea what Stan had told the boy about himself.

They were practically strangers.

No, they were strangers.

Perhaps he could try another approach.

And Ford was dumping his brothers things away like trash. Granted, it was trash, and Ford wasn't about to drive all the way home with half of it, but all Stanson knew was that Ford was taking away parts of his life.

Taking away what Stan had left behind.

"Listen Stanson," Ford set his latest bag down and leaned further into the car so he could place a hand on his nephews knee, "I know this has all been very sudden, but-"

Quick as a snake, Stanson lunged over the seat and slammed into Fords chest. He stumbled back, his chest assaulted with tiny fists as Stanson screeched at the top of his lungs. There was no sign of hurt or fear in his eyes, just pure, burning rage.

"YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE!" the boy yelled, swinging his twiggy arms just enough to force Ford back out of the car or risk getting shoved into the remaining trash, "I DON'T CARE WHAT SOME STUCK UP ASSHOLES IN SUITS SAID! I'M NOT ABOUT LET YOU BOSS ME AROUND! JUST GO AWAY! I WAS FINE BY MYSELF!"

"Clearly you weren't!" Ford yelled back, trying to pin down Stanson's arms without hurting him, "You have failed to provide your address, can't tell anyone where your father went, and were surviving off gas station chips! I saw what the police report said, and so until Stan shows his face and proves he's fit to take care of you, you will be staying with me whether you like it or not!"

Stanson screamed a wordless yells, slammed a fist into Fords stomach, and shot past him. Fords heart jumped into his throat as he quickly twisted to follow. To his relief Stanson simply ran to the other side of the car.

The relief jump started into horror at the keys in his nephews hands.

"See ya never Stanford!" Stanson yelled, throwing the drivers side door open.

Ford didn't bother responding, just leaned down, lunged through the still open passenger side door, and slammed a hand down on the small one attempting to jam the keys into the ignition.

"Hey!" Stanson yelled, grunting as he tried to force the key in, "That's cheating!"

"It's not my fault you didn't think your fool plan through," Ford yelled back, "Now give- give me them you- let go!"

They growled, getting into an awkward wrestling match over the keys in the too small space of the Stanleymobile. Stanson had the advantage of being upright, but Ford had the greater one in being a full grown adult.

He pried the keys out of the smaller fingers, pulled them back before Stanson could snatch them again, and quickly backed away from the car. Stanson didn't hesitate, crawling over the seats to chase after him. Papers and trash spilled out of the car as he jumped to his feet, scattering across the pavement.

"Give those back!" Stanson yelled, running up to Ford and jumping to try and reach the keys when he held them above his head, "They're mine!"

"Not only are you not legally old enough to drive-"

"Like you care about that!"

"They are, legally, mine." Ford grabbed Stanson by the back of his loose shirt and held him at arms length, leaning away as his nephew started swinging his arms and kicking at him, "I paid a lot of money to ensure it. Now, are you going to cooperate? Or will I be forced to take drastic measures?"

Stanson glared at him. His fist continued to attempt to make contact with his jaw, and he kicked Ford in the ribs several times. It hurt, but Ford was used to worse.

"Well?" Ford asked, raising an eyebrow. Stanson lowered his further, a low growl stuttering out of his chest as he refused to cease swinging.

Ford sighed.

Drastic measures it was.

"Isn't this better?" Ford sighed happily, smiling at the breeze ruffling his hair. A growl was his only answer, and he shook his head softly, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.

Cleaning had taken more time then he would have liked, but in the end it was worth it. The Stanleymobile was nearly as clean as it had been when he was a teenager, back still full of Stan's clutter, but organized better and lacking loose receipts or broken junk. There hadn't been as much trash as he'd feared in the back, most of it unwashed clothes, various tools, and useful supplies of varying quality.

(Mosty poor, and the clothes were worn down and had stains or holes (or both). Except for the few children's clothes he'd found, which were the only things that looked new.

Ford refused to think about what that meant, other then that at least Stan took better care of his son then himself.)

After he'd finished he'd gone back to the hotel he'd gotten in case this whole experience took longer than a day, picked up his suitcase, and started making his way back home.

It was a long way to Oregon, and he wasn't going to spend a second longer in the insufferable New Mexico heat than he had to.

"I've got a room set up for you already," he said, as the growls behind him turned to snarls, "it should do until your father comes to get you. Hopefully sooner rather than latter. I have delicate equipment, and a lab isn't a suitable place for a child."

He looked up at the mirror to see Stansons furious glare, arms still pinned by Fords larger jacket and the seatbelt. He'd tied the sleeves into a large bow in front of the boy, and used his tie to tie his hands together.

If anyone could see him around the remaing boxes and bags, Ford had no doubt he'd get pulled over for kidnapping.

(Which may or may not have been the reason he decided not to throw away some of Stan's things.)

Ford also had no doubt that, if it had been Stan tied up back there, his brother would have wiggled out of his bonds in the first ten minutes. Thankfully Stanson, while squirrely, had only managed to pry loose some of the knots, his tiny fingers nimble but lacking the strength to undo Fords tight tie.

"Not that I expect you'll be inside much," Ford continued, attempting to fill the silence of the car since his nephew refused to speak to him, "it is summer after all, and while there isn't much to do in town the woods around my house are- actually. Hmm. Perhaps it would be better for you to stay inside."

The woods could be dangerous after all, and Ford didn't want to have to look his brother in the eye and admit he lost his son.

Then again-

"At least until you get your feet under you. A day or too learning the ropes, and I'm sure you'll be running around the woods like you owned the place." He nodded, giving Stanson what he hoped was an encouraging grin.

Stanson glowered back.

Ford looked back at the road. It wasn't the best circumstances, but he was sure Stanson would warm up once they got to know each other better. A nice long car ride together for twenty hours was the perfect way to start, and then several weeks holed up in his cabin, with only themselves and the local wildlife for company.

By the time Stan got there they'd have made up for the missed years, and Ford could shove how great an uncle he was in Stans face.

(And Stan would show up. Maybe not right away, or in a week or even two, but he would.

He had to.

Even if Ford had to hunt him down himself.)