#crampelter

Stanford Pines didn’t want to die.

That was the first thought that ran through his mind when his name was called, then nothing. Distantly, he can hear his mother sobbing. Other than that, the crowd is quiet and still as death. He allows himself a moment for his eyes to wander. Every face he’s lived with growing up stare at him now. Some of them, the wolves, as he and Stan had called them growing up, are giving him vicious smiles, as if they’re imagining seeing him ripped apart already. But most of them simply watch him warily, expressions more relieved than anything else.

At least it’s not me. At least it’s not my loved one.

Ford can’t find it in himself to blame them for that.

The only eyes he can make out that are totally absent of relief are Shermie’s. His own child is too young to get reaped, and he himself is too old. Ford meets his older brother's eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Shermie so scared. The eldest Pines brother usually does a very good job of keeping a stone face in front of the capital cameras, but today his expression is crumpled in horror. In mourning. Because Ford is going to die.

Ford doesn’t feel as horrified as Shermie looks. Or at least, his own horror is distant. Far away from here. He can’t feel it as he steps out of the crowd. He can’t feel it as a peacekeeper grabs his arm to make sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas about running. Where would he even go? Trying to run would only make his death come faster, and he doesn’t want to die.

He’s flanked by peacekeepers as he’s walked onto the stage. Rico, the capital envoy who draws their names each year, gives him a smile before turning back to the audience.

“Now then. Before we move on, do we have any volunteers?”

Ford blinks. He’d nearly forgotten that part. In spite of himself, a wave of relief courses through him. Because Crampelter, as much of a nightmare as he made Ford’s whole childhood, had been telling everyone from the moment he could speak that one day he was gonna win the hunger games. He was born and bred to do it. Raised and honed into a true career. Ford may hate Crampelter, but…

but…

“Anyone?” Rico probes. No one responds. Ford’s brow furrows.

His eyes search the audience and find Crampelters with no trouble at all, as he stands at least a head above most of the people around him. Ford expects a cruel smirk. Maybe a taunting hateful glare. He doesn’t see that. Instead he sees fear. And almost a sort of regret. The small fragile relief Ford had dared allowed to bloom wilts. That expression tells him everything he needs to know: Crampelter won’t be volunteering today. Ford wants nothing more than to hate him for that. For backing out at the last second, but he can’t. He can’t blame Crampelter. Not for this. After all, who in their right mind would willingly enter the games? Even the victors in four always returned with ghosts in their eyes for anyone who bothered to look close enough to see them. Crampelter looks away from Ford’s gaze. Even from all the way back here Ford can see Crampelters father grab his shoulder in a too tight grip, and mutter something. The boy wilts, but still stays silent. Ford turns his eyes back front. None of that concerns him. He lets the cloud of nothingness fall back into place as Rico claps his hands, and turns an appraising eye to Ford. Something in his eyes would make Ford uncomfortable if he wasn’t busy disconnecting himself from reality. The moment passes, and Rico turns his winning smile back to the audience.

“Alright then. Stanford Pines it is. Let’s-“

Before he can finish preparing to move on and draw the girls tribute name, there’s a scuffle from somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd. Someone stepping out of line. A few peacekeepers move to handle the insurgence. All heads turn as they come away with a figure, who squirms and kicks as they hold him with his hands behind his back. If the dissenter is lucky, he’ll be thrown in jail for causing a scene. If he’s unlucky he’ll be executed. Ford won’t be around to see it either way. But before he can block the world out again, the dissenter speaks, making Ford’s eyes widen.

“Stop! Let me go, let- I volunteer. I volunteer.” The figure shouts. The peacekeepers freeze, and loosen their hold enough that the figure can shake free. He does so, but doesn’t move, doesn’t flee. Instead he turns to face the stage. His voice is resolved, unwavering. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Ford freezes. He knows that voice. He can’t know that voice. Beside him, Rico lights up, evidently pleased with the drama.

“Oh! Hey, bring that young man up here. I think we have a volunteer!” He flicks a dismissive hand towards a peacekeeper, ordering them to come drag Ford off the stage. Ford, in a daze, lets them, even as he strains his neck to try and catch a glimpse of that face. His face. It can’t be his face.

The dissenter who he can’t know doesn’t resist the peacekeepers. He keeps his head high as he is frog marched over to the stage. Ford keeps straining to see even as the peacekeeper shoves him along, all but shoving him down the steps before finally releasing him back into the crowd and returning to his post. Ford immediately whips his head back to the stage and meets the eyes of the figure he can’t know just as they arrive at the base of the stairs.

Ford does know him. Of course he does. It’s Stanley.

Stanley who he hasn't seen in almost a year. Who he was so mad at. Who had wrecked his project. Who protected him their whole childhood against the kids who were trained to be careers. He was never going to win against Crampelter, but he fought him for Ford. Stanley who was there on that stage…to take Ford's place.

To lie in Ford’s grave.

Just as suddenly as reality left him, it’s all right back. Too real. Why did he let them drag him off that stage? Away from Stanley. He couldn’t let them do that.

He can’t let them do this. Not to Stan.

“Stan, don’t.” It’s not too late. Stan can take it back. He has to take it back. The protest sounds loud in his own head, but he can’t be heard over the murmurs of district 4 quietly discussing the turn of events. The Pines weren’t meant to be their champions. The Pines weren’t meant to be in the games.

Ford is hardly conscious of moving, but he must be because he crashed hard into the man in front of him, who turns to glare at him before his face shifts into surprise then sympathy. Ford shoves him aside and all but shrieks up to his brother.

“No! Stan don’t!”

This time Stan hears him. He turns at the commotion. He seems…surprised. Surprised at what? That Ford is protesting this? He doesn’t try to run. Doesn’t ask Rico if he can take it back and return to the safe anonymity of the crowd. Instead he simply tilts his head, and gives Ford a smile. The same way he did back when Ford had nightmares before reaping day.

“It was me.” Ford had fretted, way back when they were twelve. Their first reaping. Neither of them had slept so well. Shermie had only just aged out, and now all their anxiety about him rebounded back onto them. All that fear had come to roost in Ford's mind in the night, and it was his name they read.

“That’ll never happen, Sixer.” Stan had assured. “You know the big bad careers want in. For glory, and all. They’d never let it be you.”

“But what if it was?”

“It won’t be.” Stanley had assured. And that had comforted Ford because it sounded so true when he said it. Like an absolute fact of the universe.

Because it was. It always had been true. If it had ever been Ford, it would’ve been Stanley. Why hadn’t Ford realized that sooner?

This was worse. How had this scenario never been one that haunted his nightmares? If Ford going into the games was terrifying, Stan going into the games was…unthinkable. Unimaginable.

He can practically feel all the cameras swivel to him as he tries to claw against the crowd to get to that stage. To get to Stan, to do something. Anything. In his peripheral, he can see peacekeepers moving to intercept him, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

But before he can break through it all, grab Stan and get far away, there’s a pair of arms grabbing him around the waist from behind, and lifting his feet off the ground. Ford keeps thrashing and kicking and screaming and scratching at the arms to force them to let him go. Let him get to Stanley.

“Let go! I can’t let him do this.”

“Stop.” A familiar voice begs, close to his ear. “Ford please. I can’t lose you both.”

And Ford slows. Shermie. If it were anyone else he might’ve kept fighting. Got himself shot. But with the way Shermie is clinging to him, not letting go, he’s just as likely to get Shermie killed with him if he continues to cause a scene. From somewhere far away he can hear Rico’s light chuckle, remarking on what a touching scene that was.

“Wow.” He muses. “Lot of emotions are flowing today. It’s delicious! And look at you!” He turns all his attention to Stanley, eyeing him the way one might do with a particularly fine cut of meat. “Well, you’re damn near identical. Incredible! Why switch at all, you’re basically the same person.” He takes a minute chuckle at her own joke before addressing Stan. “Now, what’s your name, stud?”

Ford’s eyes refocus on the scene just in time to see Stan flash a smile that looks so real, except for a blankness in the eyes. “You can call me whatever you want. But my name’s Stan. Stanley Pines.”

“Oh! So cheeky.” Rico bats his arm playfully. Ford wants to tear the man’s arm out of his socket as he continues talking. “Well, Stanley Pines, you must tell us what just happened. I’ll bet that was your brother back there. Twins?”

Stan’s facade of cool flickers. “Yeah…”

He seems to try and force the front back into place, and say something witty, but ends up just biting the inside of his cheek and staying quiet, turning his eyes down to the ground rather than towards the people he’s lived with his whole life. The people he’ll probably never see again. Ford thinks he’s gonna be sick. Rico tsks and pats Stan’s cheek in a horribly condescending way that he flinches back from. Rico doesn’t seem to notice.

“Aren’t you sweet? Everyone, give it up for Stanley Pines, Our district 4 male tribute.”

Stan seems to shrink on himself as a scattered, confused applause rings. Ford bites back a snarl. It’s more lackluster than usual, this applause. They all knew it was supposed to be Dennis Crampelter. Since he could walk he’d been trained for this. Since he could talk he’d been telling anyone who would listen that one day he would be a victor. He was born to be a victor. It was his honor to be addressed by only their family name, so that when he won everyone would know to whom the glory belonged. But he hadn’t volunteered. Stanley had. And Stanley hadn’t done any of that training.

He couldn’t find it in himself to blame Crampelter for not volunteering for Ford. But he can sure as hell blame him for forcing Stanley into the arena.

“Well, that was fun.” Rico’s boots clack across the stage as he heads for the other bowl. “And now, the girl.”

He reaches deep into the bowl, and draws out a card, taking his sweet time opening it and strolling back center stage. He clears his throat.

“Susan We-”

He doesn’t finish reading the name before a small form shoves to the front of the crowd, causing quite a bit of grumbling.

“I volunteer.” A shrill childish voice nearly snarls. Rico pauses, glancing over the edge of the stage.

“I haven't even announced the chosen tribute.” He says, a bit bemused. Ford tears his eyes away from Stan to see Darlene Crampelter. Only twelve years old. Just like her brother, she’d also been telling anyone who would listen that she was destined to win the games from the moment she could talk. But…twelve year olds didn’t win the games. Ever. Even career twelve year olds always found themselves outmatched. She was supposed to win when she was eighteen. Sixteen at the earliest. Not now. But here she was, volunteering. Ford casts his eyes a bit further in the audience to see Crampelter paler than he’s ever seen him before. There’s a horror in his eyes that feels similar to Ford’s own, even though that thought makes him want to gouge both their eyes out. Darlene crosses her arms and glares up at the man on the stage.

“Fine then.” She bites out. “Finish reading it, and then I’ll volunteer.”

For a second, the whole reaping freezes as Rico seems to debate what to do with this break in protocol. But after a moment, he merely chuckles.

“My my. Someone’s enthusiastic. Come on up here, darling. What’s your name?”

A peacekeeper goes to guide Darlene over to the stairs, but she brushes them off, and vaults straight up onto the stage, striding to the center where Rico and Stan wait. She walks with the confidence of a victor. She comes to a stop about a foot away and eyes the man expectantly. Rico has to crouch to properly hold the mic near Darlene’s face.

“I’m Darlene Crampelter.” The girl declares.

“Charmed.” Rico said with a little amused smirk. “And what led you to volunteer, Darlene?”

Darlene gives the audience a smile that’s like baring her teeth. “I’m gonna win.” She vows. “I’m gonna bring victory to district 4. I’m gonna show them all that Crampelters are no cowards.” She bites out that last word and glares straight at her brother in the audience. Rico tries to draw the mic away, but Darlene grabs his wrist and pulls it back. “And he’s sure as hell not gonna win anything.” She says, jabbing a finger in Stan’s direction, who raises an eyebrow as she keeps going. “And no one else had the guts, so I’m gonna do it.”

That gets a few cheers, which makes Darlene beam with pride. Rico smiles too, finally wrestling the microphone back as he rises.

“Oh, your confidence is precious!” He coos, causing Darlene to tear her eyes away from the audience to glare daggers at him. Rico pays that no mind as he gives the crowd a million dollar smile. Literally. You can see every Botox filled wrinkle and artificially whitened tooth. That face must’ve cost the same as an entire districts tessarae.

“Well, there you have it, folks! What an exciting reaping, right? So many twists and turns. But here they are! Your tributes; Darlene Crampelter and Stanley Pines! May the odds be ever in their favor!”

The applause is much louder this time. It’s very clearly not for Stan. Many people are cheering Darlene’s name. She preens and waves out at them, which makes them cheer more, before turning, head held high, and marching off in the direction Rico indicated. Stan doesn’t pay the crowd any mind, dead focused on Ford and Shermie. He gives another small resigned smile and stands perfectly still watching them, as if drinking in the sight of his brothers until a peacekeeper grabs his arm and drags him off behind the curtain.

Ford strains against Shermies arms again as Stan vanishes behind the curtain, but his older brother holds fast.

“Ford, you can’t. I’m sorry.”

Ford opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a sob. He doesn’t want to cry about this. It feels like admitting that Stanley is…

He turns away from where Stan disappeared, closing his eyes so he can’t see the crowds who are probably watching him. Shermie adjusts his hold so it’s less like a restraint and more like holding him together.

“It was me.” Ford chokes out. “It was supposed to be me. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t supposed to do this.”

“I’m so sorry.” Shermies normally stoic, but lightly teasing tone is replaced with a grave, sad voice that breaks in the middle. He holds Ford closer like he’s afraid another reaping might come and take him away. Ford lets himself be held as he thinks.

He could be sad. He could feel its siren call, like a weight trying to drag him down. He could mourn. If it were himself being sent to the arena he probably already would be, but this is Stan. There’s no universe where he can mourn Stan. Not like this. Not so young. Not torn away by the capitol.

He can’t mourn. Which means Stan can’t die.

“Pines family?”

Shermie and Stan look up in tandem to see a peacekeeper about a foot away. Ma and Pa are already behind him. “I’ve come to bring you in for the goodbyes.”

He speaks with absolutely no emotion in his voice. Reluctantly, Ford lets go of Shermie, to more effectively glare at the peacekeeper.

“Let’s go.” He practically spits. The peacekeeper turns away, unaffected by his vitriol. He doesn’t make sure they follow him. If they don’t keep up, the punishment is the loss of their goodbye.

Goodbye…

This will not be goodbye. Ford will not let this be goodbye. Stan will win. He’ll find a way to win. He’ll come home. These people will not kill Stan, he’s a fighter. And if the born and raised careers wind up better than him?

He’ll survive it. At least until Ford can burn the world down to get him out.

———

Why is he telling everyone he f***ed Crampelters mom?

He's just bluffing, there's no way-

And then Crampelters mom goes to jail for statutory. And he never lives it down.

He had to move out of Glass Shard Beach after High School.

(2)

Believe it or not, in the AU Stan was a good student. Teachers realized early on that the only way to keep Jerk Ford somewhat behaved was to keep his twin with him, because he was the only person he wasn't a jerk to and could actually talk him down.

So Stanley got a lot of extra help and support from the school and even his parents for his learning needs to be met, so he and Jerk Ford could share as many classes as possible throughout their school years.

Obviously they didn't share every single class because they still had differing interests (Jerk Ford taking robotics while Stan was a theatre kid) and Jerk Ford was a Math and Science prodigy, but they were usually in the same core classes.

Jerk Ford was indefinitely banned from detention in his Freshman year because if he was in detention, you bet whoever the teacher or supervisor was wasn't going to be there.

(3)

Because of how catastrophically bad Jerk Ford was, nothing Stanley did in comparison could ever look that bad.

Stanley took the gold chain? That same week, he and Jerk Ford tried opening a lemonade stand only for the Sibling brothers to do the same thing and take all of their business (not that they got a lot because everyone in Glass Shard Beach stayed clear of Jerk Ford even at the tender age of twelve).

And what happens? Well, Jerk Ford said or did something because the Sibling brothers stand was shut down by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), and also the f***ing FBI showed up; Ascot and Dickie had to wear ankle monitors all summer.

Stanley wouldn't let Jerk Ford take the fall for something he did, however, so he'd own up to it. He'd be punished like a normal kid, none of that 'hold an extra Stan sign' stuff.

(4)

When the expedition for the Stan O'War II began, Jerk Ford was mostly unknown at first. He'd been out of his dimension and believed to be dead for three decades.

At first.

Stanford awoke slowly to the sounds of gulls screeching, cars zooming, wind blowing, and kids laughing. Light was hitting his eyes, uncomfortably bright behind his closed eyelids, and he was quickly becoming aware of the sand that was coating his face. 

He groaned, eyes opening without his consent. Sunlight blinded him, and he rolled over to avoid it. It wasn't his soft bed from home, though- this was far more rough, lumpy, and shifted beneath him as he moved. Sand, his mind supplied. He lowered his arms to push himself up, feeling it shift beneath his fingers. It was the rough kind of sand, too, not the soft stuff people said in the movies. At least this area wasn't littered in glass. 

He sat up, taking stock. He was in the Stan O' War, laying in the middle of the floor of the broken boat. His backpack, bindle, and toolbelt leaned against the wall, right next to the box of nails. 

Stanley wasn't there. 

Stanford frowned. Shouldn't his brother have found his way here by now? They both knew where it was by heart, he should have been here!

And just like that, he was fully awake. 

Ford sat up, scrubbing sand out of his hair and cringing as he felt it hitting the lenses of his glasses- he should have taken them off first, whoops. He'd fallen asleep wearing them, as he'd tried to stay awake for as long as he could to wait for his brother. His efforts were in vain, it seemed. 

Anxiety started doing weird things to his chest. He'd felt anxious before- the churning that circled his guts when he was scared, the shakiness, all of it. The tightening of his chest was a much rarer one. Not his first time experiencing it, but enough that the feeling was still mostly foreign to him. Anxiety that made his breathing come out weird, like something was squeezing him from the inside. 

He stood up, dusting off as much sand as he could. If Stanley hadn't come in the night, then something was wrong. Very, very wrong. 

Stanford quickly ran outside, giving the whole boat a once-over. "Stanley?!" he called out. Maybe he fell asleep on deck? Or against the wall? Or nearby? "Stanley, where are you?" 

No response. 

Outside, he could see a couple of kids running down to the beach, mostly teenagers. It wasn't warm enough to warrant actually swimming just yet, but they weren't doing that anyway. Ford squinted, trying to spot his brother in the small crowd, but didn't see very many kids his age. The rest were accompanied either by a teen or a disgruntled adult. 

Taking a deep breath, Stanford placed his hands on either side of his mouth. "STAAAAANLEYYYYYY!" 

A few people looked toward him, but then went back to whatever it was teenagers did at the beach. 

Nothing. 

The anxiety twisted in his chest, starting to settle in his guts now, too. Not good. Not good at all. 

He ran back inside, tearing open his backpack. Old Reliable tumbled out again, but he ignored it. Ballpoint pen and notebook paper. He needed to think. He flipped open to the first blank page he could find and started frantically taking notes. 

Stanley ran away

Missing since yesterday morning

Not in any spot he usually would be

No signs as to where he could have gone

Ford moved to rub the back end of his pen through his hair, thinking. Stanley would either be at the Stan O' War or waiting for Stanford nearby, but since he wasn't doing that, then something else must have happened to him. And whatever it was, Ford had to find him. But, with no leads, how was he supposed to do that? 

Went back to the Jersey Devil? 

Found by Wood Dwarves? 

Taken by The Big Red Eyes? 

Eaten by Mantis Men? 

Between each entry, Ford's anxiety rose. He knew about cryptids, of course, but actually finding them was difficult. He'd only found the Jersey Devil before, and that had been with Stanley's help (and technically the Sibling Brothers, if that even counted. They'd borrowed their clothes in the name of scientific pursuit, that barely counted for anything!). 

Okay. Logic. Methodical. Where could Stanley be? 

It probably wasn't the Devil because they'd both already met that one, and it wasn't exactly happy to see them. Unless he'd gone back for treasure or something? But they'd get plenty of that once they got out on the water. 

Wood Dwarves were pranksters, and according to some, could turn invisible! It did seem like he'd just kinda vanished, so maybe they had something to do with it. But they usually lived in the forest- Stanley would have been heading for the beach, right? 

Same problem with the Big Red Eyes theory. He lived far away from the ocean. Unless he'd been on vacation? 

And the Mantis Man was usually seen around the river, which would be freshwater, not saltwater.

Ford slammed the notebook closed, feeling frustrated. It just didn't make any sense!

He hung his head, looking around the inside of the boat again. Well, clearly, Stanley wasn't by the ocean. He hadn't come here last night. Stanford would need to take his search elsewhere. 

…But what if Stanley was heading here, and got caught up with something? What if he was still on the way? 

Ford frowned, getting an idea. He grabbed Old Reliable and popped the cap. The Sharpie's thick tip was perfect for writing big, bold messages. 

Ford circled around outside again, and went to the side of the boat that was facing the road. Then, he began to draw. A hashtag, then a boat, then an X, an exclamation mark- each letter of their alphabet came into being on the boards, clear black against medium-brown wood.

Stanford stepped back, making sure each symbol was legible. He didn't like that he had to do that- they'd already written on the side of the boat, and this felt something like vandalism- but he had to make sure Stanley got the message. But there was no way he was going to just give the Sibling Brothers any hints. 

"Stay here, I will find you." 

With that settled, he plugged the cap on Old Reliable, snuck it back in his bag, and started gathering his stuff. 

He had to come up with a new plan- fast. 

Maybe he could retrace his steps? But that would mean going back to Pines Pawns, and if he got caught now…

Nope. Too risky. But maybe there were other clues around town? 

He needed to clear his head. There was one place he could always do that. 

He pulled an apple out of his bindle and started walking.

Stanford made his way up the steps and into Glass Shard Beach's local library. It was run-down and not well taken care of, but it was quiet and safe. None of Ford's usual bullies frequented the library, and everyone was usually either too absorbed in their work or their reading to notice his hands. It was a good place to think. It was a good place to reorient and refocus. 

He waved to the librarian, who barely gave him a nod in return. He appeared to be nose-deep in a political book. Stanford found himself grimacing internally. So many things to write about, and you pick politics? And then other people READ that? Dull. He didn't think he'd ever get why. 

There was a specific table in the back that Stanford loved; right by the window, letting in some good natural light, while tucked out of the way from view. It was a good place to go if you wanted to be left alone. 

He went there now, grinning as he saw no one else there before him. There were a couple of children's books sitting on the end, as well as a stack of blank, white paper, but he paid them no mind as he sat down in his favorite seat; back to the library entrance, window to his right. Perfect. 

He pulled out his notebook again, scanning the details he'd written. Stanley hadn't been anywhere yesterday, and he hadn't been at the Stan O' War today. Ford doubted he'd be by the swingset, as the boat provided the best shelter, and he didn't see why he'd have a reason to go there. 

So, that left the entire rest of Glass Shard Beach, or… outside of it. 

Stanford frowned. Surely Stanley hadn't run away, run away, right? Wherever they went, they went together. It wouldn't make sense for him to leave town without his brother. 

Then again, his mind hissed, it also doesn't make sense he'd run away without telling you, first. The Stanley you knew would make plans WITH you, not without you.

Stanford waived those thoughts away with a shake of his head. Clearly, that didn't matter, because that IS what happened, strange as it was. 

He wasn't sure if any cryptid would seek his brother out and kidnap him, either. The only ones he knew of that would do that were Wood Elves, and they lived in. well. the woods. Not in the middle of a small town. 

He picked up his ballpoint pen. 

Things that could have happened to Stanley: - Ran away from town   - Why would he do that? - Taken out of town (?)   - By what? - Eaten by a monster   - Would have been evidence of that somewhere, though, right? - Ran into the woods   - Wildman Stanley? He's never told me he wanted that before - Aliens??

Stanford glared at that last option before scribbling it out. No, no, that would be dumb. Extraterrestrial beings descending from the heavens just to kidnap a lonely boy who had just run away and therefore would leave very few people to look for him, meaning they could get away with the crime essentially scott-free? 

…Ford re-wrote the aliens point back in again. 

He sighed, leaning his head in his hands. This was stupid and not helping. He needed to be out there looking for evidence! But he had no idea where to look…

He turned to look at the papers sitting next to him. Blank. 

It's not defeat, Stanford thought to himself. If people know he's missing, they'll be helping the search. This will be a good thing. 

He grabbed a paper and started sketching his brother, trying to capture him just right. 

He'd made about twenty missing posters, as well as his original sketch page of his brother. He wasn't sure where or even how to put them up, but he wouldn't know until he tried. The day was still young, kinda (it was noon), and he had plenty of places to search. 

He could try to put some up in different diners and restaurants, some down at the boardwalk, maybe one or two at school…

No, school was a bad idea. Crampelter was there. If Crampelter ever discovered that Stanley was missing…

Stanford shuddered, then stiffened, his walking speed slowing. Crampelter wasn't just at school, especially now that school was basically out for summer, with the addition of a couple extra curriculars (ug. sports). Crampelter could be anywhere, as well as his goons. 

Uh oh. 

Well, it's not like he could just not put the posters up. He'd made them, and he needed to find Stanley. Whatever Crampelter had in store for him was worth it if it meant he'd be able to find his brother. 

As he walked past the front desk, the librarian noticed him. He raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. "Working on a project, Pines?" 

Stanford looked up at the man. "Kinda." He walked forward, handing him one of Stanley's missing posters. It featured his brother grinning at the "camera", little dots for eyes, messy hair, his striped shirt, and a backpack on his shoulders. (He'd also drawn a few posters with sticks in his hair or bugs on his arms, just in case that helped.) Down at the very bottom was another message written in their secret code, too- "Go to the ship".

Mr. Walker looked down at the parchment with scrutiny, pulling his glasses down a bit more to read the words. 

"My brother went missing yesterday, and I don't know where he went," Stanford informed him, looking at the poster he'd handed him. "Do you want to keep that one? Maybe you could hang it up here in the library." 

The bushy man turned his brown eyes back to the boy. "I suppose I could keep an eye out," he said, weirdly strained. "Stanley ain't exactly one to swing by the library, though." 

"I… I know." Ford looked away. "I'm just worried about him." 

Mr. Walker's gaze softened. "Sure. I can hold onto this one for ya, and if I see him, I'll tell him yer lookin' for him." He stood up, grabbing some tape from behind the counter.

Stanford lit up. "Oh, Mr. Walker, thank you!" He put his hands on the table and couldn't help the bounce in his feet. "Tell him to go to the boat. He'll know what I mean." 

"Boat. Got it." Mr Walker finished taping it up, right next to a bunch of other fliers. "I'll tell him." 

"Thank you!" Ford grinned. "I'll see you around!" 

Mr. Walker waved at him. "Remember to be home before it gets too late," he called after the boy. Ford just smiled. Mr. Walker didn't need to know about that part. 

Feeling rejuvenated, Stanford practically skipped out of the library. 19 posters and a sketch page. Finding where to hang up the rest would give him more excuses to turn his search outward, to more places Stanley was less likely to be. Which, paradoxically, meant he might be there. 

As he pushed open the large, oak door, sunlight made him squint. But beyond that, he could hear laughing. Mocking laughter, specifically. 

Ford gasped, shutting the door quickly. He had to hide the posters, fast.

He threw off his backpack, unzipped it, and began to rapidly stuff in papers. They were gonna be all folded and crumply later, but at least he'd have them. He just had to-

The door swung open with a BANG! against the opposing wall, and a large shadow fell over the entrance. Stanford hastily zipped up the bag and put it behind him right as none other than Crampelter himself waltzed into the library. 

"Weeeell, look what the cat dragged in!" the bully himself grinned. Crampelter crossed his arms as his two yesmen circled around behind him. "Howzit feel not having your little guard dog around, hmm?" 

"I-I…" Stanford looked up at him warily. Now the Sibling brothers were about the same age and build as the Pines twins, so confronting them was a bit easier than… this. Crampelter was a mountain, towering over Stanford and casting a long shadow. He grinned. The light from outside rimmed around him, casting the rest of him in shades of grey. The two behind him didn't look much friendlier (though the shorter one was all bark, no bite, Ford knew that). 

Crampelter put his hands on his cheeks, creating a look of mocking fear. "I-I-" he stuttered out, before laughing loudly. "You what, dork? Scared?" 

"Hey!" 

All four heads turned to Mr Walker, who was quickly pacing towards them. He stopped in front of Crampelter, leveling him a knowing look. "This is a place of learning and leisure," he hissed. "Keep it down or get out, Crampelter. You know the rules, same as anyone else." 

Crampelter let out a loud tch, rolling his eyes. "Whatever." He side-eyed Stanford, a mischievous grin crossing his lips. "Catch us outside, huh, nerd? We'll be waitin' for ya." 

And with that, he and his posse turned on their heels and stormed out. As Crampelter's form left the building, he turned back around and cupped his mouth with his hands. "READING'S FOR NERDS!" he shouted. His voice bounced annoyingly off the peeling walls. 

Before Mr Walker could react, the three of them had bolted, cackling, out the door.

The man sighed. "I worry about those three," he grumbled. "Shapin' up ta be no good, I tell ya." 

"Umm, Mr. Walker, sir?" Stanford hated how much he was… unnerved by the three bullies. Not afraid- Pa said being afraid was stupid. "Don't be a sissy," he'd say. But Stanford certainly didn't feel comfortable around them. 

The librarian turned to look at the boy questioningly. "Yes, Pines?"

"I…" He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them around each other. "I don't wanna go outside." 

Understanding made its way across his features. Mr. Walker knelt down, putting a hand on Ford's shoulder. "Those three pick on you a lot, eh?" 

Hesitantly, Ford nodded. "Stanley usually helps me with them," he mumbled. 

Mr. Walker thought for a moment, then stood back up. "Here, I got an idea." He started to walk towards the back of the building, motioning with his hand for Ford to keep up. "Follow me." 

Stanford grabbed his backpack and trotted after the librarian. 

He wasn't too familiar with the man, but he had been nothing aside from friendly towards him. The first time they'd met, he'd made a comment about his hands, but that was forever ago now, and Mr. Walker didn't seem to mind them so much now. Just another reason Stanford saw the library as a sanctuary; a place to hide from bullies and to be able to get a clear head when things got tough. Peaceful. 

He'd always hoped that, if Mr. Walker could learn to ignore his extra finger, maybe others could, too. Some of his teachers got used to it, but even then, he still saw the lingering looks sometimes. His classmates, too, just seemed to become adjusted to it rather than disregarding his hands like he'd hoped. It didn't feel like acceptance, it was more akin to tolerance. And Ford's tried his best to keep that tolerance for as long as he could, he did. He thought he was doing an okay job, but then Crampelter would show up just to remind him that tolerance and acceptance weren't really the same thing. 

It was humiliating, to say the least. 

Mr. Walker made his way through the halls of the library, walking in a relatively straight line. He finally came to a stop near the back wall, by one of the windows. He unlatched it, heaving it up. The early summer breeze entered the building, tickling Ford's cheeks and ruffling his hair. 

"Here," the man said, "out this way. They won't expect you there." 

Stanford looked up at Mr. Walker with a small, genuine smile. "Thank you, sir," he said. 

Mr. Walker just nodded. "You're very welcome, Pines." 

Sneaking out around the library was harder than Ford initially thought. Just a quick glance around the corner showed the bullies hanging around the entrance, pointing and laughing at anyone going in or out of the library. 

Stanford frowned. What are they even DOING here? he wondered. Crampelter would rather get sick with the plague than willingly enter the library, and now that Stanford thought about it, it WAS odd that he'd decided to even come here at all. 

Did this have to do with Stanley somehow? 

That made Stanford pause. If Crampelter knew something about Stanley going missing, then it made sense that he'd come taunt Ford with that information. But there was no way to know until Stanford asked him, and he was not exactly in a hurry to do that. 

He had to sneak past. 

The library was surrounded by two other buildings on either side, but they were pretty far away. There was a yard in front of the building with lots of room to sit and read, including a tree with some okay-ish shade from the sun. If Stanford could just make it to one of the other buildings without getting caught, he could escape and start putting up posters. Clearly Crampelter knew already; no point in hiding it. 

The bullies were gathered more on the right side of the building than the left, so Ford took in a deep breath, headed to the left, watched them for a moment, and…

No. No running was a bad idea. That'd draw their eyes. He had to go slow. Yeah. Yeah, niiiice and easy. 

He let out the breath he'd taken awkwardly, and instead, hugged the wall. One foot in front of the other. He stayed close to the library, and no one saw him. Yet. 

He was right at the corner now. He could hear Crampelter push someone off their bike. Though he felt bad, it also created a pretty good distraction. He peered over. Sure enough, some kid was currently adjusting their glasses, sitting on the pavement, while the three bullies yukked it up. 

Now or never. Ford tentatively stepped out into the light, and when no one saw him immediately, he turned and began to speed walk away. He didn't know where he was going, just that he needed to get away from the library as fast as his feet could carry him. 

He'd only made it a couple of sidewalk slabs down the road before a yell shattered his small sense of victory. "THERE HE IS!" one of the yesmen announced, and Stanford could feel the finger pointed in his direction. It only took a quick glance over his shoulder to see all three of them sprinting after him now. 

Oh Moses.

Ford panicked, breaking into a sprint and zipping off down the road. He turned left at the corner, trying to hide from view, but those boys were still behind him- and gaining. 

He had to hide. What's that thing they always do in movies? Duck into an alleyway? 

There was one coming up. They hadn't rounded the corner yet. Ford had a chance. 

He ducked left again, slipping into the slot between buildings, only to find nothing to hide behind. It was empty. 

Their shouts and jeers were getting louder. There was nowhere to go. 

Ford ducked down, facing away from the opening, and tried to make himself as small as possible. Maybe they'd just keep going, and leave him alone, and he could get out of this one by himself so he could keep looking for his brother-

"Found him!" 

Something grabbed his backpack and lifted him up. Stanford cried out in surprise, then started swinging his arms frantically. He kicked, he punched, he tried to wriggle out of their grasp. His efforts were met with more jeers. 

"Aw, look at him go!" 

"He's worked up quite the kick, eh?" 

"Like an angry kitten!" 

Ford flushed. "I am not a-" 

A fist to the back of the head silenced him. "Shut it," Crampelter snapped. 

Ford lifted a hand to rub the spot. "Ow!" 

"Eugh. Get your freaky hands away from me," Crampelter grumbled out. He let go of the backpack, sending Ford to the ground in a heap. His hands scraped against the pavement, and to his horror, he noticed more glass shards here than he'd originally thought. "We just wanna talk to you, nerd." 

Stanford re-adjusted his glasses, finally turning to look at his tormentor more head-on. "About what? About how I'm a freak?" he snapped. "Go ahead, I've heard it all before!" 

Crampelter tutted at him condescendingly. "No, dumbo, it's about your guard dog." He crossed his arms triumphantly. "Heard some talk down by the docks. Apparently some of the guys overheard you asking for him at the boardwalk." 

Stupid! Stanford berated himself. Of course that's how he found out. 

Crampelter's face was oddly neutral. "We just wanna know what happened." 

Stanford blinked. "You… what?" That seemed… weirdly considerate of them. Something was wrong. 

Shortie (he didn't know their names and didn't care) piped up. "Heard he ran off," he grinned. 

Lanky nodded. "Did he finally learn he don't got a future?" he sneered. 

Stanford glared at them each in turn. "What are you talking about?!" he exclaimed. "We have a future! We're gonna get out of here!" 

"Hah!" Crampelter's eyes glinted. "Did he tell ya that?" 

Something about the way Crampelter was looking at him was making Stanford uneasy, but he didn't have a good word to describe it. It was like he was dangling a carrot over his head- a carrot he knew Ford couldn't see. But Ford knew it was there. Something in him was getting riled up at that. His glare deepened.

"Yeah, he did. And Stanley wouldn't…" he trailed off for a second, looking away. "He wouldn't lie to me!" 

That got all three of them laughing again. 

"Good ol' sticky fingers?" 

"All he ever does is lie!" 

Ford's gaze burned holes in the bullies, but they didn't seem to notice or care. "Not to me!" Stanford shot back. 

That just made them laugh harder. 

Confusion and hurt was welling up within him. He moved to shove past Crampelter, but he was quick to swat Ford back into the alley again. 

"Gonna go home?" Crampelter cooed, tilting his head knowingly. "Gonna go cry to Mommy and Daddy about how your brother somehow got smarter than you??" 

Ford blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Lanky shrugged. "Sticky fingers ain't good for nuthin," he said casually. He leaned back against the opposing wall, lifting a leg to look cooler. "He knows he's just the stupid version of you. He must have finally figured out what he was and took off." 

Shortie snickered. "About time." 

Stanford wanted to glare at them, but something about their wording was throwing him off. "What do you mean? What is he?"

Crampelter's fists clenched. He tilted his chin up, looking down on Ford with a judging, condescending smile. "And here I thought you were the smart one, freak."

Ford stood up, moving to push past them. He had a brother to find, and clearly they didn't know anything, so this was just wasting his time. He had posters to put up and people to talk to and Siblings to avoid. 

"Oh no ya don't!" A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Ford yelped, stumbling, but managed to stay upright. Crampelter sneered at him. "Where d'ya think you're going, dork?"

"Away from you!" Stanford leveled a glare up at him. He didn't have to just stand there and take this. 

Crampelter nodded to his two followers, who seemed to get it. Ford felt arms wrap around his, and no amount of wiggling around and throwing wild punches got them to let go. He felt them tugging at his backpack, pulling it off. 

Stanford tried to get it back on, but the arms holding him twisted his wrists, making him try to curl in on himself on instinct. The straps were freed, and Crampelter held the red book bag in his hands. 

Ford's eyes widened. "Hey! That's mine!" 

Crampelter ignored him. He unzipped it and proceeded to dump the contents out, scattering papers, pencils, pens, his notebook, and- Ford watched in horror- the missing posters. He watched the cartoony face of his brother drift out, flapping gently down to the ground in a smiling heap of hope. 

"Hah!" Crampelter barked out a laugh. "Were you gonna hang these up?" 

Ford continued to try to writhe out of the other two boy's grip. "What's it to you?" he snapped. 

Crampelter didn't say anything. Instead, he picked up a poster, holding it up. It was one of the ones Stanford had made that featured Stanley with sticks in his hair. It was one of the better ones, in his opinion. 

Crampelter snorted. "Didja start doodling on this thing? What is that?" 

He pointed to a line down at the bottom, the line reserved only for Stanley's eyes. To anyone else, it was just drawings. The Twins knew better.

Ford glared. "It's code. And I'm not telling you what it says!"

Shortie snorted. "Sticky understands codes?"

"You have too much faith in him," Lanky piped up. "He doesn't even know how to read." 

That one got Stanford genuinely offended on his brother's behalf. "He does, too! He just, he told me that the letters get all scrambled sometimes, so it's-" 

"So he can't read." Crampelter tutted, looking back at the pile. "Would be a shame if your guard dog realized just how much you relied on him," he mused to himself. "Not that he's good for much else." 

Stanford glared. "Like you're any better, jerk!" 

The bully's eyes snapped to him. He twitched, then his brows turned down into a glare. He looked back down at the pile of papers, then around the rest of the alleyway. 

Water glistened off a nearby puddle. 

Stanford froze. "No," he said softly, realizing where this was going. "No, Crampelter, you can't! I need those!" 

That just seemed to make up the bully's mind. He stormed over to the puddle and stomped both feet in it. When he lifted one back out, it was covered in mud. He turned his gaze back to the pile of posters, Stanley's silly grin looking back at Ford. 

The bully stomped closer. 

Ford picked up the struggle again. "NO, STOP!" 

All he could do was watch as Crampelter stomped down, smearing mud and dirty water all over the parchment. He made sure to cover every single one, crumpling and tearing the paper beneath his feet as he kicked and scraped and stomped. 

Once every paper had been covered, he kicked them all towards the puddle. They dropped in, water soaking through and smearing the ink. 

"STOP!" Stanford cried out. "STOP IT!" 

"There!" The bully grinned down at the pile, satisfied. "How're you gonna call him home now?"

Rage boiled within him. He clenched his fists, trying to remember the things Stanley told him about fighting. Wide stance, fast fists, lots of yelling, there were teeth involved whenever you punched a jaw…

He went slack, waiting for the moment to strike. He felt himself breathing fast, breathing angry, and he just wanted to stomp Crampelter's stupid smile into the stupid ground and find his stupid brother and go back HOME. 

He stopped listening. They were saying something. He didn't care what. 

As soon as Lanky's grip faltered, Stanford broke free with a swing. He tore his arm free of his grip, hitting Shortie in the head. Shortie let go, and Stanford darted forward. He grabbed his notebook, clothes, pens and pencils, and stuffed them in the bag as fast as he could. He reached for the posters, but most were ruined by now. His hands grasped a single one; the sketch page he'd made for practice. It was wet, and crumpled, but it lived. He tucked it in there with the notebook and zipped it shut. 

Crampelter watched him with a neutral face until the two made eye contact. Then, he grinned smugly. 

"Good luck finding him now, freak," he jeered. "Not that it'll do ya much good." 

That was it. Ford reached his hands out, shoving past Crampelter and darting back out into the streets. He could hear the bullies laughing behind him, but they didn't seem to be chasing him this time. 

Whatever. He didn't care. 

It didn't make any sense…

It doesn't make any sense!

Ford wasn't stupid. He'd heard the way people talk about his brother for a long time, like he was inferior to Stanford in some way (which was a weird paradox, considering everyone also thought that Stanford was a weirdo who could curse their family if they shook his hand or something). But he'd always made sure that Stan knew not to listen. He tried to humor his brother as much as he could, and listened to his wild ideas about superheroes and girls. He laughed at his brother's dumb jokes because they were funny and because Ford loved him. 

Crampelter was just being mean again. Yeah. That's it. 

Stanford ran and ran and ran until he found himself back at the street that led home. He slowed to a stop, looking down the familiar road. He could see the Pawn Shop. He knew his mom had found the note by now. He could picture her talking to Pa, asking him to call the police. He'd shake his head, insisting that Stanford would be home soon. And then he'd sit down and open his newspaper, waiting for him. Trusting him. 

But Stanford couldn't go home yet. He had to find Stanley. Wherever they went, they went together. Stanley was the one who came up with their little mantra, and he really, truly believed it. 

…Stanley wouldn't run away because of me, would he? 

Did Ford do something wrong? 

His heart lurched. He just wanted to talk to his ma about this. Surely she would know, right? She had those psychic powers! Stanley didn't think they were real, and even Ford was beginning to have his doubts, but it was better than nothing, right? 

If nothing else, she'd tell him that Stanley didn't just get tired of him. Or she'd be able to help him figure out what he did to make Stan think that way. 

Nope, Stanford scolded himself. That's the bullies talking. Stanley wouldn't do that. It's us, together forever. He's always said that.

It just didn't make any sense.

He needed something to get his brain going again. He had his apples- one he had for breakfast this morning, but he still had two more! They were right here, in his-

Oh no. He'd lost the bindle. 

Stanford panicked for just a moment, before remembering he'd left it at the library. He hadn't been able to get it back because it was outside, right where Crampelter had been guarding the door. Shoot!

His stomach rumbled. Home was right there. He could just go there to eat. It was tempting, pulling him to go down the road and go back. 

He glared. Pointedly, he turned around and began his march back to the library. 

The sun was going down by the time he got back. And there it was, tossed onto the ground by the door by someone who didn't care, but otherwise untouched. 

He ate both remaining apples, and something in him was still hungry. 

He glared down at his notebook. He had two full days to look now, and nothing. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING! 

His stomach grumbled. 

If he was hungry, Stanley was also hungry. He HAD to find him. 

But sleep was tugging at his eyelids, and the Stan O' War was cozy. 

Maybe Stanley just got lost. Maybe a nice family was letting him stay the night. Maybe he was stargazing somewhere down the road. Maybe he was in the sky, looking down at Ford. C'mon, poindexter, he was saying, waving his hand in a "come here" motion, it's not that far!