stan gets the portal going and gets ford back. ford is big mad and wants nothing to do with him. stan doesnt make it far before his car breaks down. tries to fleece the people in town to get it fixed. ends up making things much worse for himself. a week passes, hes chased out of town, the cops are after him, and hes maybe a bit starving. a tiny bit. maybe. so the cops find his car and chase him out into the woods, he loses them. but he finds something else.
something hungry.
he dispatches it, but not without losing both quite a bit of blood and all sense of direction (and any faculties he had left). he stumbles until he sees a vague structure. he knocks on the door.
ford answers with a crossbow for the second time.
this time, stan cant manage a sarcastic response.
ford goes from shocked, to appalled, to bemused in seconds. "what are you doing here?"
stan blinks at him. "i dont know."
a few shivering seconds pass. stan starts to list sideways. ford catches him on instinct. before either of them know it, stan is being lead to sit on the couch.
"... what happened to you?"
stan curls inward and winces. "got caught, i guess."
its clear hes fading fast. ford resists the urge to shake him. "why are you still in gravity falls?"
stan struggles to think of an answer. "i couldnt... engine froze over."
ford did not consider that. "... ah."
there is another long pause.
"... and you didnt think to get it fixed, or take a bus, or...?"
stan laughs hollowly, then that laugh turns into coughing. he doesn't explain why thats so funny to him.
"... right. i believe you're delirious," ford assesses. "i'll be right back."
damn him. always cleaning up his brothers messes.
when ford gets back with a blanket and some coffee, stan is either asleep or unconscious. he is also bleeding quite a lot.
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Part 1 (you are here) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7
Read on Ao3
The thing is, Phil is actually doing alright.
He knows he's trapped, knows most likely no one will come looking for him for a few days at least. He knows he was tricked with the stupidest setup that he should've seen from a mile away (did see and didn't care about the consequences, is never above throwing himself on a sword if it's to save his kids). He knows he has limited food aside from golden apples, that this tiny home was built specifically to taunt him in every way, that he won't be able to tell how much time has passed or if his kids are okay or if anyone is even looking for him.
He knows. And that's exactly why he's doing alright.
Because the thing about torture is that it's scientifically proven not to work. That once you know someone's goal is to break you, it becomes that much easier to resist breaking. He knows what the federation wants- they want him to break down, crying and begging to see his kids again, just so that they can make an offer he won't refuse, so they can use him.
Phil is not only smarter than that, but bigger than that.
He's spent eons with no one but his crows for company. Eons spent idling, no goal in mind except what he gives himself, finding new ways to keep himself occupied. This? This is nothing. Phil is strong. Phil is resilient. Phil is the Angel of Death.
Phil is laying curled up on his side in front of the door.
Moving would take energy. Energy he needs to conserve and use for planning, for keeping sane, for not breaking. He can do all of that from the ground, in the spot the walls are thinnest and he has the greatest chance of hearing any changes from the other side.
(He can't hear anything. Hasn't for the past however long. It's probably been less than an hour, right? He can't have been laying here for hours.)
Phil is listening. He's on his side, breathing evenly, not moving a muscle, because he's listening.
(Just the birds and his own breaths. They still come a little wet, a little hoarse.)
He knows what he's listening for. Fit's smooth baritone, Toby's post-pubescent rasp, Missa's soft worry, even Forever's booming shouts. He can picture them clearly in his mind- picture isn't the right word, but the point is he can practically hear them, sharp and real, right there on the other side of this wall.
They aren't. He knows that. But they will be.
(No one was before, those eons alone. He didn't listen then. He could fly then. Could create. Could explore. Had only himself to worry about besides.)
Phil has his eyes closed. He doesn't sleep, doesn't dream. He's listening.
He's listening.
He-
"Phil? Phil, are you in there? Phil!"
He can hear them!
Of course. Of course, all he had to do was wait, he can open his mouth and shout to them now, he...
Phil is...
Phil is not opening his mouth.
Why? Why isn't he shouting? Why isn't he moving?
"Phil...?"
He's here. He's right here. Please, come on, he's right here!
"Did you find something?"
"No... I don't think so, sorry."
HE'S RIGHT HERE! PHIL IS HERE, PLEASE, LISTEN! HE'S HERE!
"Let's move on."
Phil is jolting awake.
His heart is beating. His lungs are heaving. His eyes are open. His mouth too.
Ah. Better stop screaming.
Better breathe slower too.
He is. Phil is breathing slower. He is. He is.
(Phil is sobbing.)
Phil is doing alright.
(Phil is being stupid. Has been nothing but stupid for the past two weeks- the first when he left, the second when he didn't find his children faster.)
You are Sonic the Hedgehog, and you understand how the world works.
Your job is simple. Just beat up Eggman, or whatever other evil thing is trying to take over or destroy the world, save your friends, and go home to eat chili dogs and nap.
You have a best friend named Tails who is like a brother to you, a friend named Knuckles who guards the Master Emerald[KNUCKLES IS NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE ANGEL ISLAND WITHOUT A GOOD REASON], and a friend named Amy who[CHARACTERS MUST NEVER ENTER ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS. AMY SHOULD STILL BE IN LOVE WITH SONIC]... who uh...
Is your friend. Anyway.
You also have other friends, like the Chaotix- Charmy Bee, Vector the Alligator, Espio the Chameleon, and Mi[CHARACTERS FROM THE CLASSIC ERA CANNOT INTERACT WITH MODERN SONIC]
... and that's it!
There's also Team D[TEAM DARK DOES NOT EXIST. SHADOW DOES NOT EVEN CONSIDER THEM FRIENDS]
... There's also your! Other other friends! Like Rouge the Bat, Omega, and Sha[SHADOW MUST ALWAYS BE BROODING AND CRUEL, HE IS NOT ANYONE'S FRIEND AND DOES NOT CARE ABOUT OTHERS. HE AND SONIC ARE RIVALS]
... and... your rival, Shadow the Hedgehog.
There's also Blaze the Cat, who get this, is from another dimension! That's super cool! Well, when you met she tried to ki[SONIC CHARACTERS CANNOT DIE]- er, she beat you up, but that's okay because you're friends now! Same deal with Silver the Hedgehog, who came from the future. Man, you make friends like this pretty often!
Sometimes things are a little sca[SONIC CANNOT BE SEEN BEING TOO EMOTIONAL]
... Sometimes things are a bit ha[SONIC CANNOT BE SEEN BEING TOO EMOTIONAL]
... Sometimes. It. Is. Hectic! But that's okay because [THE HEROES WILL ALWAYS WIN IN THE END].
You know this. This is how the world works.
It's why you don't worry about the little things! Not how you got kidnapped and tortured by Eggman that one time, or how you always put yourself in harm's way to save everyone, or how your friends are all having their own adventures without you now! Yep! None of that bothers you!
... And even if it di[SONIC CANNOT BE SEEN BEING TOO EMOTIONAL]- which it doesn't! It doesn't! But in the hypothetical, not-at-all-true situation where someone might conceivably be stressed out by all that stuff, which you aren't, then your friends would stand by and support you through whatever hardshi[SONIC CANNOT BE SEEN BEING TOO EMOTIONAL]
... Your friends will always be by your side! Forever!
... Even if they aren't right now. Which is okay! It's all okay! They mean everything to you, but them going away doesn't hurt at all! It doesn't make you want t[SONIC CANNOT CRY]
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (you are here) / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7
Phil is preening.
He didn't dream while he slept. If he did, he doesn't remember.
He hasn't preened in a while. Too busy. Looking for his kids, helping the others, it all fell to the wayside.
But here, with no distractions, it has become increasingly obvious he has no excuse not to. He can't reach the primaries, but that's fine. He can just smooth his hands over his wings over and over, picking out dirt and straightening loose feathers.
Over and over.
It's almost a vacation, if he thinks about it. He can't do anything here, has no responsibilities or worries. He can just sit and nap and preen.
(And worry and worry and worry.)
Why waste the mental effort on things he can't control? The best thing to do is try and relax. Be patient. Keep a cool head.
(Some feathers come out bloody.)
That's fine. It's normal. It happens. He just tugged a bit too hard. That's all.
(What if he can't get out? Ever?)
The others will find him eventually.
(And how are they going to get him out? Will they even notice he's gone? He spends so much time alone, tending to his eggs and staying out of everyone else's lives so as not to get caught up in any nonsense. Just surviving.)
(Will they even notice?)
Quiet. He's busy.
(He's not busy. He's just running his hands over the same feathers. Tugging and pulling over and over. How long has he been doing this?)
Phil is busy.
(He's losing it.)
He's fine.
(He's breaking. He's fucking breaking, and he knows it.)
"No? And why not? It seems like the most viable option we have right now!"
"Because that's stupid! And reckless! It's-"
"It's the best chance we have with the lowest collateral damage. Acceptable losses!"
"Acceptable-? … What?"
"I'll put it in a way you can understand- I'm using the data we already have. You guys got on fine without me when… you guys were fine. We lose you, we have no commanding officer. We lose Lovelace, we lose the most badass, strategically minded female John McClane you've ever met. We lose Hera- well, we kinda can't, because we did once and we all nearly died from exhaustion. You lose me? Well… you lose me. It just makes sense."
"… Eiffel… that has got to be the stupidest thing you've ever said. Acceptable losses? Are you kidding me? 'You got on fine without me?' No, we didn't! It was horrible! We were falling apart without you! Don't you dare assume you can just- just throw yourself away because you think we don't care! I already lost you once, Doug, I refuse to do it again!"
There is a long, tense silence while that sinks in.
"… So…" Maxwell clears her throat from behind the DM screen. "I think that's enough for one night. How about we hand out experience points next session?"
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"Oh, for fuck's sakes. I mean, this isn't- can you believe this, Stolas? A- a cosmically-ordained therapy session?"
"You know what? Truly, I can't. It's not as if we have anything more to say to each other on the matter."
"No, hang on, actually. Like, I get that the whole thing with the crystal went... not well. But you didn't let me finish talking. You just- sent me away! Like some sort of... servant. And I'll be honest, I really didn't appreciate that."
"I don't want to hear any more, Blitz. Please."
"No, you know what? I get that I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry for that, but you didn't even give me a chance to say so before you just decided you knew how I felt about it!"
"I thought you made it very clear how you felt."
"No the fuck I didn't! I have no idea what you want from me anymore! We had a simple arrangement, and it was all fine, until suddenly you decided that you wanted something else from me, and the second I couldn't catch up you decided, again, that I just wasn't good enough for you! Well, I'm sick of you playing with my fucking feelings like the entitled prick you are! You're gonna listen to me now! Got it, asshole!?"
"... Alright."
"... A... alright?"
"Yes. Alright. I'll listen to what you have to say. It seems I don't really have a choice in the matter, anyway."
"That- that's just the thing, though! You've always had a choice! Our entire relationship has been about you and your choices! You've always been in control! And y'know what? Maybe I didn't always like it, but I was fine with it. I accepted it. And then suddenly you pulled out the rug from under me and changed the rules! That ain't fair, Stolas! It's not fair to me! It's not fair that you get to have whatever you want whenever you want it and I have to prostitute myself just to get by, and then you have the fucking audacity to act like we can have something after all that!
"I'm not your fucking plaything!"
"I don't want you to be! That's why I gave you the crystal in the first place- so you could choose. If you really, truly hate me, if you never want to see me again, then... then you can. I don't blame you. I wasn't fair to you. I... I want you to get what you want, Blitz. I want you to be happy. Even if it's without me."
"... I uh... I don't... really know what to say to that."
"Right. That's... that's fine."
"No, hang on, just let me get this figured out. So... that's it? You don't... want me anymore?"
"Of course I want you, Blitz. But what I want isn't the only thing that matters. I want to know what you want."
"... Uh..."
"Do you... not know?"
"Pft- Of course I know what I want! I- I want hot sex and gallons of liquor and a bloodbath every evening before I go to sleep in a big pile of money! That's what I want!
"That's... what I want..."
"... And... what do you want... from me?"
"... I... I uh...
"I dunno.
"I... didn't think I could ever... I never thought about that."
"... So... you need time to think about it?"
"I mean, maybe? I don't... I don't... this is all so fucking complicated..."
"It doesn't have to be. We can... start over. If you wanted to. Or, again, if you never want to see me again-"
"No!
"I... I do. Wanna see you again. I... I like seeing you."
"... You do?"
"... Yeah."
...
"... I think I don't know what I'm doing, actually."
"Heh. Yeah, sure seems that way.
"I, uh... I don't either, really."
"... But you want to see me again?"
"I just said that, didn't I?"
"Blitz. Please. Look at me.
"Do you want to... try? With me?"
"... I... I don't fucking know. Maybe? I- I don't want you to go away forever. I... I want you to stick around."
"For as long as you'll have me. Any way you'll have me."
"... You really mean that, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"... You don't... you don't know me, Stolas. You don't know what I'm really like."
"I would like to. I really would. If you want to show me."
"... I don't know. I don't know- anything. ... I... I'm not a good person, Stolas. I'm... really fucking selfish. And a fuckup. And worthless. And annoying, and abrasive, and mean, and horny, and stupid, and- and so many things. Fuck, I even hurt you when you were just trying to...
"That's what I'm really like, Stolas. Yelling at you, pushing you away, acting like a fucking moron... that's who I really am."
"... I apologise for any possible offense, but I don't believe you."
"Huh?"
"You're right that you can be rude, abrasive, pushy, loud... but those are all things that I like about you. And even beyond that- I can see that you're more than a fuckup. You started your own business, you adopted a daughter, you made me realize where I was going wrong in my life. You have shown me so much, Blitz. All that I want is to show you the brilliant, strong, caring, beautiful man I see when I look at you. Please, just... even if it's just as friends. I want to show you what I see when I look at you. That's all."
"... Did I hypnotize you with my dick or something?"
"... I don't like you because of the sex, Blitz. I like you for the moments between. For who you are, not... what you can do for me. Please believe me on that."
"... You... you can't just..."
"Blitz. Please. Let me see you."
"... I... I don't know how."
"Hah! I don't either. Again, I really have no idea what I'm doing. But... I would like to find out. With you. If you'll have me."
"... Okay!"
"Really? Okay? You're sure?"
"No the fuck I'm not sure, this is terrifying! But hey, scary stuff turns me on, so why not?"
"I don't want you to agree if you're unsure, Blitz."
"I'm never gonna be sure. Not until I try it. So... so okay! Let's do this. Let's... let's try."
"We'll take it slow. Start from... friends. How does that sound?"
"... Can we still fuck?"
"That... depends. Do you... like fucking me?"
"I mean, yeah. You're kinda ridiculously hot."
"Oh, my, hahah... But, beyond that, though?"
"... Maybe we can just... stick to simple stuff for a while. Like, uh... I dunno. Cuddlefucking. We could do that."
"Whatever you like, Blitzy."
"... Could we... right now? Not the fucking part, but the... cuddling... part."
"I would love nothing more, my dear."
"Right. Cool."
"Comfortable?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm comfy."
"Are you sure? You're... erm... shaking, a bit."
"What? Am I? Nahhh, that's crazy, why would I be shaking, it's not like I'm absolutely fucking terrified right now! Totally cool!"
"We don't have to-"
"No!
"... Don't go anywhere. Please."
"Of course not. I'm right here. Whatever you like."
"... And this is... fine for you. You're fine with this."
"Absolutely. I'm perfectly happy like this. As long as you are."
"Yeah. Okay. Cool."
"... Blitz...?
"Oh, my darling, sh, sh, sh... It's alright. It's alright."
"... I... I don't know why... w-why can't I- stop-?"
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 (you are here) / Part 6 / Part 7
Phil is in the rafters again.
Phil has used his scythe, an arrow, three arrows bundled together, his scythe again, and his hands to try and budge the crack open.
Phil has rammed himself against the wall.
Many times.
Phil has eaten another golden apple.
Phil has 31 feathers scattered on the floor.
Phil is looking at the poppy in his hands.
It's wilting.
(His daughter.)
Phil tucks the flower back into his inventory.
(Carefully.)
There are eight birds currently inside the house. Of those eight, two are in the rafters with him, one is perched on the chest, and the rest he can't see from where he perches.
The one on the chest flits to rest on Chayanne's duckie.
Phil throws an arrow at it.
It flies away.
One of the birds in the rafters flits onto his shoulder.
He doesn't move.
Phil isn't thinking of much at the moment.
His kids are fine. That story about the eggs in the maze didn't mean anything. They're safe, and with any luck have already been found.
He just needs to be patient.
(The flower is wilting.)
Phil has three quarters of his gapples left.
He also has three arrows (four counting the one he just threw), eight halves of arrows, his scythe, two books (he doesn't want to read them), a flower (wilting), and a water bucket.
There are 647 planks of wood, twelve tiles, four plants, seven walls, one floor, one roof (two slanted sides), and eight birds in the house.
The door is made of iron.
The crack in the wall is six centimeters tall and three centimeters wide.
There are no windows.
None of this has helped him get out.
No one has come for him.
Phil is patient.
His life before the island is fuzzy, but he remembers patience. He remembers the woman waiting for him on the other side. He remembers his crows. He remembers Wil.
He hopes they're alright.
Safe.
He's safe.
(For a given value of safe.)
(There is blood on his hands.)
He misses his family.
He hopes they don't miss him.
(He hopes they do.)
Phil is getting tired again.
(Tired of this house. These birds. These walls and floor and ceiling and nothingness inside of him and himself most of all.)
Part 1 / Part 2 (you are here) / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7
Phil is actually doing alright, this time.
No, really.
That breakdown earlier? To be expected. He's been through a lot recently. Of course he's going to have a bit of a cry, maybe a nightmare or two. That's normal. Earned, even. But that was because he was sitting still. He forgot the most important part of maintaining mental health- movement. Activity.
This time, Phil is pacing.
He's careful not to get too mindless about it. If he slips into lethargy, lets time pass and pass and pass while he lays catatonic, he's going to break. That can't happen. He counts his steps, counts the birds, pays attention to his surroundings. He checks every corner for secret elevators or unprotected blocks. He clears away the foliage. He organizes his inventory. Once. Twice. Fiddles with his things.
(Avoids the chest and the hat and the duckie.)
Phil is doing better now. He got it all out of his system, and now he's focused. He's planning. He's plotting.
That fucking bear. That fucking bear. He's going to kill it. He's going to raze this island into nothingness. He's going to rain hellfire down on anyone that stands between him and his kids. He's going to get out of here and kill and rage and they will suffer him.
He's going to find his kids. He is. He is.
(He's failed them too much already.)
He doesn't have his photo album with him. If he did, he would be looking through it, flipping through page after page of precious memories. As it stands, he can only rely on his mind's eye for it.
(How long until he can't anymore, until the faces of his loved ones become smudged beyond recognition from time and isolation?)
He was going about it all wrong earlier. Waiting. Listening. Laying helpless and cathartic, pliant, malleable. Sitting pretty like the caged bird they want him to be, waiting for someone to come rescue him.
Phil is no damsel.
All aside, he knew when he came here it might be a trap, that something might happen to him. He was prepared for this. It's no surprise, no great loss that he's trapped now. The only downside is that he can't look for his kids right now.
But he'll get out. Hopefully on his own.
The game, he realized some time ago, isn't just to break him. That could be achieved in other ways, of course, and the federation is much too clever not to go for two birds in one stone. No, they're also trying to distract.
Just like with Forever, if everyone is preoccupied with looking for him, trying to save him, they won't be looking for the eggs. It's all smoke and mirrors.
Phil won't allow that.
If they do come for him, what will they do? The blocks are protected, the door locked with no key. It'll take ages to get him out. Time better spent looking for their children. Phil can get out on his own, and he will tell them as much- that they must leave him to his own devices and find their kids first.
(Phil is no help. Has been no help. He's already failed them. He can't be another burden, another weight on the scales balancing their fate so percariously.)
In here, Phil is safe, though bored and distraught. The kids are in danger, who knows where, terrified out of their minds and alone. The more time passes, the more likely that...
(Why is their stuff here, why is it here, why did they put it here, why why why-)
So no, should they come for him, Phil will not accept their help.
Phil is pacing.
It's impossible to tell how long he's been here. He already lost time with his breakdown earlier. Fucking scuffed. Washed, even. It could've been hours or days, he has no idea.
He has no idea how to get out.
He's tried hitting things, obviously, that's basically all he did for the first couple hours or so. Punching, kicking, ramming his body into things, tearing at the hanging plants. There are neat piles of plant matter in his inventory now. He has taken a few leaves out and torn them apart, methodically, bit by bit, and scattered them at the birds.
The birds. Will they survive in here? Will he need to kill them and eat them to live? It probably won't come to that, not for a long while, but it's worth considering that they seem to have no source of food in here.
Maybe he should feed them.
What, his gapples? Birds can't eat gapples. Phil is an exception. The only thing he will achieve is killing them faster.
The plant matter he has may help, a little. There have to be some seeds in there. He hopes that's enough.
Having a problem to solve, one with a solution at hand, is critical to maintaining his composure. The birds will keep him occupied. He rummages through his inventory, sifting carefully through the leaves and vines he has accumulated, picking apart tiny flowers in search of anything a bird might be able to eat.
They've mostly left him alone so far. At first they scattered to the corners of the room, perching in rafters and eyeing him warily with warning chirps at the others. He feels a little bad that his tantrum earlier had caused them such distress. It seems now enough time has passed that they regard him as another part of their home. Just lazily flitting by, perching on his hat or pecking at his feet. Curious and carefree.
(Still trapped. Poor things.)
Phil has not found any seeds.
He throws the little pile of greenery onto the ground and keeps pacing.
