Momo

Last summer, before I posted Last Call In Texas, I had written almost the entire thing. After posting those first few chapters, I was unhappy with the original story, so I scrapped it all. I was going through my docs and found this; it was titled "KEEP STUFF LOL (work back in)". Needless to say, this was not worked back in and I completely forgot about it untili stumbled upon it today. I haven't read it, but I am going to just copy and paste it here lol.

He was just about to pull out when a black sedan, sleek and out of place amidst the carnival's battered vehicles, screeched to a halt beside the El Diablo. Stanley's blood ran cold. His hand instinctively went to his side, his breath catching in his throat. Two men emerged from the sedan, hulking figures with cold, unsmiling faces. They weren't the same men from Texas, but their presence radiated the same chilling menace.

"Well, well, look what we have here," one of them drawled, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. He had a scar running down his cheek, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. "Rico said '8-ball' was a ghost. Looks like ghosts drive red clunkers."

Stanley's mind raced. An accident. They hadn't been looking for him specifically, just stumbled upon him. He tried to bluff, to deny, to talk his way out, but his voice was hoarse, his usual bluster replaced by a raw, animal fear. "You got the wrong guy, pal. Never heard of no '8-ball.' I'm just a simple carny, mindin' my own business."

The second man, silent and burly, simply grabbed Stanley's arm, his grip like a vise. Stanley cried out, the pain in his side flaring with blinding intensity. He struggled, but his weakened body was no match for their brute strength. A cloth, reeking of ether, was clamped over his mouth and nose. The world spun, then dissolved into a suffocating darkness.

He woke to the nauseating smell of exhaust fumes and the claustrophobic darkness of a car trunk. His hands were bound tightly behind his back, the rough rope biting into his wrists. His ankles were similarly secured. Every bump in the road sent jolts of agony through his side. He tried to move, to test his bonds, but the space was too confined, the ropes too tight. Panic, cold and absolute, began to set in. This was it. Rico was finally getting his "payment."

He could hear the muffled voices of the goons from the front seats. "Boss wants him in Vegas by morning," one of them grunted. "He's got a new operation there. Says this '8-ball' cost him a fortune."

Vegas. Nevada. Rico. The words solidified his terror. He wasn't going to a hospital, or a ditch. He was going to Rico. And Rico wanted blood.

A desperate, primal instinct for survival kicked in. He had to escape. He twisted his wrists, testing the rope. It was thick, coarse, but there was a slight give. He remembered a trick he'd seen in a movie once, or maybe it was just a desperate delusion. He brought his bound hands to his mouth, straining against the confines of the trunk, the rough fabric of the car's interior scraping against his cheek.

He began to chew.

The rope was tough, tasting of dust and old oil. His teeth, already worn from years of neglect, ached with the effort. He gnawed, he tore, he pulled with his jaw, ignoring the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as he bit his own tongue. Minutes stretched into an eternity, the car rumbling on, the road a monotonous drone. He focused solely on the rope, on the tiny, fraying fibers.

Finally, with a desperate, agonizing pull, the rope snapped. His wrists, raw and chafed, were free. A wave of relief, so potent it almost made him cry, washed over him.

But he wasn't out yet. His feet were still bound. He carefully, painstakingly, brought his freed hands down to his ankles. His fingers, stiff and numb, fumbled with the knot. It was tighter, more secure. He gritted his teeth, pulling at the loops, prying at the rope with his fingernails. He could hear the goons laughing, talking about their plans once they delivered him to Rico. The thought fueled his desperate struggle.

After what felt like an hour, his fingers finally found a loose end. He tugged, pulled, and with another painful wrench, the rope around his ankles loosened, then gave way. He was free.

Now, the trunk. He pushed against the lid, but it was locked. He ran his freed hands along the rough, carpeted interior, searching for any weakness, any exposed mechanism. He remembered tinkering with the El Diablo's own finicky trunk latch, how sometimes a well-placed jiggle or a firm push on a certain spot could make it pop. He felt for the latch assembly, a solid, unyielding block of metal.

He pressed, he pushed, he pried with his fingers, searching for a lever, a wire, anything that might connect to the outside release. His fingers brushed against a thin, stiff wire, barely visible in the darkness, leading from the latch assembly towards the side of the trunk. A desperate gamble. He hooked his fingers around it, pulled, straining every muscle in his arm. It was stiff, unyielding, but he pulled harder, picturing Rico's sneering face, the cold glint of a knife.

With a loud thunk that echoed in the confined space, the trunk lid sprang open a crack, revealing a sliver of dark, star-filled sky. The rush of wind was deafening, the roar of the highway overwhelming. He was on a freeway, the car hurtling forward at terrifying speed.

He had a split second to act. He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest, and scrambled onto the edge of the trunk. The wind whipped at his face, threatening to tear him off. He saw the blur of headlights behind him, heard the distant blare of a horn.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed himself off the moving car.

He hit the asphalt with a sickening thud, rolling several times, the impact jarring every bone in his body, sending a fresh wave of agony through his side. He came to a stop in the gravel shoulder, gasping for air, his vision swimming. The black sedan sped off into the night, its occupants oblivious to his escape.

He lay there for a moment, bruised, battered, but alive. The desert night air was cold, the stars impossibly bright. He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, and began to limp away from the highway, into the vast, indifferent darkness of the Nevada desert. He was free. For now. But Rico was in Nevada. And Stanley was still a marked man

The impact of hitting the asphalt had knocked the wind out of Stanley, leaving him gasping, his lungs burning. He lay in the gravel shoulder, the pain in his side a searing inferno, every inch of his body screaming in protest. The black sedan, carrying Rico's goons, was a rapidly disappearing tail light in the distance, oblivious to the broken man it had left behind. He pushed himself up, every muscle protesting, and stumbled away from the highway, into the vast, indifferent darkness of the Nevada desert.

The silence was immediate and absolute, a crushing weight after the roar of the highway. It was a silence that swallowed him whole, punctuated only by the ragged sound of his own breathing and the frantic beat of his heart. Above him, the stars glittered with an indifferent brilliance, millions of cold, distant eyes watching his solitary struggle. There was no one. No distant farmhouse lights, no faint hum of a town, no other vehicles on the desolate road. Just him, the endless sand, and the looming, jagged silhouettes of distant mountains.

His mind, already frayed by months of fear and deprivation, reeled from the loss of the El Diablo. That beat-up red car wasn't just a vehicle; it was his home, his sanctuary, his only constant companion for the last eight years. It held his meager possessions, his crumpled maps, his emergency stash of stale crackers. It was the only place he truly felt safe, the only place he could truly be himself, even if that self was a hunted, broken man. Now, it was gone, abandoned in another state.

He was truly, utterly alone. The realization hit him with a force more devastating than the fall itself. He had pushed Ford away, convinced himself it was for his brother's protection. He had lied to Shermie, fabricating a "big opportunity" to keep him safe from Rico's shadow. He had chosen isolation, believing it was the only way to shield the people he loved from the chaos of his life. And now, that choice had come to its brutal, inescapable conclusion. There was no one left. No brother to call, no family to turn to, no car to sleep in, no familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cigars to comfort him.

He was a single, vulnerable speck in an ocean of sand and rock, exposed to the elements, to the lurking dangers of the desert night, and to the relentless, unseen threat of Rico. The cold seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the fever that had plagued him for months. He shivered, pulling his thin jacket tighter, but it offered little warmth against the vast emptiness.

He stumbled forward, his limp more pronounced, his side screaming with every step. He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't stay on the highway. He needed shelter, water, anything. But the desert offered nothing but more of itself: endless, desolate, and terrifyingly silent. He was a man without a country, without a home, without a soul to call his own. The aloneness was a physical weight, pressing down on him, threatening to crush the last vestiges of his will to survive. He had never felt so utterly, irrevocably alone in his entire life

The Nevada desert stretched out, an endless, indifferent expanse under the cold, watchful stars. Stanley had been walking for what felt like an eternity, each step a fresh wave of agony through his bruised body and his crudely stitched side. The black ribbon of the highway, where he’d made his desperate leap, was a constant, terrifying reminder of how close Rico’s men had been. He knew he needed to get away from it, to find somewhere more shielded, somewhere the vast, open sky wouldn't feel so utterly exposed. He stumbled towards the faint, jagged line of distant hills, hoping for a crevice, a rock formation, anything that offered concealment.

His throat was raw, his tongue thick and swollen. Dehydration was setting in, blurring his vision, making the sparse desert flora dance at the edges of his sight. The profound aloneness was a physical weight, pressing down on him, amplifying the desperate throb of his missing kidney. He was a ghost, a phantom, leaving no trace, but also with no one to witness his struggle, no one to mourn if he simply collapsed and became another forgotten skeleton in the sand.

He heard it then, a low rumble that slowly grew into a throaty roar, cutting through the vast silence of the desert night. A motorcycle. Panic flared, sharp and cold. Rico? Had they realized he’d escaped? Was this a search party? He tried to quicken his pace, to melt into the shadows of a scraggly mesquite bush, but his body refused to cooperate. His legs felt like lead, his lungs burned.

The single headlight pierced the darkness, growing rapidly larger. It wasn't the sedan. This was a custom chopper, its chrome glinting under the moon, its engine a thunderous beast. It pulled alongside him, then slowly idled, its rider a silhouette against the glare.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" a voice drawled, rough but not overtly menacing. "Lost your way?"

Stanley flinched, squinting into the light. The rider was a mountain of a man, clad in worn leather, with long, sun-bleached blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. A thick, braided beard cascaded down his chest, and a tattoo of a coiled snake seemed to writhe on his exposed forearm. He looked like he’d been carved from the desert itself.

Stanley tried to speak, but only a dry croak escaped. His paranoia, honed to a razor's edge over months of running, screamed at him. This was a stranger. A big stranger. In the middle of nowhere.

The biker, Jimmy Snakes, as he'd later learn, cut the engine. The sudden silence was jarring, replaced only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway. Jimmy swung a leg over his bike, his boots crunching on the gravel. He eyed Stanley, his gaze surprisingly calm.

"You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet, friend," Jimmy observed, his voice less gruff now, tinged with a rough curiosity. He took a long drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing in the darkness. "And you're bleeding. Pretty bad, by the looks of it."

Stanley instinctively clutched his side, his eyes darting, searching for an escape route that didn't exist. "I'm… I'm fine," he rasped, the lie thin and transparent. "Just… had a little tumble."

Jimmy snorted, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. "A tumble, huh? Looks more like you wrestled a bobcat and lost. Or maybe… someone else did the wrestling for you." His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something knowing in their depths. "You ain't from around here. And you're a long way from any town. What's your story, pal?"

Stanley hesitated. Trusting anyone was a death sentence. But the biker didn't seem overtly hostile, just observant. And he was so tired. So utterly, bone-wearily tired of being alone.

"Just… passing through," Stanley managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Car trouble. Got separated from my ride."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. Well, 'separated' is one way to put it. You look like you fell out of a moving vehicle. And that ain't no 'tumble' wound." He took another drag, then flicked the cigarette butt into the sand. "Look, I ain't no cop, and I ain't no one's goon. Just a man on the road. But you look like you're about to drop dead. Got any water?"

Stanley shook his head, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The aloneness, even with Jimmy standing there, was still a suffocating shroud. This wasn't Ford. This wasn't Shermie. This was a stranger, a wild card in the brutal game of survival he was playing. He was still on his own, still hunted, still just a single, vulnerable man against the vastness of the desert and the relentless pursuit of Rico. Jimmy Snakes might be a temporary reprieve, or he might be another kind of danger. Stanley had no way of knowing.

Jimmy took another long look at Stanley, his gaze lingering on the bloodstains on his shirt. "Alright, pal. My place ain't much, but it's got four walls and a roof. And I know a clinic in the city that doesn't ask too many questions. You look like you need more than a 'tumble' fixed up." He gestured with his head towards the back of his chopper. "Up to you. You can collapse out here, or you can take a chance. I ain't gonna force you."

Stanley looked from Jimmy's calm, assessing eyes to the endless, unforgiving desert. The choice was stark: certain collapse and exposure, or the terrifying risk of trusting a stranger. The lure of a bed, of water, of actual medical attention for the chronic ache in his side, was too strong to resist. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head.

"Alright," Stanley rasped, the word a painful admission of his desperation. "Alright, I'll… I'll take that chance."

Jimmy nodded, a flicker of something like approval in his eyes. He swung his leg back over the bike. "Hop on. Try not to fall off. I ain't got a spare helmet."

Stanley, with a strength born of sheer will, managed to pull himself onto the back of the chopper. The leather seat was surprisingly comfortable, and the powerful engine, when Jimmy started it, vibrated through him, a strange, almost comforting rhythm. The desert blurred into streaks of grey and black, then slowly gave way to the distant, shimmering lights of a city.

He came to, groggily, in a small, dimly lit room that smelled of stale cigarettes and something vaguely metallic, like old engine grease. The rhythmic hum of a refrigerator replaced the desert wind. He was lying on a lumpy couch, a thin blanket pulled over him. The pain in his side was still a dull throb, but the searing heat of the fever seemed to have lessened.

"Took you long enough to wake up, pal," Jimmy Snakes' voice rumbled from a nearby armchair. He was cleaning a wrench, his movements precise and unhurried. "Thought I had a goner on my hands for a minute there."

Stanley pushed himself up, wincing. "Where… where am I?" His voice was raspy.

"My place," Jimmy said, gesturing vaguely around the modest apartment. It was cluttered but not dirty, filled with motorcycle parts, stacks of old magazines, and a few worn pieces of furniture. "Just outside Reno. Figured you needed more than a patch-up job in the middle of nowhere."

Stanley's paranoia, though dulled by exhaustion, immediately flared. "Why? Why are you helping me?" he croaked, his eyes narrowed.

Jimmy shrugged, setting the wrench down. "Saw you on the highway. Looked like you'd been through hell. Got a soft spot for strays, I guess. Besides, you looked like you were about to drop dead. Didn't want that on my conscience." He paused, then added, "And you got a nasty infection brewing in that gut wound. Been festering for a while, hasn't it?"

Stanley instinctively clutched his side, the crude stitches a testament to his desperate, solitary act. He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"Thought so," Jimmy said, nodding. "Lucky for you, I know a place. Free clinic, downtown. No questions asked. They see all kinds. Get you some antibiotics, clean that mess up proper."

The idea of a clinic, even a free one, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through Stanley. Hospitals meant records, meant being found. But the thought of antibiotics, of relief from the chronic, debilitating infection that had plagued him for months, was a powerful lure.

The next morning, Jimmy drove him in a beat-up pickup truck, not the bike, through the grimy streets of Reno. The clinic was tucked away on a side street, its exterior nondescript, its waiting room filled with a motley assortment of people who looked as if life had dealt them a rough hand. Stanley sank into a plastic chair, his gaze darting nervously around, convinced every glance was a judgment, every cough a warning. He was a marked man, even here, even among strangers who were supposed to help.

A kind-faced nurse, her eyes tired but compassionate, called his name. She didn't ask for ID, didn't press for details about his injury, simply listened with a professional detachment as he mumbled a vague story about a "hunting accident." She cleaned the wound, her touch gentle, and applied fresh bandages. The relief of the clean dressing was immense. Then, the doctor, a gruff but efficient man, prescribed a course of strong antibiotics. "Take these, all of them," he ordered, his voice firm. "And try to get some rest. That's a nasty one."

Back at Jimmy's apartment, Stanley collapsed onto the couch. The antibiotics started to work almost immediately, a subtle shift in the throbbing pain, a faint easing of the feverish haze that had clouded his mind for so long. He slept, deeply and without nightmares, for the first time in months.

Days blurred into a slow, uneasy rhythm of recovery. Jimmy left him mostly alone, heading out on his bike for hours, returning with groceries or new parts. He didn't pry, didn't ask about Rico or the kidney, simply provided a safe, quiet space. He cooked simple meals – canned soup, toast, sometimes a surprisingly good chili. Stanley ate, slept, and felt his strength slowly, agonizingly, return. The infection began to recede, the wound healing, leaving a jagged, angry scar that would forever mark the emptiness where his kidney had been.

Yet, even with Jimmy's unexpected kindness, the profound sense of aloneness persisted. Stanley rarely spoke, offering only monosyllabic answers when questioned. He felt like a burden, a charity case, an uninvited guest. He couldn't open up, couldn't explain the depth of his fear, the constant threat that hung over him. He was grateful, yes, but also deeply uncomfortable with the vulnerability of his situation. He was still Stanley Pines, the screw-up, the magnet for trouble, and he couldn't risk dragging Jimmy into his nightmare. He thought of Ford, safe in Gravity Falls, and Shermie, with his happy family, and the knowledge that he was keeping them safe by remaining isolated was his only comfort. He was a guest in a stranger's home, but he was still utterly, irrevocably alone in his fight.

Days melted into weeks at Jimmy’s apartment. The antibiotics had worked their quiet magic, slowly but surely beating back the chronic infection. The fever was gone, the debilitating ache in his side had receded to a manageable throb, and the jagged scar was healing, a raised, angry line on his skin. He ate, he slept, he regained a fraction of the weight he'd lost. Jimmy remained a silent, steady presence, leaving food, offering the occasional gruff observation, but never prying. He was an unexpected, invaluable lifeline.

Yet, even with the physical healing, Stanley's profound aloneness remained. It was a phantom limb, an ache where connection should have been. He felt like a burden, a charity case. Every quiet meal, every shared silence, was a reminder that he was an uninvited guest, a temporary fixture in a stranger's life. He couldn't shake the ingrained belief that his presence brought trouble, that he was a magnet for chaos. To truly open up, to explain the gaping hole in his side or the relentless shadow of Rico, felt impossible. It would be dragging Jimmy into his nightmare, and Stanley, for all his flaws, couldn't bear to do that to the man who had saved him.

The itch to move, to disappear, grew stronger with each passing day of renewed strength. He was a man on the run, not a convalescent. Staying in one place, no matter how safe it felt, was a risk. Rico was in Nevada. He was close. Stanley needed to vanish again, to become a ghost once more, but this time, with a plan.

One morning, he found Jimmy tinkering with his chopper, the apartment smelling of oil and metal. Stanley cleared his throat, the sound rough. "Jimmy," he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I… I appreciate everything. More than I can say."

Jimmy grunted, not looking up from a carburetor. "Figured you'd be getting antsy. You ain't the type to sit still."

"No," Stanley agreed, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. "I'm not." He had just turned 25, but the last year had etched lines of weariness around his eyes, making him look perhaps a year or two older, hardened by the road and the brutal ordeal. He was still young, but the youthful swagger had been replaced by a grim resolve. He paused, then continued, "I gotta go. Can't stay here, Jimmy. It ain't safe for you."

Jimmy finally looked up, his eyes meeting Stanley's. There was no surprise, only a weary understanding. "Figured that too. You got trouble clinging to you like a bad tattoo, don't ya?" He didn't press for details, didn't ask what kind of trouble. "Where you headed?"

Stanley’s eyes, though still shadowed, held a flicker of grim determination. "California. I gotta get my car back. My El Diablo." It wasn't just a car; it was his last tangible link to a life, however chaotic, that was his own. It was his home, his sanctuary, his only true possession. The thought of it being abandoned, or worse, found by Rico's men, was unbearable.

"California, huh?" Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "That's where you ran into trouble last time, wasn't it?"

Stanley nodded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Yeah. But I need it, Jimmy. It's… it's my ride. My only way out."

"You got any money?" Jimmy asked, his gaze sharp.

Stanley patted his empty pockets. "Not much. Enough for a bus ticket, maybe. If I can find one going somewhere cheap."

Jimmy grunted again, then reached into his worn leather wallet. He pulled out a wad of bills – mostly twenties and fifties – and pressed them into Stanley's hand. "Take it. You'll need it. And don't try to pay me back. Just… stay out of trouble. If you can."

Stanley stared at the money, a lump forming in his throat. It was more than he'd seen in months. "Jimmy… I can't. This is too much."

"Consider it a loan," Jimmy said, turning back to his bike. "Or a payment for the entertainment. You're a real piece of work, kid. Now get outta here before I change my mind."

Stanley looked at the money, then at Jimmy's broad, tattooed back. He wanted to say more, to express the depth of his gratitude, but the words wouldn't come. He simply nodded, a silent vow. "Thanks, Jimmy. Really."

He left the apartment, the weight of the money in his pocket a strange mix of relief and renewed obligation. He was still alone, yes, but now he carried Jimmy's unexpected kindness, a flicker of warmth in the cold, hard world he inhabited.

Was working on chapter 20 but hated how it was an info dump of irrelevant info lol so it lives here now. Wasted 3 hours of my life :,)

The neon sign outside room fourteen didn’t buzz; it hissed.

A low, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh that sounded exactly like the Pacific fog pressing against the windowpane. Inside, the only light came from the small plastic lamp on the desk, casting a sharp, triangular wedge of yellow across the tattered manila folder.

Ford sat in the vinyl armchair, his six-fingered hand pressed firmly against his ribs. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the grease-stained boot that had nearly cracked his sternum. Across the room, Shermie was dead to the world, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a heavy, concussed sleep, his split lip already turning a dark, swollen purple. On the other bed lay Stanley. He looked small beneath the scratchy floral blanket, his thick, white-bandaged hands resting over his chest like a broken pair of wings.

Ford looked down at his own hands, then at the folder.

His mind, denied the frantic distraction of the road, was beginning to reset. The researcher was waking up. For years, Ford had lived by a single, unyielding rule: every anomaly has a formula. Every mystery can be broken down into data points, mapped, and solved. And right now, the greatest anomaly in his life was the man sleeping three feet away. Who was "Andrew"? How had the boy who played on the Stan-O-War turned into a shadow that could command the terror of a nationwide syndicate?

Ford reached out, his fingers catching the worn edge of the folder, and pulled it into the light.

The top tab was scrawled with a single name in heavy, black grease pencil: ANDREW ALCATRAZ (PINES?). Beneath it, a secondary note was jotted in a tighter, more vindictive cursive—Jorge's handwriting: The math never checked out.

Ford opened the brass brads. The documents inside hadn’t been tossed together; they were filed with a chilling, predatory precision. Jorge hadn't just been an enforcer; he had been an archivist of suspicion, a hunter who spent years collecting every stray scrap, every medical record, and every piece of collateral his target left behind.

January 1972 — The Bogota Cell

A faded, purple-ink carbon copy of a Colombian prison ledger. The names RICARDO ALVAREZ and JORGE DÍAZ were officially logged. Beneath them, added in a messy, unofficial hand, was a third entry: “El Americano” (No papers. Identity unverified).

A grainy, black-and-white surveillance photo was paper-clipped to the corner. It was Stan, but a version Ford had never seen. He was eighteen years old, his hair hacked off with a knife, his face covered in coal dust and a defiant, terrifying smirk. He was standing between Rico and Jorge, his arms slung over their shoulders as if they owned the courtyard.

Jorge’s notes at the bottom were sharp:

The kid claims he’s been on the road, but his accent is all wrong for the stories he tells, it’s jagged, tight, and purely Northern. Not a Southern drawl in his throat. He gave the guards a fake name on intake 'Andrew Alcatraz' like the damn prison. He lies with every breath, but Alvarez is charmed by the American's nerve. They forged a brotherhood.

Ford’s chest tightened as he did the math. January 1972. It was barely eight months after their father had thrown Stanley out of the house. While Ford had been tucked away in his university dorms, Stanley had somehow tumbled down the map into a South American hellhole.

February 1973 — The Toy Soldier

A note clipped to a requisition form.

I caught him in the yard clutching a battered little green toy soldier. Took it for a closer look while he was sleeping. Faded letters on the base: 'STANLEY.' He’s been carrying that stupid thing like a talisman. He’s lying about his identity, but that little plastic scrap tells me he’s holding onto something back home.

Ford leaned back, the vinyl chair creaking. He remembered that toy. A cheap prize they’d fought over for three days straight. Seeing it cataloged by an enforcer made the bitterness a physical ache. Stanley hadn't been a criminal; he’d been a boy, alone among wolves, clinging to a scrap of home that had thrown him away.

August 1974 — The Plate Registry

A report from a DMV clerk in Florida.

Tracked him to a red El Diablo parked near the docks. Plates read: 'STNLYMBL.' He’s so arrogant, he kept his own name on the plates, just scrambled. He thinks he’s invisible as 'Alcatraz,' but he’s leaving a breadcrumb trail right out in the open.

Ford tapped his chin, his mouth forming a thin, hard line. STNLYMBL. Stanley Mobile. The incompetence of it was almost tragic. Stanley couldn't let go of who he was, even when his life depended on it. He wanted to scream at the man sleeping on the bed but the anger died in his throat. It wasn't arrogance. It was a cry for help that no one had been listening for.

August 1975 — The Miami Manifest

A series of typed shipping manifests from the Port of Miami. Highlighted in yellow was a single night-shift supervisor listed as Andrew Alcatraz.

Beneath the manifest was a scrap of notebook paper with Jorge’s handwritten notes:

“Alcatraz” claims he grew up in the Keys. Tells a story about a charter boat called the 'Silver Dollar.' Checked the registry, no such boat exists. Alvarez believes him because the boy has the silver tongue. I do not. He handles the ledger too fast for a boy from the docks. He has a northern clip to some of his consonants when he gets angry. He’s hiding a past.

Ford’s jaw set. The 'Silver Dollar' boat, the Keys, the fake stories, it was all a patchwork of the dreams they’d once whispered about under their bedsheets. Stanley hadn't been building a criminal empire; he had been building a graveyard of the life they were supposed to have together.

November 1976 — The Pawned Heirloom

A grainy, high-contrast photocopy of a pawn ticket from a shop in Denver, Colorado. The item traded was an old, silver-plated pocket watch with the initials F.P. scratched into the casing.

Jorge’s notes:

Alcatraz was short on cash while moving through the Rockies. Left this behind to cover a bad hand in a backroom poker game. The initials don't belong to any 'Andrew.' The fence told me the kid stared at the watch for five full minutes before handing it over, like he was parting with his own skin. He's bleeding pieces of his real self across the Midwest. I bought the watch. I'm keeping it until the timing is right.

Ford’s fingers flew to his own pocket, checking for his own watch. His breath hitched. Filbrick’s watch. Stanley had pawned their father's legacy to stay alive. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in Ford's mouth. The father who had discarded Stanley was the same man whose watch had kept Stanley breathing for another week in the Rockies. Ford felt a cold, hollow ache

October 1977 — The Vegas Divergence

A high-contrast photocopy of a mugshot from the Clark County Sheriff's Department. The name on the placard read Andrew Alcatraz, arrested for operating an illegal three-card monte game on the strip.

Jorge had drawn a heavy red circle around the fingers of the right hand in the photo. A note in the margin read:

The signature on the bail bond matches the Miami manifests perfectly. The handwriting is identical. He insists on using this absurd 'Alcatraz' alias with us, but the local police reports describe a man changing small street names every twelve months. He isn't running from the law; he is running from a name. Why is Alvarez letting him run the Western routes when he can't even keep his history straight?

Ford stared at the mugshot, his eyes tracing the hollows of Stanley’s cheeks. The man in the photo looked exhausted, a jagged wreck. Ford realized with a sickening jolt that Stanley was running from the expectation that he would never be enough. He was running from a name that had become a burden

March 1978 — The Tijuana Ledger

A collection of stained receipts from the Hotel El Dorado and a copy of a wire transfer from a bank in San Diego. The transfer was signed by Andrew Pines.

Jorge's margin note was written with a vindictive slant:

He slipped. After the warehouse fire, he was rattled. For the first time, he dropped the Alcatraz act. He used the name 'Pines' on a telegraph to a legal firm in New Jersey checking on an old estate. Why New Jersey? Why does a boy from the South have a local interest in the rust belt? I went to the town. I found the truth.

Ford’s blood ran cold. The warehouse fire. He had heard rumors of a criminal syndicate being dismantled, but he never dreamed Stanley was at the center of the flame. He had been checking on the shop, on the family. Stanley hadn't been trying to destroy them; he had been reaching back, trembling, through the smoke. Ford felt his control slipping. All those years, he’d thought he was the one doing the hard work, the one sacrificing for the sake of science, while Stanley was the one doing the real, agonizing work of holding from a distance.

May 1978 — The Texas Motel Setup

A Polaroid of a squalid motel room. A dark pool of blood stained the carpet, trailing toward the bathroom.

The Bulldog and the Blade caught him at a payphone near Marfa. Rico wanted a leash; he had them pull his kidney out while he was paralyzed but wide awake. They left him a cheap sewing kit to let the infection bloom so Rico could 'save' him later.

I went back the next morning to confirm and the place was a slaughterhouse. Crimson smear leading to the bathroom, the sewing kit empty on the sink, thread coated in blood. He had stitched his own flesh shut while his nervous system was still reeling from the shock. He fled into the heat with a butchered side and a raging infection. He’s crazy. The kind of crazy that doesn't know it’s already dead. I don't need to chase him; he’s bleeding out.

Ford slammed the folder shut, his hands shaking so violently the papers rattled. He had to stand up, to pace, but his ribs screamed in protest. He choked back a sob, his vision blurring. 

The sound of the folder hitting the floor was like a gunshot in the cramped room.

The movement was too sharp. On the bed opposite him, Shermie jerked, a low grunt escaping his throat before he settled back into a ragged, uneven rhythm. Ford froze, his heart hammering against his cracked ribs, terrified he had woken the dead.

This is a lost scene from the 1979 'Pines Restoration' arc, set in the early spring following the events in Oakland. At this point in the story, Shermie is the only thing keeping the household functioning while Stan physically recovers. This scene introduces a crucial piece of Shermie’s burden; he has told his wife, Maria, that he is away on a high-stakes professional contract as a civil engineer to explain his months-long absence. The deeper truth is that Shermie is terrified; he’s seen a side of himself during the rescue that he doesn't know how to turn off. He is lying to his family because he would rather they believe he’s a busy professional than risk bringing a 'Soldier' into a living room full of children. This moment marks the first time Stan (who was unconscious during the rescue) realizes the devastating cost of his brother's past as Shermie misses his daughter’s first steps and his sons’ baseball season. This might make its way into the fic in some way, shape, or form later on, but for now, it stands as a glimpse into the quiet collapse of the oldest Pines brother.

The house groaned under the weight of the rain, the wood swelling as the Oregon spring refused to warm. Stanley lay on the narrow cot in the back room, his scarred hands resting over his chest. He was staring at a water spot on the ceiling, trying to breathe without making the springs creak, when he heard the rhythmic click-clack-clack of the rotary phone.

"It’s me," Shermie’s voice drifted through the thin door. It was low, practiced—the tone of a man building a wall of sturdy brick. "Yeah. No, the survey is... it’s complicated, Maria. The bedrock in the Northwest is unstable. If I leave now, the whole foundation is at risk. It’s a liability for the firm."

Stan closed his eyes. He knew that tone. It was a masterpiece of a lie.

"I know," Shermie whispered, and the sound was like a gut-punch. "I know she’s walking more now. I... you said she’s saying 'Dada' at the door? Maria, don't. Please don't."

There was a long pause. Stan could hear the soft, frantic tapping of Shermie’s fingers against the kitchen table, a telegraphic heartbeat.

"The boys?" Shermie’s voice spiked with a sudden, jagged edge. "What do you mean, they don't want to go to practice? No, Maria—put them on. Let me talk to them."

Stan held his breath. He heard the muffled fumbling of the receiver, and then Shermie’s voice changed. It became a father trying to sound like a hero from hundreds of miles away.

"Hey, champs," Shermie said, and the forced cheerfulness in his voice was the most devastating thing Stan had ever heard. "I heard the news. What’s this about skipping practice? No... no, listen to me. You’ve got to keep your eye on the ball, even when the weather’s crummy. Just like Daddy’s doing out here. I'm building something important, okay? Something that needs a solid floor. I’m doing it for you guys."

Shermie went silent, listening. His breathing was audible through the door, heavy and hitched.

"I know," Shermie whispered, his voice trembling despite the smile Stan knew he was forcing. "I know I’m missing Opening Day. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you play hard for me, okay? Knock one out of the park and tell me all about it. I love you both, so, so much. Put your mom back on."

The moment the boys were off the line, the light in Shermie’s voice extinguished instantly.

"I can't, Maria," he rasped, the lie sounding heavier with every repetition. "I’ll send the check on Monday. I love you."

The click of the receiver hitting the cradle was soft. A final, polite end to a deception.

Then came the silence. A heavy, suffocating five seconds where the only sound was the rain.

CRACK.

The sound of shattering ceramic exploded in the kitchen. It was followed by the heavy, metallic clatter of a chair being kicked across the floorboards. Then, a sound Stan had never heard come out of his brother, a man he thought was built of logic and unbreakable strength.

It was a yell, but it wasn't words. It was a raw, low-frequency roar of pure, feral frustration that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin.

Stan bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had spent his life thinking Shermie was the steady one. But this sound... this was the sound of something breaking that couldn't be patched back together.

Stan heard the heavy thud of a fist hitting the hardwood of the kitchen table—once, twice—and then the sound of Shermie’s breathing, ragged and fast, like a panicked animal.

"God," Shermie choked out, his voice cracking into a jagged whisper.

The floorboards groaned. Shermie’s shadow flickered under the crack of Stan’s door. He stood there for a long time, the silence returning, heavy and toxic. He didn't knock. He didn't check on Stan. He just stood sentry, a broken man guarding a house he didn't belong in, while hundreds of miles away, a little girl who had just found her feet and two boys in baseball cleats waited for a father who was terrified that the soldier was all that was left of him.