esjayess

[esjayess]

The mind control tie is in my head. Allow me a minute to put this out there.

It’s pretty widely agreed upon at this point, I think, thag the tie was a messed up thing for Ford to use, especially considering his past with Bill. Forcibly seizing anyone’s autonomy should’ve raised red flags for him, and distraction with the rift is a bad excuse. This choice from Ford largely results in no consequences.

But that got me thinking, what’s the true worst case scenario of that situation? What’s a truly horrible way this could’ve gone to force Ford to see just how much of a mistake it was? And the obvious answer is someone with worse intentions than Dipper and Mabel somehow obtaining the control tie.

Given the context of that episode, Bud and/or Gideon are our prime candidates. Imagine if he gets that kind of power over Stan, and the Pines as a whole? Yea, he’s in prison, but if Bud has the tie, it’s the same thing as Gideon controlling Stan.

Let’s see. Dipper was the one wearing the tie, so Bud probably would’ve had to have kidnapped Dipper and Mabel to get the control one. And if I remember correctly, at this time Dipper knows about the rift. I wonder if he’d still keep it a secret if Gideon threatened to use that tie to throw Stan off the water tower (ya know, for the sake of parallels.) at the very least Dipper would tell Gideon that the journals were at the shack, and he would explain to Bud how to get controlled Stanley to them if he promised to let them go afterwards in order to keep Stan and themselves alive.

And when controlled Stan gets to the shack, and the basement, led by Dippers instruction, who would be there but Ford? I figure they would’ve had Stan tuck the tie under his shirt at some point so it wouldn’t be visible, and although Ford notices Stan acting strange, his eyes are brown, albeit a little glassy. And he obviously hadn’t been paying attention when giving Dipper the tie in the first place, so maybe he chalks it up to him not really knowing Stanley for years at this point. Not possession. Not Bill.

Anyway, here there could be splits in the story. Maybe Weirdmaggedon is started early by a possessed Stan shattering the rift, maybe they just fight and somehow Stan is released from the mind control. Maybe the tie is broken. Maybe Ford finds it and removes it. Either way, he realizes this is all his fault. The kids are in danger, Stan is blaming himself for hurting them, but Ford was the one who made it possible with the ties. He doesn’t tell Stan that though. Now they have to go save the kids, but with the guilt on both sides, and Ford seeing the parallels of his past self, but his past self brought all that on himself, whereas Ford did this to Stan.

Interesting? Yes, No? Maybe?

[esjayess]

I got bored, so I figured I’d draw Stan, Emma-May, Fiddleford and Ford from my fic, the Dos and Donts of Vampirism

Which was based on this post by @aroace-get-out-of-my-face

[esjayess]

Ack. No stop. I want to draw it now, but I’m so lazy. I see it so clearly

Some goblin is talking about things to Stan, who’s got his feet crossed on top of the table. He’s sort of half listening. It’s been a long day. In his half listening state, he just barely hears a distant echoing scream a second before Ford appears. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, and running at a full sprint. He has about two feet to stop before he slams into the table.

But his eyes are closed, and two feet wasn’t really enough to stop anyway at the speed he was going. He hits the table, and flips straight over it, sliding across the length and dragging with him two glasses of wine and a whole cooked turkey. He nearly crushes the goblin sitting on the other side of the table, but fortunately the creature had the foresight to move before he falls off the edge of the table. Ford tries to get his bearings back, and finds the back of his trenchcoat has flipped over his face in the chaos. Not ideal. He reaches out for support and finds something to grab onto. Ideal! It is a table cloth in no way affixed to the table. Not ideal. It does not support his weight when he tries to stand, resulting in him dragging the table cloth and everything on it down to the floor with him. He covers everyone who is sitting at the table with food and drink. The next time, he flips the back of his coat over, and smooths his hair before he tries to stand. He offers a nod, and casual ‘greetings’ to the others at the table before he moves off to his stool in the corner that Stan put there for him.

Speaking of Stan, he has not moved during this whole thing other than to lift his feet when Ford was dragging the cloth off the table. He watches Ford shuffle to the corner, before turning his eyes back to the carnage he’s left in his wake. No one is moving.

“…Well? What were you saying?”

The goblins take the hint, and continue the meeting as though the room isn’t trashed.

for the labyrinth Au that I can’t stop thinking about now, I like to think that Stan just kinda appears in Fords house whenever he feels/has time. Like it’s five in the morning and Ford walks into his kitchen and this absolute king is just sitting on the counter reading the paper like a god while he’s in a stained sweater vest and those fuck ass green booty shorts

Stan “morning Ford …….what are you wearing.”

Ford (only half awake): “Good morning to you too???”

Stan “no. what is that. Where did you get those. Why are you wearing them. You look awful. Stop it.”

Ford

“… I…… I need coffee before whatever this conversation is going to be happens.”

Or even the other way around, Stan hasn’t visited in over a week. How dare he. So Ford just comes up with some excuse to have to chill with his brother, idk like he has to document smth about him or sketch the goblin king from a new angle so he just kinda walks into the middle of a super important super confidential king meeting and just. Refuses to leave. Stan just has to continue as if his brother isn’t sitting on a rock in the corner, effectively kicking his feet writing in his diary like an idiot

(one of the goblins suggest actually kicking him out due to the very confidential fae information being overheard and obviously documented by a human scientist, which is very not allowed, and Stan gives him a glare that could actually kill a man. Everyone’s pretty chill with Ford being there after that. Ford didn’t notice any of this.)

I’m just loving the idea of them technically living in different places but can just pop in. Whenever. And do so much they practically live together anyway. Ugh I love the brothers of all time I love them please

(I don’t know if any of this makes sense. I’ve been trying to sleep for the past 4 hours. I can’t. Labyrinth Au won’t let me. I blame you. Free me. Please I beg. I have to be up early. Please. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE GOBLIN KING STAN SO HOTTTTTT AND NARRATIVELY INTERESTING UGHHHHH) (this is a compliment btw) (I swear I love this) (could’ve loved it at a more convenient time but that’s unimportant)

I LOVE THEM HANGING OUT TOGETHER I LOVE THEM EXPLORING THE LABYRINTH AND THE HUMAN WORLD YES Y ES

When Stan pops into the Human World, he does so in the space of a blink, with no discernible sound effect or indication that he's there. He just simply Is There, like he's been there the whole time. Sometimes he'll send Goblins ahead to stir up some unease for him and up his intimidation factor, but most times he just appears like he was there the entire time, you just didn't see him.

In the beginning this means that Ford startles a lot, when he turns and Stan is just suddenly THERE, but after a while he gets so used to it that he doesn't even flinch anymore. He just goes "you see this shit Stanley?" And Stan will just Be There and go "yeah, its crazy."

Unfortunately Other People are not used to this, and even though people in Gravity Falls know..or at least know OF Stan, when he pops into existence people usually startle because they were SO SURE there was nobody there a second ago. Stan also disappears the same way, meaning he gets to pull a Batman whenever he's done with a conversation.

FORD however, does not have these graceful entrances. When Stan pulls him into the Underground it feels like shifting wet sand under his feet for a minute as the world's change, and Ford often stumbles just a little bit on entry. And thats when its a PLANNED entry.

Sometimes the Labyrinth will pull Ford in without warning. Usually its when he takes a step and BAM suddenly he's standing in the middle of the goblin throne room because Stan is getting "guillotine-d" (the Goblins watched Les Mis, and Ford explained human history. They called for a revolution because Stan wouldn't let them have ice cream for breakfast lunch and dinner six days in a row. Don't worry, the guillotine is made out of wire and foam and wont do anything) and the Labyrinth REALLY wants Ford to see it happening. Or maybe the Labyrinth is just bored and decides to throw Ford in the middle of a Labyrinth run for funzies. Point is, that entry is a little rougher, mainly because without Stan providing a solid guide, the transfer to the Labyrinth is a little bumpy.

And then SOMETIMES, Ford forces his way into the Underground without any help.

Thats always fun. Entrances to the Labyrinth are scattered all over, opening and closing whenever to no discernible pattern, but after their reconciliation Stan gave Ford "the key to the city" AKA a way to open an entrance to the Labyrinth where ever. It could be like opening a door, or like climbing through a mirror, or even running around a trees base until Ford is dizzy and falls down, now in the Labyrinth. Ford has to specify WHERE in the Labyrinth he wants to be, (usually asking to appear near Stan) or else he'll just end up somewhere random.

Which means when Ford "appears" in the throne room while Stans in a meeting, its not as smooth and just. Stepping into existence.

Ford trips into existence. Stumbles. Takes a running start and absolutely wrecks the landing. Eats utter shit into existence. Trips, flails, grabs onto and then drags a tablecloth and everything on it to the floor as he falls into existence. Its loud, and its embarrassing, but if it works then hey, it works.

Which means if Stan's in a meeting Ford will just crash into existence with such a clatter it sounds like a one man band being hit by a car, and then shoot upright, dust himself off, say "Er, Greetings." And then hurry off to a corner to wait for Stan to be done and to take notes.

And Stan just. Pretends none of that just happened. Completely ignores the fact that Ford just appeared with all the grace of an angry elephant in a China shop.

Just. The differences in the ways they appear

[esjayess]

This me? As someone who has never partaken in sonic in any form, and immediately turned to read his wiki once I saw this, I love him so much, and have no notes on this analysis.

I'm actually psychic. I can tell what your spirit animal is if you ask nicely.

[esjayess]

I’m intrigued. Please, if you would, tell me your secrets.

I'm actually psychic. I can tell what your spirit animal is if you ask nicely.

[esjayess]

I was trying to plan some writing recently, and along with the borderline incoherent story ideas, are brilliant thoughts, such as:

- now I’m getting…hrgh.

- POV 1 (could be here, or elsewhere.)

- (Timing. Ugh)

- (Introduce some conflict, internal or external.)

- Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….. (could go elsewhere)

- *Cut all that. It’s not working for you.

- Why would I write that? (How much do I trust my own judgment? What else is there even to do?)

- 13’s…hrgh

- mor punz

- (non lethally. I’m not that evil.)

- UUUUGHHFGFHAKJVRK. I’m upset. I want to write it, but my dumbass brain is being a dumbass.

- I got it figured. My brain is not a dumbass. Well actually it is bc I should be studying rn.

These are clearly the ramblings of a person who has everything all the way figured out. Anyway, does anyone else write like this when they get stuck?

[esjayess]

Ok, so. Here’s this. I should be in REM right now.

———

“We’re getting him back today, Shifty. I’m so close. I’m…we’re getting Ford back today.”

“Yes.” Agrees Shifty. Its eyes are completely unreadable, but Stan doesn’t make too much of that. It’s been a few years now as Shiftys pseudo-guardian, and Stan has learned that inscrutable was pretty much its default expression. On the inside its probably just as pleased as Stan. Finally getting back its…whatever Ford was to it. Stan was a touch foggy on the most specific details.

“Are you excited to see him again?” Stan prompts. That gets Shifty to grin, in that slightly unsettling way of its.

“Most excited.”

They stand together as the portal counts down, Stan hopping from foot to foot, Shifty stiller than a statue, its flickering eyes the only sign it’s alive at all.

Then it opens. A flash of light bright enough to blind. A man dressed like he came from the set of a star wars movie stepping through.

Ford.

Stan grins widely, throwing open his arms unthinking, and approaching Ford. “Brother!”

He doesn’t make it all the way before he’s shoved to the side. He hits the ground hard, too surprised to keep his balance. At first he thinks Ford punched him. But as he gets his bearings that is not the case. Ford is several feet off the ground, legs desperately flailing in vain for purchase, hands scrabbling at the thick rope-like hand around his throat.

A hand that belongs to Shifty, whose face is neutral as ever while he watches Ford squirm in his grasp.

“Hello Stanford.” Shifty sneers Ford's name in a voice Stan has never heard it use before. “Welcome back. Do you recognize me?”

Ford doesn’t respond, still desperately trying to pull air into his lungs. Shifty answers the question for him. “I guess you wouldn’t.” It muses. “This face is new. I guess the better question is ‘do you remember me?”

Ford only glares, but apparently that’s answer enough for Shifty, who cracks a bitter, but sharp smile.

“You do, don’t you? I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. I promise you that I haven’t.”

Stan rolls to his feet. “Shifty, stop! What are you doing?”

Before he can move to try and help Ford pry Shifty off he’s shoved again. Farther this time. Into a wall. Stan can hear a sizzling to his right, and turns to see the panel he was branded on all those years ago. He represses a shudder at the memory of the pain.

Shifty knows about that. Stan knows it does. To push him there, so close to it can’t be anything but intentional.

A warning.

“Keep out of it, Stanley.” Shifty says calmly, as Stan shakes off his daze. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“The hell it doesn’t! You’re killing him!” Stan protests desperately. He pushed away from the wall and that damned machine, taking a half step forward as he does, unsure how best to intervene. In a physical confrontation he can’t stop Shifty. That’s been crystal clear for a long time, but it can’t have all been for nothing. He can’t have opened the portal just to watch Ford die here in the hands of his pseudo-child. He can’t.

“He deserves it.” Shifty counters, face still inscrutable, voice still hard. “He locked me away. He put me in a cage. He treated me like a monster. I wasn’t a monster.” For the first time since this exchange, there’s a crack in its voice. It seals over quickly. “I wasn’t. Not until he made me one, but now?” It slams Ford into the ground, hard enough to hurt like hell but not hard enough to kill, as demonstrated by the pained wheeze Ford lets out as the wind is knocked out of him. Shifty snarls though its now longer and sharper teeth and draws its arm back into itself, morphing its hand into some truly Krueger-esque claws. “Now I’ll show him a monster.”

Stan takes the opportunity to move in between Ford and Shifty, holding up his hands in placating. The murder in the kids eyes dims, just a little, replaced with surprise, and confusion.

“You’re not a monster.” Stan insists. “You’re not. You don’t have to be this. You can do anything you want, please don't choose to do this.” Stan hates begging. Hates it with all his heart, but how is he meant to do anything but beg here?

But Shifty only shakes its head angrily, the way it does when he’s struggling to communicate something. “I am this. He made me this. Why aren’t you like this too?” The kid demands. Underneath the anger is a genuine confusion in its voice. “He threw you away. He hates you. He hates us. Why did you even want him back when he was so happy abandoning you?”

“He’s my brother. He’s my family. I can’t turn my back on him.” It’s as true for Stan as the ocean is deep. It always has been. Shifty scoffs in reply.

“I’ll say this once more, Stanley Pines, stay out of my way or I will kill you.” Shifty snarls. There’s something desperate, almost pleading in the back of its tone. Stan ignores it, planting himself firmly between Shifty and his brother, demonstrating as clearly as possible that he will not move. He looks the kid he all but raised straight in the eye, the same way he did when this child, this child fought him on what time to go to bed.

“Then kill me.” Stan says simply. He won’t run. He’s not leaving Ford again. He won’t fight. He’s likely to lose anyway. This was always the only option for this. He lowers his hands. “I’m not moving.”

There’s a silence as his words echo in the hollow cavernous space. They leave in their wake a silence that could be shattered by a falling feather.

And Stan can see it. For all the stone in Shifty's eyes, he can see a hesitation. A moment of deliberation on the knife’s edge.

It’s not a falling feather that shatters the tense quiet. It’s a blaster. A shot flies from Stan’s left, and hits Shifty squarely in the chest, where a human heart would be. Stan flinches hard from the inhuman shriek of pain, watching frozen as Shifty's hands come up to clutch its smoking flesh. Stan has one second to catch the look it gives him. A look layered with fear, betrayal, shock, lingering anger.

Shify looks so young, when it makes that expression.

Another blast snakes its way around Stan, but Shifty is quicker this time. It dodges left, before shifting into a small bird (Stan remembers reading it a book about birds, and watching as it learned to perfect the details of each species) and zips away into the open elevator, shifting into its normal form to push the button. Ford sprints around Stan for it. He makes it just in time to slam his fists on the recently closed doors.

“Dammit. We can’t let it get away, Stan! We’ll never find it again.”

“It’s already in the elevator, Ford. It’ll be long gone by the time we get up there.” Stan replies, feeling a little numb. This was supposed to be the best day of his life. How had it all gone so wrong so quickly?

“Wonderful.” Ford deadpans, running a hand through his hair. “How did it even get out of the bunker?”

“I let it out. I thought-”

Stan gets the punch in the face he’d been expecting.

———

I’m aware this complies less with the whole cuckoo thing, but this was just the first thing that popped into my head, so 🤷

Edit: after reading up on the rest of this AU, I guess this is a hypothetical ‘what if Stan opened the portal early?’ Sometime after Shifty had decided he didn’t want to kill Stan, but before his choice not to kill Ford.

Gravity Falls Shapeshifter AU where Ford DID lock the shapeshifter away in the bunker and thought of it as a dangerous pet, only because he wrote about it in the third journal (that Stan doesn't have) when Stan stumbles across the bunker and finds a half grown grub creature he thinks "oh obviously this is Ford's beloved son/grub/creature/child!" And adopts it.

And Shifty, absolutely pissed about the whole "Being locked in a bunker by the only parental figure it had and trusted" makes a plan to play the part of poor, neglected child until it's grown enough to seek revenge.

But then. Stan starts feeding it (badly) home cooked meals. He starts getting toys and puzzles for it. He isn't scared when Shifty takes on bigger and scarier shapes, or even when it tests out human form.

And. And well.

Damn. Shifty decides to stick around.

This Stan guy is nice enough. Shifty will enjoy allow his mothering, while it lasts at least for now.

And Stan's trying to get Ford back. That's fine too. Shifty might even help a little. For revenge purposes, of course. The faster Ford is back to sooner Shifty can inact it's totally genuinely and thorough revenge. It has no other reason to stick around. That's it.

Stan asks Shifty if it wants Stancakes. Shifty says yes.

[esjayess]

Guess who recently rediscovered her love of drawing face cards and decided to meld that to her ongoing gravity falls obsession?

[esjayess]

Was reading @esjayess Stan Overboard (such a good fic you need to read it) and chapter 17 got me thinking about the irony of Ford's shifting feelings about the Shack.

First it's his house, his lab, a perfect place for him to explore things as weird as him but Bill turns it into the set of his nightmares. Where he's tortured physically and mentally. Where he's losing his mind. Where he's tricked into bring the apocalypse because he couldn't resist being told everything he wanted to hear. Where he was finally pushed into Hell by his own brother.

Then, when he finally makes it home it's been turned into some cheep mockery of his life's work by the person who pushed him into Hell.

But, as he slowly let's himself trust the people, the kind strangers around him and learns their stories - How Soos found purpose and a father thanks to this Shack, how Wendy found an escape from her stressful home life. How Stan found stability and saftey and a purpose, how the town found new members and a pillar of its community, how Dipper found the wonderful Weirdness that drew Ford in and how Mabel found new friends, new family, and new adventures as chaotic as she is.

Then he sees it. He sees the Mystery Shack in all its tacky, scummy, scam-riddled glory. He sees how it brought Ford home.

Btw here's the link to their fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59722483/chapters/152329459

[esjayess]

Hunger Games/ Gravity Falls AU

The Games Begin

(Hey so uh. Fair warning this one contains violence! Not a ton, surprisingly, but there is some and this IS the hunger games after all so please be aware. I wrote this in. Uh. In an hour as action scene practice, so it’s a little choppy on purpose. I promise, for now, this is not sad! I mean it’s sad in the case that this is the hunger games but this is not angst. Happy reading!)

Sixty seconds.

That's how long everyone has to wait, standing on a tiny platform of death, before the starting horn sounds and every tribute gets to run in whatever direction they please. Sixty seconds.

It's agony.

Stan reserves the right to call it agony. He'd call it torture, but the word agony seems like something Ford would say, and he's holding on to what he can.

The fish hook earring in his ear weighs down his earlobe just slightly. It's a pressure, a presence, and Stan is thankful it's there.

Fifty seconds.

The tributes, Stan included, are all standing in their little pedestals, stood up in a circle.

In the dead center of the field they are standing in, is a totem pole.

Its an eagle at the very top. With a huge grin and spread wings, and what might be a bunny underneath that.

At its base, piled high enough that Stan can't make out the bottom animal, are the supplies.

Boxes, crates full of things that Stan wants. Food, probably. Containers of water and weapons, every type of weapon imaginable, swords and spears and what looks to be a trident, and who knows what else.

Forty seconds.

Going for the supplies at the base of the totem pole is the stupidest choice Stan could possibly make.

Especially when there is a nice, easy to grab backpack laying innocently on the grass about half the distance to the totem pole.

Stan readjusts his feet on the pedestal, aiming.

The backpack has a sign pinned to it. On the sign is simply the number four.

Stan glances to the side. Every backpack around the totem pole has a sign, each designating it to a district.

That backpack is his. There's something in it that's worth grabbing. For him.

Please be rope. Please be rope. He wants to make a net.

The backpack is his. For his district.

Well, maybe also for Darlene.

For the first time, Stan looks up to the faces around him.

The girl next to him on his left is not Darlene. The boy next to her isn't either, but the girl on that boy's other side is short enough.

Stan can barely make out Darlene's ponytail.

The backpack is closest to him. She promised not to kill him first, so maybe if he grabs it, she won't stick a stick in his eye for it.

Stan's eyes drag around the circle, analyzing each face.

Thirty seconds.

There is a boy directly across from him. He's tall, that's all Stan can really make out. His distance vision isn't great. The boy is tall and he's pointing, right at Stan.

Stan squints, trying to make out his face. It's either the boy from eight, or it's one of the Careers, one or two, but Stan can't tell.

Then the boy slowly lifts his hand up, and mimes slicing across his throat.

Oh, Stan knows what that sign means.

Great. Thirty seconds in and someone's already decided to kill him first, absolutely wonderful.

Twenty seconds.

That backpack looks really tempting. Stan is absolutely sure that Darlene's seen it by now, and he glances over to be sure.

Instead of looking at bags, she's staring right at the totem pole up ahead.

No. No no no, bad idea.

Stan's not exactly sure if whistling to get her attention is a good idea or not, so he doesn't try it. Maybe if he thinks really hard at her, she'll magically be psychic for a second and understand.

Run. He tries to beam at her. Run away. To the trees. Away. Do not go for the death stick in the middle.

Ten seconds.

Stan's eyes snap back to the backpack with the four written on it.

It's a bad idea. He should run the exact opposite direction.

Five seconds.

This is going to be a bloodbath.

Three.

Stan takes a deep breath.

Two.

He hopes his parents and Shermie aren't watching.

One.

He misses Ford.

The horn sounds.

Stan is off.

He's down and off the platform faster than his direct neighbors and sprinting as fast as he can.

The bag. The bag the bag the bag.

Footsteps pound into the grass around him. Already, there is yelling.

No canons, but Stan hears the sound of someone die.

There is someone directly in front of him. Stan can only see their feet, his eyes still glued to the place in his vision where the bright four sign was a moment ago.

There is someone in front of him, and then there is not.

A tiny ball of speed and yelling crashes into the person reaching for his front.

Stan does not stop.

The bag. The bag the bag the bag.

He reaches it.

The bag is much bigger than it looked when he was on the pedestal. This bag is heavy, there's something weighty in it.

Now is not the time to check.

He got it he got the bag.

Stan turns, and there is screeching.

He knows this screeching.

It's Darlene.

She is sitting on someone's face down body, and she is slamming a knife repeatedly into the back of their neck and head.

Blood is gushing out of the gore she's making, spraying over herself and in fat, red droplets arcing into the sky.

She is yelling, and she continues to stab.

Stan runs.

On a backwards swing, he grabs her wrist to stop her. The body she's sitting on is dead, without a doubt, and she is a sitting duck, screaming away like an alarm.

Her head snaps on a swivel towards him.

Her eyes are huge and wide in her face. They are wild like a feral animal, and there is blood freckling all over her.

Her wrist is thin. The bone is fragile. Darlene looks like a monster.

She's just a little girl.

Her eyes are frightened.

There is a singular moment where Stan does not see Darlene in this battlefield arena of the Hunger Games.

He sees Ford's face, wide and scared, after an ocean swept thunderstorm, or a bad nightmare. Stan sees a child.

He shoves the backpack into Darlene's arms.

“Go!” He yells. His voice is heavy and loud and panicked and breaking.

Darlene goes.

She's fast. Faster than anyone else because she's so small. Stan does not have time to see where she runs.

Someone else dies to his left. A scream cut short.

He doesn't have a bag. He doesn't have a bag.

Stan's eyes dart, searching.

There is one more backpack, dead across from where he is.

Stan runs for it.

He almost trips over a body on the way there. He's exposed, empty handed, but there's not a damn thought in his head other than the renewed screaming of get the bag get the bag.

He reaches it. There is already a hand on it.

Stan snaps his head up.

It's a girl. Dark hair, bangs, and Stan cannot see her eyes.

The girl from District Ten. Emma something. She is gripping the bag in one hand, and she has something that glints like metal in the other.

He lets go of the bag.

He may be big, but he's fast enough to dodge when the girl shoots her arm out in a sideways, crazed swing. It misses, barely.

It's a hook. She's swinging a hook.

Stan jumps away. He spins, and Stan runs.

He's out of time. He's out of time and he doesn't have a bag, he's running.

There are trees right ahead of him. Huge sprawling trunks that go up taller than Stan can see, and he's not willing to waste the time to look up.

He needs to get out, he needs to get away.

He doesn't have a bag.

Something slams into his side.

It's a body, a clawing, yelling live one, and Stan's pinned on his side in the grass, fifteen feet from the tree-lined safety.

It's a girl that's clawing at him. Stan turns just in time to see that it's not one he recognizes, and its not one who's friendly.

She has a knife in one hand.

Stan does not feel bad for punching her as hard as he can in the face.

Something crunches under his middle knuckle, and the girl slumps off him immediately.

She happens to have a bag.

Stan wrenches it off of her so quickly that it knocks the dagger out of her fingers, and he grabs that too.

This bag is labeled as twelve. It's lighter than the four bag.

But a bag is a bag, and Stan takes it.

He runs into the woods.

He can still hear screaming behind him. He does not stop.

He runs until he slopes downward, until dirt and sticks under his boots become rocks, and the rocks turn slippery and there's a lake. There's water and it's a lake.

Stan doesn't even stop to think. He dives in, straight off the shore.

The water is cold, but not freezing, not as much as District four.

Stan has been swimming all his life. This is a stroke of perfect luck.

He swims, and he swims, and he doesn't stop until there are wet rocks under his hands again, and Stan drags himself up and out of the water on the opposite bank, a full lake in between him at the starting point.

It's a very big lake.

Stan has made it across.

At last, the rabbit-quick beating of his heart starts to slow.

He made it across.

He made it out of the launch zone.

He made it.

Welcome to the Hunger Games.

Lake water drips from Stan's face, and plops against the stones at his feet.

“May the odds be ever in your favor.” He whispers to himself.

[esjayess]

District Four’s chariot outfit

You know when parents make their kids match for family photos? This is that, but worse.

I cannot let go of the absolutely ridiculous chariot outfits for the tributes in the hunger games. They are all so perfectly corny and it looks like they’re all trying out for Miss America but like. Badly.

I also had to give Stan bellbottoms. I put Darlene in a dress, it’s only fair

And bonus:

[esjayess]

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face

More of this, it seems. I just can’t get this AU out of my head, and every single post I see that includes Darlene gets dust in my eyes. Weird, right?

Anyway, here’s a brief meeting I imagined between Crampelter and Ford in the aftermath of Darlene’s death.

———

Stanford hadn’t believed it when they told him Crampelter had joined the resistance. But here he is, training for the inevitable war. Ford watches as he throws spear after spear through moving targets with unnerving accuracy. Bullseyes every time.

He would’ve eaten them all alive if he’d been in the arena.

Crampelter grabs another spear from the rack. Just as he draws it back to throw, he meets Ford’s eyes. He blinks once, then lowers the weapon.

“Stanford.” He greets cautiously. “I heard you were around here somewhere.”

Ford doesn’t respond, only glaring at his childhood bully. He bites his tongue to keep himself from asking whatever happened to calling him a six fingered freak? Are they on a first name basis now? Why did no one tell him? Instead of any of that he stays silent. Crampelter seems to take that as an invitation to continue. He fiddles with his spear almost nervously.

“I…saw what your brother did in the games. For Darlene. I’m glad-”

“It should've been you.” Ford interrupts harshly. He doesn’t want to hear Crampelter say he was glad that Stan was in that death arena so he could comfort a little girl in her dying moments. “Stan would still be here if you’d done what you said you would. And so would she. It was supposed to be you. It should’ve been you.”

Crampelter pauses. He glances down at the spear in his hand, as if considering the words. Without warning, he turns sharply and chucks it full force into the training dummy, knocking it off its stand and pinning to the back wall ten feet behind. He straightens, tilting his head as if admiring the shot.

“Yeah. Maybe it should’ve. But she would’ve died either way. Whether I won my games or not she would’ve volunteered later. They would’ve been proud to watch her die. Or proud to watch the boy die. That’s why they do two tributes, isn’t it? Every district has to lose, even if they win.”

Ford blinks, temporarily taken aback. He wouldn’t have anticipated such musings from Crampelter, even though he must have been allowed to join up for a reason. Ford had voiced his suspicion when he first heard Crampelter was here, but the higher ups had seemed certain he wasn’t some kind of spy. It doesn’t change anything. Ford lets his eyes harden again. “Why?” He demands. “Why did you back out?”

Crampelter must’ve been expecting the question. He simply shrugs. “It wasn’t worth dying for.”

Figures. It’s about the answer Ford had expected. All the same, it fills him with rage. He throws up his hands. “And you realized that then? Seriously?” He snarls. “Every day of our lives you swore you were gonna win some day. You used everyone in that damn district as target practice. Darlene looked up to you. She volunteered because of you.”

That clearly strikes a nerve, as something pained flickers in his face. Ford keeps pushing.

“You’re not a coward because you didn’t volunteer for the games, Crampelter. You’re a coward for everything that came before. You’re a coward for taking that long to notice it was all bullshit. You could’ve seen it before then. You just didn’t want to because being a future victor gave you the imaginary right to treat everyone around you like shit. Including Stan, who did what you didn’t have the guts to do. You spat on him every day of our lives, but he is stronger than you ever were. And now everyone knows it.”

Crampelter barely seems to be listening, looking past Ford at the dummy embedded in the wall. “I would’ve volunteered for her, if I could.”

“Well you couldn’t.” Ford says, forcing every bit of blame he can into the words. It feels good to blame someone who’s right here. Someone he can spit directly in the face of. “And now she’s dead.”

Crampelters eyes snap to his. There’s a ghost of that familiar grief in his eyes. He looks like Shermie when he gets that look. Shermie, who had already started grieving his youngest brother. Who begged Stan to fight when they said their goodbyes, but walked out of there knowing that he wouldn’t. The comparison makes Ford uncomfortable. Laid atop the achingly familiar grief in Crampelters eyes is the familiar fire that everyone thought would win him the games someday. What a joke that was. Ford glares right back at it, until Crampelter turns away. “I’ll be sorry when Stan dies.” He says casually. “We both know he doesn’t have it in him to win, and he’s not likely to hold out long enough for this little rescue mission of yours. I figured I’d tell you that I’m grateful for what he did, since neither of us will ever see him again.”

Without another word, he turns to walk away, not bothering to retrieve the spear or the dummy. Ford watches him leave, glaring at his retreating figure until he turns the corner. Ford huffs out a breath once he disappears, before turning around and heading back to the lab. He’s not worth the energy it would take to argue with him. Crampelter doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Not about that, anyway.

They're so close. Stan is gonna hold on just a little bit longer, and Ford is not gonna lose his brother.

[esjayess]

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face I’ve known about your hunger games AU for less than 24 hours and it’s taken over my life. I hope you’re proud of yourself. I did have things I wanted to do today. But you and your contagious brain worms.

Anyway, I took a few liberties for stuff I wasn’t sure of. So take that as you will. Heres the reaping scene from Disrtict 4, I had to get it out of my system

———

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.

———

Good stuff. Really, every part of this AU is phenomenal!!

[esjayess]

i can't stop thinking about how district 4 is ALSO a career district. stan shouldn't have had to volunteer at all, it was supposed to be someone else's job. did they just chicken out? did they flee to the ocean like the twins used to dream of? unluckiest boy in the world, the only way to save his brother is to condemn himself to death. side note: i think stan could have done some career training as a pre-teen. it maps nicely onto his boxing and i think it makes sense for filbrick too. food is scarce as-is so having twins is a nightmare. one of them shows talent for fighting in his youth? he might just be victor material and the training centre will help keep stan fed so long as he does well. except stan does well with protecting, not fighting and certainly not killing for sport. he gets removed from the program years before he's kicked out and filbrick does not appreciate the burden.

Okay One, i was HOPING someone was gonna point his out, because I have the best idea for it

Yes District four is a Career district. Its considered the outlier of the career districts, as it is poorer. But absolutely, Filbrick had the boys do SOME sort of training, boxing especially. I dont think the Pines are wealthy enough for actual PROPER Career training, and Filbrick, while being an asshole, knows that chances are he'll be sending a child to death.

(He does still, growing up, make Stan put his name in the reaping poll, not Ford. Sometimes Stan even dressed the part, went as Ford, and wrote his own name down to take Ford's place, even then. Ford only has his name in the reaping raffle once, and Stan has his name plenty.)

So, if District Four is technically a career district, why didn't anyone volunteer?

Well. Someone was supposed to.

And that person was Crampeltor.

Eighteen, nearly nineteen, Crampeltor, Stan and Ford's childhood bully, was gearing up to go.

But he was afraid.

At some point Crampeltor had realized that being a Career wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He'd trained for it, been ready for it, but when the time came, he blanked.

He watched Stanford Pines inch towards the stage.

He watched Stanley Pines volunteer instead.

Now. You may remember that in the hunger games, each district must spit up two tributes, a boy and a girl.

Stan pines is the male tribute for district four.

(And its here folks that E goes OFF THE DEEP END YALL READY-)

Crampelter is not an only child.

He comes from a wealthy family. He comes from a prospective family. He comes from a family where each child is trained.

Crampelter has a little sister.

She's been training for this moment her entire life, fresh off her brother's failure, she volunteers.

Her name is Darlene.

Crampelter can only watch as his little sister bounces her way to the front, smiling a smile that is sweet and utterly cold.

Crampelters family cheers. They cheer, and Crampelter knows she is being sent to die.

Darlene is the female tribute for district four. She stands on the stage as the national anthem sounds, side by side with Stanley. She is the youngest of this year's tributes.

Darlene is twelve.

Crampelter and his lackeys start to talk when the games start. They talk of dark things, things that cannot ever be recorded or reported, for fear of retribution. They speak of uncertainty, and revenge.

When the time comes, they speak of rebellion.

Darlene is quick as a viper and twice as mean. She's young, but she is utterly ruthless. She jabs with a sharp knives and sharper words, but she's cute on TV, and her and Stan make a good enough pair for the cameras.

She tells Stan not to get in her way. Stan feels nothing but pity for her.

Darlene is ruthless in training, scarily good at offense and stealth. Stan knows there can be only one Victor, but he sincerely hopes that if he's going to die, that its not going to be to his own district mate who's not even out of middle school.

Darlene makes friends with some of the other Careers. She is first to get to the supplies, first to get away, first to hide and first to strike.

Of the careers, she is first to die.

(Stan hears her scream on the fourth night of the hunger games. By that point he is still alone, but he goes, careful of s trap.

Its not a trap.

Darlene made no mistake except that she was small, and weaker. She does not die from another tribute, or from her own stupidity.

On the fourth night, Darlene is attacked by a multi-headed creature that lurks in the darkness. Stan kills it with a spear, but not before she is mauled.

He knows she can't be saved.

Darlene dies a slow, painful and gasping death. She cannot speak, the bears claws slashing too close to her throat but too far away to kill, and she gasps, and bubbles, and writhes.

Stan knows he should put her out of her misery. He can't.

Darlene dies at sunrise, and Stan holds her hand the entire time.)

Crampelter watches the entire thing, and, though he hates himself for it, is glad he did not volunteer.

He follows a similar path to what Ford did, and finds himself in the resistance as well.

[esjayess]

Ok. The prev tags got me back at it again with my bs. So…

———

Ever since they were young, Ford had never been able to imagine a world where his brother wasn’t larger than life. In the literal way, sure, with his face magnified on the big screen, but also his personality. Stan filled every room he was in with noise and life.

Ford had never thought he’d see his brother so small. So still. Cheeks sunken, hooked up to tubes. Overdose, they told him. He’d been so surprised. Not one drug, but a whole cocktail of them. He was lucky they found him when they did. Now he’s been here for a few days, comatose.

Ford would like to scold his brother for his carelessness. His stupidity. If Stanley was awake that’s probably exactly what he would be doing. But he’s not. Ford wishes he could ask what the hell Stan had even been thinking, taking hard drugs like that, but he can’t. There was a time when he wouldn’t have had to. When he would just know what drove Stanley here. But now he can only guess. They hadn’t really talked in so long. Ford got busy with his research, and even when he had a second to reach for the phone and his fingers itched to dial Stanley’s number, he always found a reason not to. Stan was probably busy, after all. Big Hollywood actor that he was. And Stan’s mutual silence had only furthered that belief.

Although it wasn’t like the tension between them had started with distance. They had still lived under the same roof when a quiet resentment Ford refused to put a name to had started to develop. He’d thought Stan hadn’t noticed, but between them, Ford was never the actor. Stan had begun to distance himself at about the same time Pa had decided that Ford's intelligence might be worth something. Or was it before, and Ford hadn’t noticed? Whatever the details, something changed. Stan had stopped not smiling. That might sound like a good thing, but he was never not smiling. Never angry or sad or neutral. Even when he came home late and drunk and the shine in his eyes that Ford chalked up to inebriation looked almost like tears, he was still smiling.

And it looked real, that smile. Stan was a popular actor for a reason, he was talented. In spite of the fact that’s knew how skilled Stan was, Ford thought that smile was real. Because he was supposed to know when Stan was lying. It wasn’t until a few days after he went to college that he began doubting what had always been true about Stanley. He’d called home, hoping to talk to his twin, but Ma said he’d left. Unbeknownst to Ford, Pa had been on Stan’s ass about the declining quality of the roles he was offered. And without Ford there, Pa’s critiques had gotten more…forceful. Ma said the two of them had it out, screaming insults back and forth, and then Pa threw him out. And that was two days ago. According to Ma, based on what she’d heard of their argument this wasn’t a new thing. It was hard to say when exactly the roles Stan was getting stopped being enough to appease their father. It was hard to say because Stan hadn’t told him. Hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Ford. When had they stopped telling each other things?

Stan’s smile is seared into Ford’s head now. He can hardly remember the last time he saw that face pull any other expression off screen. On screen Stan was everything. He was angry, and happy, and surprised, and sad, and desolate, and hopeful, and all those things combined, but he only ever showed happy in their real life. Ford had taken too long to notice that.

He hadn’t known how to contact Stan after he was kicked out. He hadn’t even known if his twin was alive until Stan started climbing the ranks in Hollywood and appearing in films.

Hollywood. California. Only a few short hours from West Coast Tech. Stan was only a few hours away and he hadn’t even attempted to tell Ford he was ok. Ford had felt something like betrayal. As relieved he was that Stan was ok, and as distant of a pride he felt when Stan started getting higher and higher caliber roles, the dead air between them stung. And it continued to sting even when they eventually communicated again. Their mom forced them to call, and they had. Terse and awkward and overly formal though the conversation may have been. Sometimes he’d see Stan on the screen and want to talk about something more than the nothing between them, but he never would.

And now here was Stanley. Weak, and half dead. The doctor said he was likely to recover, so at least there was that. They said he would probably wake up fairly soon. Ford hopes Stan won’t have the energy to smile when he does. He hopes Stan won’t have the energy to be anything but honest, but he probably would. At this point, Stan probably lies about being fine even in his dreams. Ford sighs, standing up and grabbing his coat to head to the hotel across the street. Visiting hours are over. “I’ll be back in the morning, Stanley. Don’t go anywhere.” Ford waits as if he’s expecting to hear Stan snicker something about ‘where would I even go?’, but silence answers him. Ford pauses in the doorway for just a moment as he leaves the room. He always does.

The lights start flashing the moment Ford steps outside. He’s gotten relatively used to it since he got here, but he still hates it. The flashes on every move he made, the exposure. He wondered how Stanley possibly dealt with it. Sure, his twin liked attention, but he also liked his privacy. His secrets. It was bizarre to Ford that a person could exist under such constant scrutiny.

The paparazzi are shouting questions about Stan’s condition. Ford does his best to tune them out, but a few loud voices slip above. They call him ��Mr. Pines’. As tempting as it is to tell them to call him ‘Dr.’ he knows engaging is a trap.

“Mr. Pines! Mr. Pines! Is it true that Stan Pines had an overdose?”

“Mr Pines! Any comment on your brother's recent hospitalization?”

“Hey! Hey Mr.Pines! How might this affect the production of Doom Stars II: the Battlening?”

Ford stops.

He’d watched the first Doom Stars. Stanley played the main character, Captain Lazarus. He’d played the role well, in spite of a sloppy script that was disloyal to the source material. Watching Stan play that part on the big screen had made Ford a little sad that he wasn’t there to celebrate the fact that Stan had gotten that part. As much as he’d spent all two hours of that movie whining about the mistakes they’d made, he had to admit, Stanley brought something special to the film that he hadn’t expected. It was almost enough to redeem the film in Ford's eyes. It was definitely enough that it would have made him watch the sequel just to see how Stanley dealt with Captain Lazarus’ fall from grace as he had to make the difficult decision of whether it was worth sacrificing his team for a cause. Ford had been actually excited to see Stan back in the role. When the first one came out, he’d wanted badly to ask Stanley about his interpretation for the character. How much of Stan’s portrayal was built off their late night conversations from underneath the bedsheets? Was that why Stanley said in interviews it was one of his favorite roles? Ford had paced near the phone for a long time that day.

But none of that mattered anymore. Ford turns to face the reporter who asked the question, approaches slowly, and stops half a foot away.

“Excuse me?”

The reporter must not be good at sensing the tension in Ford’s tone. Just happy to be the one who finally got Stan Pines' elusive family to make some kind of statement. He shoves his recorder closer to Ford’s face.

“Fans have been eagerly awaiting the second Doom Stars after the success of the first. Given Stan Pine’s recent health issues, should they expect-“

Ford doesn’t let him finish. He punches the reporter hard, square in the face. The man falls back, his voice recorder shattering on the ground. Ford can’t make out the man’s expression over the blinding flash of a million cameras capturing this moment. Distantly, Ford knows something like this could end his scientific career. Distantly, he sees a charge of assault in his future. But none of that matters right now. He grabs the man by the shirt and hauls him back up. His nose is bleeding and his eyes are wide like a prey animal, but none of that matters. The other reporters have given them a bubble of space, cameras still flashing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! My brother is in the hospital. He could be dying or dead, and all you care about is some stupid movie? If I put you in the hospital right now, how do you think you’d feel if all anyone cared about was how it affected them?”

The reporter's eyes get wider as he grabs at Ford's hands and tries to pry them off. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“Yes. You did mean.” Ford growls, but he lets the man go, watching apathetically as he hits the ground hard and scrambles away.

He turns to face the rest of the reporters, circling around him, vying for the best shot. They all seem to wilt a little under his glare. He can see one spot of blood on the left lens of his glasses, making him wonder how bloody he’ll appear once these pictures hit the tabloids. And how little of the story these morons will bother to tell with it. Ford's lip curls as the cameras keep flashing. “All of you. All of you come here to ask you’re stupid questions as though you have a right to know. None of you even care! He’s not even a person to you, just a story to profit from.”

The only response he gets is disconnected muttering and more camera clicks. Ford huffs, anger draining just as fast as it came, leaving exhaustion in its wake. In the past he’s had to push through the crowd, eager for an update on Stan’s condition, but today they clear a wide path for him.

Tomorrow this won’t be good. He can expect that reporter to press charges. There’s no shortage of evidence, that’s for sure. A hundred photos will surely be plastered on the internet talking about Stan Pines unstable brother lost it on some innocent reporter.

All the same, he can’t bring himself to regret it. When they were younger people had seen Ford as a freak, and Stan had always been the one throwing punches at anyone who said such things. Even after he started to become a star at such a young age, he kept fighting. Even when Pa yelled that Stan should just let them beat up Ford, because Stan’s face was the moneymaker, Stan kept fighting. The sting on Ford’s knuckles is satisfying. It reminds him of what it felt like to be a part of his twin's life. Stan was always there for him when people didn’t see Ford as worth being treated like a person. Apparently all the fame in the world doesn’t exempt Stan from the same fate. But this time, Ford will be here.

He’ll knock some sense into his brother, and wipe that damned, too realistic smile off his face. It was high time someone actually checked on what was underneath it.

———

This about what you had in mind, maybe? Something along these lines?

Stanley model baby going further into those child actors with toxic parents. Fillbrick milking the crap out of it, taking all the money and putting Stan through routines that are especially bad for his mental and physical health.

[esjayess]

It’s always your prompts that get me, isn’t it. I just need to give it a happy ending real quick. I know we love our angst here, but I just…

P.S I don’t feel like writing a proper intro, so let’s just say they fought some sea monster or something, and are discussing how it all went down.

———

Stan laughs, and looks down at his his coffee. “Nah, come on Pointdexter. We both know an idiot like me couldn’t have done it without you.”

“What?”

Stan glances up as the sudden switch in tone to see an almost offended look on Fords face. He sighs. He wasn’t looking to start a fight, it had merely been an observation.

“Never mind, Six.”

Ford’s frown deepens “No, not ‘never mind’. I don’t think you’re an idiot Stan.”

Stan chuckles. “Sure. Ok.”

“I’m serious. I don’t.”

“Right. Of course.”

Fords frown morphs into a scowl at the dissmissive tone. “Don’t do that. Why are you so certain I think that?”

Stan narrows his eyes, trying to parse whether Ford truly doesn’t remember writing it down or if just hadn’t realized Stan had read that particular entry.

“…Ford, you’ve lied to me before. You’ve lied to the kids, to those agents. I don’t think you’re above lying. But if there’s one place I can count on you to always tell the truth it’s in your journals. I’ve heard you say before that to violate the scientific integrity of your written word would be to betray your very mind, do you remember that? I can trust what I read there more than I can trust any of the words you say.”

“What you…” Ford hesitates, reaching into his custom inner pocket on his coat to pull out his blue journal, emblazoned with a six fingered hand encircling the symbol from Stan’s old fez. Stan eyes him wearily with an eyebrow raised as he frantically flips through the pages. After a moment, he looks up and meets Stan’s eyes again.

“I didn’t…where did you read that?”

“Not that journal, Six. The third one. I couldn’t help it, I went snooping after you came back. You just… Well, I’m sure you remember. Your mind’s a steel trap, unlike-“

“Don’t.” Ford interrupts sharply. Ah, right. He was rather touchy about Stan making jokes about the whole memory thing. Stan gives an apologetic smile and shrug as the furrow in Fords brow deepens.

“The third…the third journal burned during Weirdmaggedon with the other two. That was months ago.”

Stan dips his head in a nod, causing Ford’s face to fall.

“You’ve believed I think that about you this entire time? Why would you not say anything?”

“What would I say? It ain’t like you were wrong, Stanford.”

“But I was wrong! I was wrong about so much. If you’ll recall, I also wrote extensively about the benevolence of my muse, Bill Cipher. I wrote about how Fiddleford sought to betray our work just. because he had valid concerns about the portal. I wrote a great many untrue things in those journals. And maybe that makes me a horrible scientist…”

Ford chews the inside of his cheek in thought for a moment, before he flips his journal to a clean page, and produces a quill and sealed ink jar from his pocket. Stan blinks.

“Do you seriously carry those around everywhere?”

Ford ignores him, prepping his writing materials, his focus solely on the blank white paper. He adds a date, and frowns at the title spot for a second, before shrugging and leaving it blank. He doesn’t look up at Stan as he begins to write, narrating as he does.

“I stand by my idea about scientific integrity and the written word. But while a good scientist should always strive for honesty, it is also his responsibility to be conscious of bias and potential errors within his work. And should he fail to acknowledge his bias, it is his responsibility to admit, and attempt to correct his errors. I have already written a new journal page that attempts to correct my previous mistake, but in not showing it to Stanley, about whom the error was made, I have perhaps committed a new, and even more grievous one. As that entry is not in the journal I have on hand, I feel it necessary to reiterate the relevant points here.”

Stan swallows. “Ford, you don’t have to-“

Ford speaks louder. “To say that during my time that I have been prone to mistakes would be an understatement of gross proportions. One such mistake was beliving myself to be the hero while my brother was a simpleton. This was a lie I told myself in a fit of anger. It bears no truth. In all my travels across the multiverse I have never met anyone more clever, or charismatic, or tricky. In all of history I’ve never heard tell of a being who could so thoroughly trick Bill Cipher. Certainly no one who could kill the demon. It was thought to be impossible before Stanley. Clearly I couldn’t trick him, so already his smarts are leagues above my own in these areas.”

Stan scoffs. “Ok, come on. That’s pushing it-“

Ford speaks even louder, practically yelling. “Furthermore, his bravery, selflessness, and immeasurable strength of will are nothing short of extraordinary. He was always a hero, though I was not capable of seeing it for a long time.”

He pauses for a moment, before finally looking up from the page and back at Stan. When he speaks again, his tone is significantly softer. “Through his intelligence, and his selflessness he managed to save the world in a way I never would have thought of. To have dismissed his mind in my previous writings was the folly of a fool. I hope I can begin to restore my integrity by setting straight this woefully misaligned record: I am not so humble to say that there are no areas in which I know more than Stanley, but the brilliant way his mind works is something I’m certain I will never have a full comprehension of. It is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Dangerous to those who would challenge it in its cunning. Remarkable in its ingenuity. Unique, even in the vastness of the multiverse.

Stan lets out a shaky breath as Ford finally lays his quill down on the table. They sit in silence for a moment before Ford taps the ink to check for dryness, closes the book and tucks it away.

“There. You trust my written word more than anything I say, now it’s all written down.”

“You…Come on, you didn’t really mean all that.”

“You said yourself that you could always count on me to speak the truth in the journals. Before…well, I didn’t say that about you because it was true, I said it because I was angry. And I didn’t know how to process that anger. Maybe I even thought I believed that while I wrote it. But a part of your intelligence is tricking people into underestimating you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that. Maybe I just wasn’t smart enough to see through that facade.”

Stan snorts. “You? Not smart enough?”

Ford gives a small grin. “There are many things I’m not smart enough for. I used to not be smart enough to admit that. Now I am. That���s progress, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re such a nerd. A sappy nerd.” Stan grumbles, trying to be inconspicuous as he swipes at his own eyes. Ford tilts his head, a smirk on his face.

“Indeed. As are you.”

———

Ok, I’m satisfied. I do know that Ford had already written a new, more positive entry on Stan, but I just like the idea of having him write this new thing right in front of Stan. That’s all.

Me? Oh don't mind me- just thinking about how Stanley was called an idiot pratically all his life, felt like one most likely and totally believed that too, how he probably felt hopeless, like the biggest dumbass when he had to try get the portal to work and the first thing Stanford, his twin who reassured he wasn't an idiot, the only person who ever truly believed in him, went ahead and not only acknowledged but agreed with all those things first thing back from the portal by writing it in his journal.

[esjayess]

I’m just gonna…

———

There was a time when Stan loved acting. So far removed from the now he can hardly recall it, but there must have been a time, right? Acting was storytelling with your face, and Stan had always loved storytelling. When he and Ford were very small and in trouble for one reason or another, Stan had loved to keep them entertained, dramatically acting out the stories as Ford would read them from the book. He thinks he loved it then. Something he could be good at. It was nice.

In the beginning it was nice too. People had called him a prodigy. And the more roles he took the more people praised him a star, and the closer Pa got to maybe being impressed. They’d go see a movie, and Stan would be right there, on the screen, and it would feel magical. One would be shocked how fast the feeling fades, but in the beginning it was magical. It didn’t matter that the kids at school didn’t seem to know what to do with him. He had Ford, and that was all he ever needed. So what if the meaner kids mocked the roles he’d played behind his back while the nicer ones only ever talked to him because ‘Can I have a picture? My friend doesn’t believe I go to school with you.’ So what if as time went on his real life felt more and more like a show he had to perform for? At least Pa was happy. At least Pa cared now. Told the teachers something that made them force Ford’s bullies to back off because Stan would always jump into the fight, and Stan’s face wasn’t allowed to have bruises. Cared enough to make sure Stan stayed ‘healthy’ with all sorts of weird diets that left him feeling drained, but would surely be worth it in the long run. It was all for his future, after all. His career. So what if the roles he’d been playing ever since he hit the teens were uncomfortable? He was going to make it, that’s what everyone had always said.

So what if he didn’t love acting anymore? So what if it felt like a part of him was dying every time he stepped in front of a camera? So what if more and more of his private life was stripped away until he thought he might give anything to just do something, anything, that wouldn’t make the news. None of that mattered. What mattered was that he was making money. And that made Pa happy. And even if everyone in the world only ever saw Stan as the parts he played, at least one person knew the truth. Ford knew the truth. And distant as they’d gotten in recent years, with Ford burying himself in his schoolwork, and Stan always at some rehearsal or shoot. Ford would always know Stan, and even if no one else did, that was enough.

Stan can’t quite pinpoint when Ford’s pride in Stan had started to shift into disdain. It hadn’t happened all at once. A million top marks ignored in favor of the checks Stan brought home. The praise of his teachers brushed aside in favor of a small time award Stan had won. An academic competition no one had attended because Pa had heard about a last minute casting call. Stan hadn’t seen the tiny pieces for what they until suddenly, Stan offhandedly mentioning being tired after a long day of shooting was met with a derisive scoff. Him trying to open up about the pressure after a few bad reviews were dismissed with a ‘It’s only a few critics Stan. Everyone loves you.’ Delivered with such a sour tone it may as well have been a scathing insult. As Stan desperately trying to spend time with his brother was met with him turning away. After all. “Not all of us have our futures set, Stan. Some of us actually have to focus on school to make something of ourselves.”

Stan had always known Ford was going to make something of himself through academics. He was smart, and more than that, driven. He had amazingly clever ideas, and had always been able to do anything he set his mind to. Why Pa hadn’t seen that sooner was a mystery. Probably too busy making sure Stan didn’t somehow ruin his public image. But then…

It should’ve been such a relief to not have Pa breathing down his neck like that. In some ways it was, but suddenly it was all about how Ford was going places, and why wasn’t Stan more like his brother as if Pa hadn’t been the one to drag Stan away from studying so that Stan could find a role. And those roles became less and less good as Stan grew up. He wasn’t the cute kid who could be playfully obnoxious anymore. He could try and lean into the slightly older bad boy thing, but even that was becoming less and less marketable. And all the dreams of privacy shriveled as the world turned his back because what was he without them? Without being someone else? He hadn’t been himself in so long. His self wasn’t worth anything anymore, if it ever had been. It died beneath the weight of his bright future, which had been a lie all along. And no one had even noticed.

Stan tried so hard to be interesting again. No such thing as a bad press, right? Anything to catch their attention. Anything. A new look. Smoking. Drinking. More than drinking. Parties. Petty theft. Tattoos, Trouble with cops. Anything. If Pa noticed he hadn’t made any comment. If Ford noticed all it got was a disapproving glare. If the media noticed all it got was a disappointed head shake about how that cute little kid had fallen. He used to wish for privacy, but now he wanted to be seen, and all they did was turn their eyes away. All of them. So unwilling to see what they’d created. To see what they’d left behind when he wasn’t marketable anymore. He’d love to spit on them. To say good riddance, but more that, he wants them to love him again so Pa will be maybe almost impressed. He wants them never to have seen him at all so Ford and him could’ve stayed close. He wants them not to look right through him, if they must look at him. It’s too much. It’s too contradictory, and they’ve never cared before, why would they now?

The day Ford shows his machine to the scouts from West Coast Tech, Stan shot some shitty commercial. He doesn’t even remember what it was for. When he gets home Ford is cheering. He got in. He did it. He’s going places. Stan pretends to be happy for him. He’s gotten so good at that. Ford gives him a genuine smile, and Stan mirrors it. Ford used to be the only person who could see Stan. See the fake in his smiles. He can’t anymore. Stan can’t tell if it’s because he’s a better actor now, or if there’s nothing there to see. He doesn’t drop his persona for the rest of the night. He thinks, maybe, he’ll never drop it again.

He’s scared if he does there won’t be anything at all underneath.

———

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, more for this. The motion machine never happens so Ford goes to WCT, and after Stan realizes there’s no way he can stay in Glass Shard, he leaves home, and decides to try his luck in Hollywood. He knows some people there. With any luck he’ll make it there. Maybe he meets a fellow actor who is also disillusioned with the craft who ends up trying to look out for Stan because he also was a child actor who was taken advantage of and had no one to look out for him. I just want Stan to have a positive father figure. Also, being in Hollywood, Stan would be relatively close to Ford. Idk there’s something there.

Stanley model baby going further into those child actors with toxic parents. Fillbrick milking the crap out of it, taking all the money and putting Stan through routines that are especially bad for his mental and physical health.