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babybluebanshee · 5 years

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Seared with Scars - Chapter 6 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Hey, kids. Did ya miss me?

Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Smoking, PTSD, descriptions of graphic injuries, descriptions of miscarriage, and panic attacks.

I am so sorry this took so long to get out. That’s all on me. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you guys actually still care enough about to read.

Previous chapter

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“I survived, but it’s not a happy ending.”

- Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried”

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The guts of the gun sparked again, and a low rumbling of thunder shuddered in the night. Fiddleford wanted to blame it for his shaking hands, but he had always been a terrible liar, even to himself.

He set down his screwdriver with a quiet sigh, and chanced a glance up at the clock. 1:37 am. He had no idea why he didn’t feel more tired. Helen had long since downed the rest of her beer and gone back into the living room, swaying slightly. He heard the couch squeak loudly as she plopped down on it. Soon, Fiddleford heard her snoring softly.

She had not spoken a word to him in the time it took her to leave the room and fall asleep. Hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

After the sort of day she’d had, he understood. Pity played in his chest. She was a decent women. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the waking nightmare that was Stanford Pines’ so-called research. It was clearly taking its toll on her now. He wished that he could comfort her, in spite of her current feelings towards him.

He’d been wracking his mind the entire time he worked, trying to find something, anything stashed away in there that would assuage her fears about Dr. Matthews. To ease her mind that her friend and colleague wasn’t the one who’d broken into her home and terrorized her. That he wasn’t mixed up in anything unsavory.

And sure, he knew that, even if Dr. Matthews was part of his flock, there was nothing to fear, but Helen didn’t. If he was being perfectly honest, he could see how the whole thing seemed rather off-putting. All the secrecy and hush-hush stuff might seem practically cultish to an outside observer, but now that Fiddleford had found out about the defect in the gun, it was easy to understand why he’d decided that the Society needed to work in secret. Memories that the gun tried to suppress could be called forth with any sort of trigger - a smell, a sound, even an errant thought about some seemingly innocent thing could force the unwanted memories to come rushing back.

And that was the last thing Fiddleford wanted. If he wanted to carry on his work, he needed to fix that when this was all said and done. It was all too important not to.

The front door opened, and he heard the merry jingling of dog tags as Ripley trotted in, right past the kitchen archway, and into the living room. Another jangling of the tags and a satisfied huff led him to believe Ripley had jumped on the couch to join Helen. The thought made Fiddleford smile. At least Helen could get some comfort from someone.

He was pulled out of himself when he heard the front door shut. Stan was still outside, had been since their argument. That had been over an hour ago.

Fiddleford sighed again, trying not to let that awful faded scar he’d seen dance too vividly across his mind. He reminded himself that, although the other man’s hardships were indeed tragic, that didn’t change the fact Stan was a brute - swearing at him and threatening him and tossing him about like an old ragdoll. Fiddleford’s shoulder ached a bit from the way Stan had wrenched it, dragging him downstairs, throwing him at the foot of that...that...monstrosity in the basement.

Stan Pines didn’t deserve Fiddleford’s sympathy, and he was not going to get it.

Fiddleford shivered again as the draft from the previously open door finally hit him. It had already been so cold out, and the storm wasn’t making things any better. It was probably freezing now.

If Stan had been on his own for ten years, he was certainly used to cold nights, possibly even colder than this. But just because you were used to something didn’t make it pleasant to endure.

His wrist throbbed again. No. Stan was choosing to stay outside, like a huffy child. He could freeze for all Fiddleford cared.

He lifted his screwdriver, intent on losing himself in his work once more. Stan Pines was not going to distract him anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

Gosh darnit.

Fiddleford set the screwdriver aside and got up from the table, trying his hardest not to scrape the chair against the wood floor too loudly and wake Helen. He even tiptoed past the opening into the main room, just to be safe. Aside from Ripley waking up momentarily to offer him a bleary glance, he managed to make it to the front door without any problems.

A frigid blast of icy air bombarded him as soon as he opened the door a crack. He thought about turning tail and running back in, but something stopped him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything done until he made some kind of amends with Stan. Apologize for his insensitivity, for all that Stan had been through, whatever. Just so long as Stan knew that Fiddleford wanted to make things right.

Bracing himself, he rounded the door, and was immediately greeted by the stink of cigarette smoke...

“I can’t sleep,” the man said, his cigarette burning down between his fingers. He barely seemed to notice as it was reduced to ashes. “It’s all I see anymore. You have to help me.”

Fiddleford shook his head. As welcome as memories sometimes were, now was not the time for them. He had to focus on what he came out here to do.

Leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the weak porch light, was Stan. A cigarette was between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting lazily from the tip. Stan himself was sopping wet, his red jacket plastered to his skin. His brown hair hung limply around his face. Stan barely seemed phased though. Instead, his surprisingly intense gaze was focused solely on Fiddleford.

Fiddleford tried his best not to shrink away. He’d come out here with a purpose, and he reminded himself that, no matter how intimidating this man was, he was still just a man, and one who’d been through quite a lot. The least Fiddleford could do was give him the dignity of not acting afraid of him.

After a moment or two of realizing Fiddleford was not going anywhere, Stan slowly blinked, then turned his gaze back out to the black forest just beyond the house. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine what was out there that he’d want to see, but if Stan was anything like his brother, he was sure that there was something, some mystery he wanted to solve or creature he wanted to study.

Fiddleford gulped silently, and took a step closer to Stan. After another moment of stamping down his anxiety, he said, “Hi there.”

Stan didn’t reply.

“I bet it’s cold in that wet jacket,” Fiddleford said softly, grateful that the rain had let up enough so his words weren’t swallowed up entirely.

Not that it mattered, since Stan didn’t reply. He merely brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

Fiddleford pressed onward. “I was thinking about making a cup of tea,” he said. “Did you maybe want to come in and have some? It’d warm you up.”

The cigarette was brought away, and Stan held in the smoke.

“Maybe you and I could talk. Because I really think we need to.”

Stan tapped the ash at the end of the cigarette, and it floated down to the porch like gray flakes of snow.

“I…” Fiddelford faltered for a moment. Why wouldn’t Stan say something? Anything? How angry could he possibly be? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. You were right - I didn’t know you existed until now. But if I did...if I’d known the sorts of awful things you’ve had to endure, I never would have said what I did.”

Stan released the smoke through his nose as he flicked his steely gaze back at Fiddleford, making him look positively dragon-like. It was almost fearsome enough for Fiddleford to forget his soft nature and go back in the house to hide. Almost. But then he caught a glimpse of Stan’s eyes in the pale yellow porch light.

There was no anger left in them. No malice. Not even any frustration. Stan simply looked tired.

Fiddleford felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Taking another step forward, he hesitantly reached out his hand, and placed it on the cold, wet fleece of Stan’s jacket, and said, “I think you might benefit from having someone to talk to. You’ve obviously been holding a lot in.”

Although it might sound boastful, Fiddleford was very good at getting people to open up to him. He’d always been small and non-threatening, patient and understanding; the kind of person that made people feel comfortable about dropping their defenses. It’s why the Society had been so successful. He didn’t need to seek out new members; they came to him, desperate for his support and kindness to soothe their frenzied minds.

He offered Stan his sincerest smile as he waited for him to reply.

After a beat of silence, Stan sighed and shook his head “You ain’t interested in helping me,” he said, tone flat. “You just don’t wanna feel guilty.”

Fiddleford yanked his hand away from Stan’s jacket as if it were an open flame. “I...I beg your pardon?” he said. It was all he could think to say.

“I think you heard me pretty clearly,” Stan replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Fiddleford felt heat bubble up behind his cheeks, his mind groping for some kind of response. He found nothing. Finally, a little more sharply than he intended, he blurted out, “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This mess we’re all in is hardly my fault. It wasn’t my idea to poke around with the dangerous things in this town. I didn’t want to come back to this house and relive this nightmare. And I certainly didn’t decide to build that thing down in the basement!”

“But you did help.”

Fiddleford closed his mouth so quickly his teeth audibly clacked together. As he turned away from Stan’s gaze, his mind belched forth an image, an image of Stanford excitedly explaining his plans for the portal to him. A warmth, a feeling of giddy anticipation, blossomed in Fiddleford’s chest, spreading out and into his fingers and toes. He’d shared his former partner’s enthusiasm. They’d been ecstatic to start such a monumental feat together, to reach new heights of achievement and understanding. He’d wanted to make the portal as much as Stanford had.

But that was before the incident. Before whatever happened that drove Fiddleford away. The memory was still hidden away, beneath layers of fog and protection, and he knew it was better off that way. He gave his head a shake and said firmly, “I didn’t know what we were doing. I didn’t know where that awful gateway would lead. And once I did, that was it. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

“But you stayed in Gravity Falls.”

Fiddleford whipped his head around to face Stan again. The other man looked completely unfazed, like he’d made a casual remark about the rotten weather.

Stan continued, “You had a wife and kid waiting for you back in California. A pet project that Ford said you were pretty interested in. Hell, the reason he never tried to help you till now is because that’s what he assumed you did.” Stan flicked the stub of his cigarette away. Fiddleford heard it hiss softly as it landed in the wet darkness beyond the porch. And then that intense gaze was on him again as Stan asked, “You had a life ready to be lived. So why did you stay here?”

Fiddleford quickly stammered out, “Well...I...because I wanted to help people. Help them deal with the supernatural things…”

“This town is almost 150 years old, Fidds,” Stan said. “And the weird stuff has been here since before the town was even an idea. There wouldn’t be a Gravity Falls if the folks here couldn’t deal with all the weird shit in those woods. You’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Fiddleford spat back. The ferocity in his words shocked him, and he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, trying to calm himself down. When he felt the flush of his cheeks subside a bit, he added, fighting to keep his tone even, “The people in this town rely on me.”

“Yeah, but why?” Stan asked. “You didn’t owe these people anything. I know for a fact that none of them ever had the guts to come out here. You guys weren’t exactly town celebrities. You could have gone home, lived your life, and left my brother to whatever was waiting for him beyond that portal. But you’re still here. So, I’m gonna ask you again: with a family waiting for you, and a town that didn’t need you to martyr yourself for them, why the hell did you stay?”

Fiddleford wanted to respond. He wanted to brush Stan off, tell him he was crazy, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He wanted to find some clever thing to say to finally get this man - this violent brute who’d slung him around like a ragdoll and called him names - to stop asking him these questions.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find an answer for them that didn’t prove Stan right.

So he stayed silent.

Stan watched him for another moment, before he turned his gaze back out to the inky black forest, and said, “The portal may have been Ford’s idea, but you had a hand in it. And deep down, you know he’d never have been able to build it without you. That’s why you stayed, even after it scared you so bad you left. That’s why you started this whole Blind Eye thing. Because you felt like you had to make up for it. You screwed up, and you didn’t want to live with that. So you tried to fix it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that,” Fiddleford asked wearily. He found he no longer had it in him to argue.

“Because I’ve been watching Ford do the same thing since we found you,” Stan replied.

Fiddelford thought of Stanford, eyes brimming with tears a few hours ago. He sighed softly.

“It sucks doing something out of guilt,” Stan said. He sounded less like he was talking to Fiddleford now, and more like he was just thinking out loud. “No matter how much you do, no matter what ends up happening, you never feel like you’ve done enough. You just keep beating yourself up and beating yourself up until one day, it just kind of dawns on you that you haven’t really fixed anything. Nothing’s better, nothing’s changed. You just feel that much shittier about yourself.”

Off in the distance, in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound.

“Look,” Stan continued, “in a way, I do get where you’re coming from. There are days when I’d give anything to never remember some of the things I’ve been through. You weren’t wrong when you said there are some things that no one should ever have to endure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford watched Stan reach up and gently run his fingers down the length of his arm. Now, more than ever, he regretted his words about “everyday” trauma. There was nothing commonplace about the pale scar under that sodden fabric. And the fact that he’d tried to turn something like this into something inspirational? It turned his stomach more than the thought of the scar ever could.

Stan spoke up again, jarring Fiddleford from his thoughts. “But as much as the memory hurts, it’s still there. It’s as much a part of me as the scars it left behind. All I can do now is make my choices with what I know. And I chose to try and keep living.”

He turned back to Fiddleford, gaze beseeching. “You’ve got a choice now too. You can keep hiding, keep forgetting, and one day, maybe, it’ll all finally be gone. But I can’t guarantee that you’ll be the same man as when you started.”

The owl in the forest called out again.

“Or,” Stan added, “you can face those scars, and finally start doing some real good.”

Fiddleford maintained his gaze at the other man, this man who’d proven he was more than just brute strength and cheap insults. This man, who, for all his bluster, was surprisingly wise, even though it hurt Fiddleford deeply to think about all that happened to him to obviously make him that way.

Maybe Stan was right.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of dirt crunching under tires. He lifted his head and saw a pair of headlines slicing through the pitch blackness. In the distance, the owl hooted indignantly and fluttered away, a speck against the night sky. As the car came closer to the house, Fiddleford realized that it was a blue Buick. Helen’s blue Buick. The one Stanford had taken off in.

Beside him, Stan muttered, “Oh my god,” and before Fiddleford could even offer a reply, the other man was across the porch and down the stairs, loping like an excited dog to meet the car. He even raised up his arms and started waving the vehicle down, a relieved smile splitting his face. It was actually rather sweet.

The car stopped a few hundred feet from the house, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights went out, and Fiddleford could finally see the silhouette of someone behind the steering wheel.

But as he looked, he realized something wasn’t right.

The figure didn’t look like Stanford at all. It was much shorter, even sitting down. The driver’s face had a bushy mustache. Fiddleford couldn’t make out the mop of messy brown hair, but there was the outline of a slight belly.

Whoever was driving was not Stanford Pines.

Stan hadn’t seemed to notice yet, and ran up to the passenger side door. “Get out of that damn car, Sixer,” he cried, clearly with laughter in his voice. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you stupid nerd.” He rounded the car as the driver’s side opened, but stopped short when he saw a five-fingered hand reach up and grasp the window, in order to pull the driver the rest of the way out.

His face fell completely when Dr. Ed Matthews emerged from the car, wearing a bright red, hooded robe. His face was grave.

Stan quickly backed away as if he were facing a loaded gun, but Dr. Matthews didn’t seem to notice. His iron gaze settled on Fiddleford. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Dr. Matthews finally seemed to realize that his cigarette was going to waste. He tossed it on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Please,” he said again, sounding ready to break, “please, Mr. McGucket, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You are in the Society,” Fiddleford said as the memory faded. “Stan was right.”

“And if I’m right, that means you sold us out,” Stan said, the bubbling anger apparent in his voice. He took a threatening step towards Matthews, looking ready to throttle him. “You were the one who broke into Helen’s house. You were the one who attacked us.”

Matthews didn’t even look in Stan’s direction, but a flash of irritation flashed across his face, like the other man was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. “No,” he replied plainly. “I wasn’t the one who broke into Helen’s house.” He turned his attention back to Fiddleford. “I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to come back to the sanctum.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Stan growled. His fists were balled up by his sides, ready to fly.

Matthews ignored him and continued to plead with Fiddleford. “Please, sir. Ivan is out of control. You have no idea the kinds of things he’s been doing in your absence. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow. Ivan? Out of control? It seemed impossible. If there was one person that Fiddleford trusted to keep the Society alive while he was gone, it was Ivan. He may have been young, but he was mature, intelligent, and could read people like they were open books. He was dedicated, perhaps a little too overbearing in regards to Fiddleford’s health, but he meant well.

Stealing another glance at Stan, seeing the murder in his eyes, knowing it came from a place of righteous fury at being assaulted and manhandled and victimized by the group the old man before them belonged to, Fiddleford realized that tonight had proven to be a night dedicated to showing him he didn’t know anyone as well as he thought he did.

“Look, Doc,” Stan barked. “Whoever this Ivan character is, he can figure out his own shit. Fidds isn’t going back to Jonestown with you. And if you don’t start running as fast as you can back the way you came, you won’t be making it back either. So get the hell out of here.”

Matthews finally turned his gaze on Stan, and said, “Do you really want me to leave, Stanley? Even if I’m the only person who can help you rescue your brother.”

Stan’s face fell in shock, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“He’s in poor shape,” Matthews added. “Ivan has not been kind to the man he believes responsible for our group’s troubles. Your brother doesn’t have much time left, and we have no time to argue about it.”

Before Stan could even open his mouth to speak, Fiddleford heard the front door slam open, and Helen’s voice call out, “Ford?”

Matthews’s eyes went as round as dinner plates, and slowly moved towards the sound of the voice. Fiddleford looked over his shoulder and saw Helen standing there, framed in the weak porch light, wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, her hair hanging wildly around her face. Her glasses were slightly crooked on her face, her dark green eyes wide behind them. She looked like a madwoman who’d just stumbled her way down from the attic. Her gaze jumped between each man on the lawn in front of her, all standing stock still, watching her watching them. It was like a macabre stage production.

Finally, in a low voice, Helen said, “Ed...what the fuck is going on?”

Fiddleford couldn’t exactly explain why, but when he saw a glimpse of Stan and Dr. Matthews’s faces, he knew that facing Helen and trying to explain all this to her was going to be more painful that anything he’d ever done.

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Glass Shard Beach had never been so cold. It leached through his clothes, his skin, and settled into his bones, making him shiver and quake like a newborn deer. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stave off the chill as best he could, but his limbs felt rubbery, and wouldn’t obey his commands. All he could do was lie prone on the sand, as hard and frigid on his back as a slab of marble, and stare up at the steely gray sky. A harsh wind blew across his face, sharp enough to cut. It was going to storm.

A pale yellow light entered Ford’s vision, and suddenly, a slit pupil was staring back at him. Fear pulsed through him as Bill materialized completely before him, his unwavering gaze boring into him like a drill to the forehead. He wanted to run, but whatever was keeping his arms plastered to the sand was doing the same to his legs. He could only lie there, limp and useless.

“Geez, Sixer,” Bill finally said, his body flickering in time with his nasally voice. “I’ve seen you look pretty bad before - and I mean, like, really, really bad. But this? This is almost depressing.”

One of Bill’s black stick arms came to the spot his chin would be if he had one, his single eye furrowing in thought.

After a moment, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait!” he said. “Did I say ‘depressing’? I meant ‘absolutely hilarious’!” Bill let loose a peal of mocking laughter, his floating body turning lazily in the chilly breeze of the beach. “I gotta hand it to you, Sixer, you fail abysmally at a lot of stuff, but making me laugh at your ineptitude sure ain’t one of ‘em!”

Bill righted himself, and leaned down so he was right in Ford’s face. “I mean, look at you,” he said. “You tried to make up with that dumb hayseed after he saw me in an indecent moment - super rude, might I point out, guy needs a talking-to about knocking first - and look where that got you! All alone, on some bald weirdo’s basement floor, selling out your friends and brother as soon as things get a little too hard for you. This is almost funnier than you thinking dismantling that portal is gonna stop me! Which, let’s be real here, was already pretty darn funny.”

Shame boiled behind Ford’s cheeks. “I-I will stop you…” he ground out.

“Hey, it talks,” Bill said. “And is completely delusional, apparently.” He chuckled again. “Look, Fordsey, I’ve got a life outside of you. And one bad break-up isn’t gonna stop what I’ve got in store for your world. You don’t make plans as big as mine without having a few safety nets. Now, to me, you’re nothing more than a dancing monkey, here to amuse me when I take a break for some time punch.”

Suddenly, Bill shot out a hand and grab Ford’s index finger, yanking it back violently. Ford let out a strangled cry of pain.

“And speaking of amusement,” Bill said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I think that Ivan guy had the right idea. Breaking fingers sounds like a riot. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl. It’ll almost be as fun as that time I flung you down the stairs!”

Ford felt like weeping.

“Now, let’s see, where to start. Hmm...eeny...meany...miney...yooooou…”

Someone was shaking him, and Ford opened his eyes with a shout. He inhaled heavily, gathering up as much air as he could in his burning lungs. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for years. His hands shook under the ropes binding him to the chair.

As Ford’s vision cleared, it dawned on him that he was still in the dark room in the inner sanctum of the Society of the Blind Eye. He was slightly unsettled that the sight filled him with a strange sort of relief.

“Are you alright?” a voice said. Ford looked up, and realized that a robed figure was watching him from the shadows. In their hands, they held a tin bowl full of water. When the figure realized Ford was looking intently at the bowl, they said, “I thought you might need some water. I came in and you were talking in your sleep. So I woke you up.”

Ford recognized the gentle voice of the follower from before. The one who’d so gently inspected his injuries and tried to comfort him. The one who’d convinced him to give in to Ivan’s demands to save himself. Ford’s fists balled, his hands still shaking, but now in anger instead of fear.

The figure took a step towards him, and Ford snapped, “Don’t come anywhere near me.” As if suddenly glued to the spot, the figure stopped moving. Ford could feel them watching him from under their hood. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll take anything you give me,” he continued. He was acutely aware of how his voice cracked ever so slightly, indicative of the strain his mind was under, but he didn’t care. “You probably planned that little stunt earlier from the beginning. Bait me with some kindness so I’d roll over and do whatever you wanted. I’m on to your game, so you can just get the hell away from me.” His voice broke miserably, and he screwed his eyes shut against the shame that shot through him, his breath coming out in ragged heaves.

He heard footsteps approaching him and was suddenly aware of a human presence very close to him. He opened his eyes again. The figure set the bowl gently on the ground, and let out a quiet sigh. “What happened with Ivan was never my intention,” they said. “I truly did want to help you. I don’t like seeing people in pain. It’s just my nature.”

“You’re a liar,” Ford spat back, but he felt his anger petering out quickly. He was just so tired. The chill that he thought was just a product of his dreams suddenly squeezed him like an icy fist, sending a powerful shiver down his spine.

The figure sighed again, then reached up and grasped their hood. Before Ford could ask what they were doing, the hood was tossed back, and a young black man, roughly his own age, was staring back at him. His features were careworn, and he looked about as tired as Ford felt. “My name is Darryl,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

Ford gaped for a moment before he breathed, “Wh-why would you...”

“I thought actually seeing a person under here - a real, living person - would maybe make you feel a little safer. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear, I wasn’t playing earlier. It’s literally my job to fix up injuries like that one.” He gestured broadly to Ford’s head. The wound near the base of his neck took that moment to throb dully.

“I really did want to help,” Darryl added. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dented tin cup. “And now, I’m trying to again.” He dipped the cup in the bowl at his feet, filling it with water, and held it out to Ford. “Do you want a drink or not? It’s whatever you want to do.”

Ford looked at the cup, then back up at Darryl, trying to read his face, see anything that might indicate subterfuge. But he saw nothing. The bright brown eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze with a strange, soft command, reminded him of Stan. Limply, he nodded. A brief flicker of relief crossed Darryl’s face as he moved closer and put the cup to Ford’s lips.

Ford hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water was snaking its way down his throat. It was lukewarm and had a bit of a metal tang to it, probably from the town’s old pipes, but it tasted amazing to him. Darryl took it away far too soon.

“Sorry,” the other man said, setting the cup aside again, “but I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you some more in a minute.” He reached down to his belt, and pulled loose a threadbare blanket. “I know it’s not much, but I figure anything is better than nothing in this damp little space.”

He laid the blanket out across Ford’s chest, tucking it in a bit at the arms. Despite how worn it looked, the blanket did help, and the aching chill that had settled in Ford’s body began to lessen.

“Now, let’s try to get that horror show on the back of your head fixed up,” Darryl muttered, more to himself than to Ford. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handkerchief. As he stooped down to pick up the bowl, Ford saw a glint of gold on his left hand in the dim light. Looking harder, he realized it was a simple golden wedding band. It made sense, honestly. Darryl wasn’t much older than him, and Ford was an outlier when it came to relationships. Of course most men his age were settling down, marrying and having children. But it raised a question in Ford’s mind, one he couldn’t help but vocalize.

“Why is a young married paramedic in a memory-wiping cult?”

Darryl froze. A flash of panic flickered across his face, as he muttered, “I wanted to forget. Same as everyone else.”

“But I want to know what,” Ford asked. “I know this entire group thinks I’m some kind of dangerous madman, but I’m not. I tried to tell Ivan before, I go looking for the unexplained so I can explain it. You can protect yourself if you know what you’re up against. And if you told me what made you...join, maybe I can help you understand it.”

Finally, Darryl turned to face him. Ford had expected him to be angry, or at least defensive, but instead, his face was drawn and sad. The bright brown eyes now looked a thousand miles away. In a quiet voice, Darryl said, “Only demons I’m running from are my own, Dr. Pines.”

Despite himself, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The Society only has a few rules. The people who want their memories erased have to be willing. We don’t tell anyone who isn’t a member about it. And, most importantly, the only memories we erase are paranormal ones. That was something McGucket was always very firm about.”

“But Ivan told me that the memory gun can get rid of anything.”

“It can, but McGucket never wanted to use it for what he called the “everyday” stuff. He always said those are the sorts of things humans were meant to handle. It was the most important rule. But Ivan hasn’t been following the rules for a good, long while now.”

“He’s been erasing other memories now?”

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t Fiddleford do anything about it?”

“He didn’t know. Ivan realized that the more McGucket used the gun on himself, the more it rattled his brain. There’d be days when McGucket would wander around, looking like he didn’t know where he was. We’ve found him outside more than once, curled up next to the garbage cans because he was trying to figure out how to get home from here.”

Ford thought of Fiddleford in that alleyway, looking so thin and haggard and, most of all, lost.

“Ivan’s been taking full advantage of it,” Darryl continued. “McGucket can’t argue about ethics when he doesn’t even realize that Ivan is working against him, so Ivan has been offering to erase any bad memories, in exchange for loyalty.”

“But why? What does he gain from it?”

“I don’t know, entirely. Maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he just liked to be in control of people It sounds crazy, but from the looks of things, I think he’s amassing an army.”

“For what?”

“Like I said, I don’t know entirely. But whatever it is, he’s obviously not gonna let a little thing like humanity get in his way.”

Darryl dunked the handkerchief in the bowl of water, scrunching it up in his fist to squeeze out the excess water. As he began moving behind the chair, Ford said, “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

Darryl hesitated a moment, then walked briefly back into Ford’s line of vision, reaching a hand down into his robes. Ford heard a clinking of metal as the other man pulled forth a simple metal chain from around his neck. Attached to the end were two dented dog tags. “Private Little, of the 113th Infantry Brigade,” Darryl said simply. “One tour in South Vietnam, 1969 to 1970.”

Sympathy settled in Ford’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Oh…” he mumbled.

“Not to offend or anything, but I’m guessing you didn’t serve.” Darryl gave him a wry look as he ducked back out of sight, behind Ford.

Ford felt the soft, cool handkerchief being gently pressed into his neck. He tensed only for a moment, expecting pain, and was amazed when none came. He felt himself relax. “No,” he replied. “My dad did, but that’s about as close as my brothers and I got. College kept me out of the draft. My older brother had asthma, so he was exempt. And I’m not sure how Stanley managed to avoid it, but I’m sure it had something to do with fleeing to another country.”

Darryl chuckled a bit at that, and said, “Wish I’d had the brains to do that. Would have saved me a whole mess of trouble.”

“What happened?”

The handkerchief stilled for just a moment. Finally, Darryl said, “We got ambushed. It happened so fast that sometimes I have a hard time believing it happened at all. But my dreams always remind me. They just mowed us down. Ten seconds, tops, and it was over. I took a bullet right to the knee cap. Dropped where I stood. My buddy, Hank...he took one to the gut. He must have hung on for half an hour…”

Darryl trailed off, and Ford didn’t urge him to continue. Oddly enough, he thought of his father. He knew Dad had served, but beyond the basic facts, he never told Ford or his brothers about his tour of duty. It wasn’t until Ford was at least eleven that he accidentally stumbled across the Purple Heart his father had been awarded, stuffed away in a box in the hall closet.

He thought of when Shermie came back from the recruiting office, and how Dad’s shoulders seemed to slump when his older brother informed everyone that he was medically unfit for military service. It was the first time Ford ever remembered his father being excited about something.

He wondered what memories his father would want pulled from his head, if he was given the choice.

“And that’s why you came to Ivan,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Darryl responded quietly. “For a while, I managed to live with the memories. Believe it or not, the job helps. I see a lot of blood and death, but at least now I can do something about it, ya know? It’s not like with Hank. It...it kinda helps me cope. Does that make sense?”

Ford thought of the portal back home, how he sequestered himself for hours with it, this living testament to his failure, how accomplished he felt when he managed to make any kind of headway with it. He nodded and said, “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Loud noises are the things that tend to upset me now,” Darryl continued. “Cars backfiring, slamming doors, that kind of thing. Had to stop going out on the Fourth of July. But those are things you can live with. After my daughter was born…that’s when the dreams started. Vivid shit, almost perfect recreations of that day in the jungle.”

Darryl squeezed more water from the handkerchief, and added, “By the time Ivan found me, I was desperate. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t sleep. It was affecting my job, which used to be one of the only things that kept me grounded. And at home...I knew seeing me this way was hard for my family. Even if I hadn’t done it for myself, I would have done it for them in a heartbeat.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Darryl dabbed tenderly at the base of Ford’s neck, then gave a small grunt of satisfaction before he ducked back into Ford’s field of vision. His face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Darryl,” Ford said. “I’m sorry you ever had to feel like this cult was your only option.”

Darryl gave him a sad smile, and said, “Thanks, man.”

Another question suddenly dawned on Ford. “Wait,” he said. “If the reason you joined the Society was to erase those memories, then how do you still remember them enough to tell me?”

“Because there’s something wrong with the memory gun,” Darryl said gravely. “McGucket thought it would be a permanent process, but other members have started remembering whatever it was they erased. And that scares them more than you ever could.”

“That’s why Ivan wants Fiddleford back so badly.”

“Exactly. He’s getting desperate. The only thing he’s got to ensure people’s loyalty is that memory gun, and if it doesn’t work, then the others have no reason to stick with him. To fix it, he needs McGucket.”

This was so much worse than Ford ever thought. His original idea was that Ivan wanted Fiddleford back simply because he was their leader. But all Ivan was interested in was Fiddleford’s engineering skills. Fiddeford wouldn’t just be worse off if he was dragged back to this hellhole. His very life could be in danger, once Ivan had gotten what he needed from him.

“We have to stop him,” Ford said firmly.

“I know,” Darryl said. “If he’d go after two people who mean absolutely nothing to him, think of what he’d do to McGucket.”

Ford’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t being arbitrary when I said that Ivan would go after Helen and your brother. I know he will because he already has. When Helen and Stan went back to her house, someone was waiting for them. A Society member, trying to find Fidds.”

“What?! Who?”

“I don’t know. They managed to fight whoever it was off. As if anyone needed another reason to be afraid of Helen Bergstrum when she’s mad, now she’s slashing faces with car keys.” Darryl shook his head a bit. “But Stan got a pretty nasty blow to the head. They called me in to patch him up. That’s when I realized what Ivan had done.”

“Was he alright?”

“Yeah, I stitched him up. He was a little dizzy, but no worse for wear. But it made me realize that Ivan has gone too far.” He cast his gaze back up at Ford, the brightness in his eyes verging on fiery passion. “I don’t really understand why you do what you do, Dr. Pines. It even kinda scares me a little. But you never intentionally hurt innocent people. Dr. Bergstrum is a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be terrorized in her own home. And your brother? Anyone who’s willing to throw down just to protect his friend is cool in my book.”

Darryl looked down into the bowl of water he still held in his hand. Ford wondered what he saw staring back at him.

“So,” Ford said, “what are you proposing?”

Darryl looked up, directly into Ford’s eyes. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, Dr. Pines, and then I’m getting you out of here.”

-----

Helen drummed her fingers against the sticky kitchen table. Across from her, doing everything he could to avoid looking her directly in the eye, was Ed Matthews. Her friend, her colleague. A man she’d worked with for almost seven years, who gently teased her about her interest in the paranormal. Who’d been there when life was almost too much for her.

The man who helped a memory-wiping cult break into her home and violently attack her.

Stan and Fiddleford sat in chairs between them, on the side of the table. Their eyes bounced between Helen and Ed, as if they were watching a pair of bombs, primed and ready to explode.

Helen didn’t blame them. That wasn’t very far off from how she felt.

“Helen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. You have every right to be.” Ed’s eyes were tired as he lifted them up gingerly to meet Helen’s glare. “But I promise you, I’m done lying. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Helen narrowed her eyes, fighting hard to keep her voice level and her fists from swinging in rage. “I’m counting on it, Ed,” she muttered. “I figure any explanation you give me has gotta be a pip.”

Ed ducked his head, away from her withering stare, ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out even a syllable, Helen cut him off and said, “You lied to me.” She was ashamed how her voice wavered ever so slightly. “You lied about Fiddleford, about that girl, about the old man...how? How could you do this?”

“I didn’t want to,” Ed said miserably, putting his head in his hands. “But you have no idea the kind of power the Society has. The kind of power Ivan has. And what could have happened to me if I didn’t play his game.”

Helen stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose brow was furrowed heavily, lost in thought. He was obviously trying hard to remember anything to do with this Ivan character, to see if there was any validity to Ed’s claims.

Until then, there was no way they could trust Ed.

“Helen, you of all people understand who absolutely insane this town is,” Ed said emphatically. “I know going to the Society was wrong, but it wasn’t until I actually saw for myself what drives people to it that I finally understood.”

“What exactly did you see?” Stan asked carefully.

Ed sighed, and replied, “My house isn’t that far beyond the lake. My wife loved the sounds of it at night.” He paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly very, very far away, but he quickly shook his head and continued on, “But then she started saying she...heard things out there. Low, rumbling noises. Almost like growls. I dismissed it as a dream, but she insisted there was something out there until the day she died. One night, not too long after her funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the dock. That’s when I finally figured out what she was talking about.”

Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all leaned in, like scouts hearing a spooky campfire story.

“Poking above the water, staring right at me, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.”

“So there really was something out in the lake,” Helen breathed. “That girl really did see something.”

“Yes,” Ed said sadly. “As soon as I heard her talking about seeing something in the lake, I knew exactly what she was talking about. So Ivan went looking for them.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide with horror. “You wiped their memories without their consent?!”

Ed flinched, like a chastened child. “I didn’t,” he said. “Ivan did.”

“And you just let your band of hooded freaks target a scared teenage girl?” Stan said, the contempt in his voice barely masked.

“You make it sound like I personally put the gun to her forehead,” Ed retorted. “I would never have told Ivan about her, about any of my patients, but I didn’t have to. Gossip travels fast in this town, and it wasn’t long before Ivan found out and went after the girl and her friends. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s like I said, I was too much of a coward to admit that what Ivan was doing was wrong. He has the entire Society convinced that the townsfolk are better off living in ignorance, even if we have to show them that by force.”

“How could he do this?” Fiddleford suddenly cried out. Helen, Stan, and Ed all whipped their heads around to look at him. He was angrier than Helen had ever seen him, and didn’t seem to notice at all that everyone’s attention was no on him. He raked a hand through his hair, grabbing up a clump of it halfway through and squeezing, as he continued to babble. “I thought Ivan understood why I was doing this more than anyone. I...he...he upheld the Society’s rules more than anyone. I just...I don’t understand where this all came from. It doesn’t seem like him at all.”

After a moment, Ed said, “Tell me something, sir. Do you remember the last conversation you had with Ivan before all this insanity began?”

Fiddleford gave him a confused look, and said, “Of course I do! I...we...oh, my god…”

Slowly, realization dawned on Fiddleford’s face.

“You don’t, do you?” Ed asked.

Fiddleford squeeze his hair tighter in his hand. “I...all I really remember is that Ivan was upset. He was yelling about something. But after that…” Fiddleford’s hand fell from his hair. He looked so very small as he muttered, “After that it’s all a blank.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Helen’s mind. “You must have caught him wiping the memories of that old man!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, then said, “It adds up. It explains why you were in such piss-poor shape when Ford and I found you. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Ivan shot you. And you’ve been surrounded by reminders of your past all day, so you’ve been recovering faster.”

“But...why?” Fiddleford asked helplessly. “Why would Ivan want to go behind my back?”

“For the obvious reason,” Helen said. “Because he’s doing something he didn’t want you to know about. He knew you’d never approve of whatever it is he’s doing, and he was right. So he wiped your memories.”

“And that’s how the Pines brothers found you,” Ed added. “You must have wandered out of the sanctum again.”

Helen quirked up her eyebrow, confused. Sanctums? If this cult of Fiddleford’s wasn’t actually pretty frightening, she’d laugh at how pretentious they were.

Her confusion must have been pretty clear, because Fiddleford said, “Sometimes, after using the gun, I’d be a bit, well, mixed up. I’d wander outside and sit in the alley, though not always intentionally. It helped me think, get my thoughts in order. And that’s where I must have gone after Ivan wiped my mind.”

Fiddleford plopped heavily into his seat, obviously overwhelmed by all that he’d just discovered. Helen didn’t blame him. She felt a bit like doing that herself. But she needed more answers. Turning back to Ed, she said, “But how did they get into my house? You were the only person who saw us today, who knew we were with Fiddleford. And I got some pretty good cuts in on whoever it was. Since you don’t have any cuts on your face, it couldn’t have been you.”

Ed sighed again, and reached into his robe sleeve. Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all tensed immediately, ready to jump at whatever Ed had hidden inside.

But all he pulled out was a shiny, silver house key. An exact copy of the one Helen had used to unlock her front door, and then slash at an intruder less than ten minutes later.

Helen felt like she was going to be sick. She cast her glance back up at Ed, searching for answers. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Yes, she was definitely going to be sick.

“You…” was all she managed to mumble before she had to stop. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t be able to hold down whatever was threatening to come up.

“I don’t know who attacked you, Helen, but this is how they got in,” Ed said. “I made a copy back around Christmas, when you and the kids went to Salem to visit your parents. You asked me to house sit for you.”

The world tilted around her. She shakily stood from her chair, her legs wobbling dangerously. Stan and Fiddleford both looked ready to jump from their chairs at the next move she made.

She was going to be sick or she was going to faint. She couldn’t tell which anymore.

Ed was still talking. “I had been meaning to make one for a while before then. Ever since what happened with the baby-”

Something snapped inside her.

She couldn’t hear Ed anymore. Her heart had launched itself directly into her ears, and all she could hear was it hammering away, feeling like it was ready to burst. Somewhere far away, a tinny noise that she vaguely registered as Stan’s voice asked, “What baby?”

That was it.

Lurching like she was possessed, Helen flung herself at the sink, and with a painful spasm, vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. The only thing she’d had in her stomach for the last few hours was a can of beer. Stomach acid followed shortly after, leaving a burning trail up her esophagus.

She felt a touch ghost across her back, and heard the distant voices of Stan and Fiddleford, talking to her, trying to get her to say something, anything, to indicate what was wrong. She couldn’t answer them. She had no air to answer them with. Their voices became even more muffled as she concentrated on her heavy breathing.

She tried to force down the pain that blossoms in his abdomen and lower back. She knew there was nothing there that could be causing it. She knew that the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg wasn’t really there. And she knew Daisy’s panicked voice, stammering into the phone that her mother needed help, was just a phantom in her mind, played on a loop by her sadistic, traitorous brain.

She knew all this, and it didn’t help a damn bit.

Suddenly, she felt two calloused hand prying her grip from the sink, and gently guiding her away. They didn’t let go until she was sitting again, probably back at the kitchen table, and even then, the presence behind her didn’t fade. It stayed at her back like a supportive column. Another set of hands, these softer, gentler, grabbed up hers and held them. She heard a kind voice, with a soft hint of an accent speaking to her, piercing through the memories and the droning. It took her a moment to realize it was Fiddleford, and that the sturdy presence behind her was Stan.

Fiddleford was saying something, and slowly, the cacophony in her brain faded, abd she could make out words. “...just gonna slow your breathing down a bit, that’s right. In and out. In and out. Come on, Helen, you can do it. In...”

Slowly, laboriously, she followed his instruction. She took a shaky breath in.

“And out.”

She obeyed.

“Atta girl,” he said encouragingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze.

Helen’s cheeks burned with shame. Daisy had been right. She was a mess.

She cast a sidelong glance over at Ed, who looked positively mortified, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something. Helen wished he wouldn’t. He’d already said quite enough.

But he finally spoke anyway. “Helen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I...I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. I had no idea...I didn’t know that this was still so…”

“Doc, cool it for a minute,” Stan said sternly. “Let her breathe.”

“How’re you feeling?” Fiddleford asked her, his grip still tight and reassuring.

Like shit. Like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Like a hysterical, useless load. Like you guys are never going to look at me the same way ever again, her thoughts screamed.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, disgusted by how small her voice was. “I...I guess I’m not as okay with this as I thought.”

“Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked. “Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she said. To prove it, she pulled her hands free of Fiddleford’s, even though the loss of the comforting warmth made her ache inside. She ignored it.

“Do you maybe wanna...I dunno, talk?” she heard Stan ask from behind her. She could almost picture his face, drawn tight with worry and care. He’d been shooting Ford that look all day, just waiting for the minute when his brother fell apart. And the fact that he might be looking at her that way made her almost feel sick enough to vomit again.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said sharply. “It was just a miscarriage. They happen to millions of women every single day.”

“Oh, Helen…” FIddleford put a hand to his heart, looking ready to cry. The shame that had pooled in her cheeks spread, prickling along her skin like poisoned barbs. She ducked her head down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“It was two years ago, Fiddleford,” she muttered. “Don’t go all weepy on me. I’ve had time to come to grips with it. Obviously not as good a grip as I thought, but it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”

“But what about…” Fiddleford began.

She cut him off, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly slammed right into Stan’s gut. “That was just a freak thing. I’m stressed and I’m tired and all I want to do is go bash this Ivan bastard’s face in and get Ford home.” She pushed past Fiddleford, still looking dewy-eyed, and headed out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I also need some air. Come get me when you guys have a plan put together.”

She could feel their eyes on her back, even as she left their line of sight and headed towards the front door. She had to get out, and practically sprinted to close the distance between herself and the door. She flung it open and, as soon as she was out in the cold, wet night, she inhaled as deeply as she could, then shut the door behind her.

She stood there for a few minutes, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to force her mind to calm. It wasn’t working. She needed something to take the edge off.

Her gaze drifted, and in the dim porch light, she saw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the railing.

They were probably Stan’s. She’d thought the smell of smoke on his jacket was stronger than usual.

Helen hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years, not since before she’d gotten married, and with all the new literature constantly coming out about the hazards of cigarettes, she’d felt it hypocritical to ever start up again. But now, she didn’t care. She needed one like she needed oxygen.

She snatched up the pack and pulled one out. The lighter was flimsy and cheap, and took a few clicked to finally hold a flame, but eventually she got it. As she took a few puffs, she heard the door open behind her. She hadn’t smoked enough of the cigarette to turn around and face whoever it was.

“I told you I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. She didn’t care which one of them it was, or what they had to say. She was not going to just sit there and listen to them talk about how sorry they were and ask why she’d never told them and all that other shit she’d been hearing from anyone who ever found out.

All except Richard. After he found out and dealt with it for a few months, all he said was goodbye.

“I didn’t say anything,” Stan said behind her. “I mostly came out here to try and save my cigarettes. I already smoked a couple after my little spat with McGucket, and I figured if you found them, that’d be the end of them.”

Helen didn’t reply. She just exhaled and let her muscles relax.

They stood for a moment in silence. Stan didn’t make a move toward her or speak. Helen barely even heard him breathe. Then finally, he said, “I wish you could have told me when you were ready.”

That was one she’d never heard before. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was looking out into the woods, his face somber.

“Even if you’d never told me,” Stan continued, “at least then it would have been on your terms. It might have been an accident, but Doc Matthews had no right to bring it up like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Helen turned around the rest of the way to face him. “If I had my way, no one would ever know,” she said. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise.”

“That’s understandable,” Stan said. “It obviously still really bothers you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Helen said, leaning back against the wall, tapping the ash from the tip of the cigarette. “People look at me differently when they know. Suddenly, I’m not a doctor or a woman who’s raising three kids by herself because her husband is a jack-off. I’m the woman who had a miscarriage, and I’m someone to be pitied. And being pitied is a fucking nightmare.”

“I get that,” Stan said. “But I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like what just happened didn’t scare the shit out of me. It’s not that I think you’re someone to be pitied. It’s that I’m worried about you, and wish you trusted me to support you in this. People like me and Fidds and Ford? We get what it’s like to live through something no one else can understand.”

Helen sighed, and said, “Stan, there are thousands of people who understand what I went through. Last time I checked the statistics, 10-20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. What happened to me was practically commonplace. It’s nothing compared to what you and your brother and Fiddleford have been through.” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “So...why does it still bother me?”

She saw Stan inch closer to her. Her voice was getting tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She was too exhausted not to cry. “I’ve gone to the support groups,” she muttered thickly. “I’ve read the books. I’ve even done a little of the therapy. But every morning I wake up and it’s still there. It’s not always like this, but it’s there. And if I can let something like this rattle me so much, for so long? Then when good am I to you? What good am I to anyone?”

Stan was flush against her side right now. Without even thinking about it, she let her head fall, until it landed on his broad shoulder. His jacket was damp and soaked her hair a bit. She didn’t care. The tears that trailed down her nose were going to make it even wetter anyway.

“Helen,” Stan said softly, “it doesn’t matter what happened to make you feel like this. It might not be a homelessness or cults or weird demons, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was horrible, and it happened to you. That’s all the reason you need to still be affected by it. There aren’t any rules that tell you when you’re supposed to be okay with something.”

She didn’t answer him, she just took another drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling as she brought it to her lips.

After another beat of silence, Stan said, “That bastard walked out right after it happened, huh?”

She nodded as blew out the smoke. “A couple of months, give or take. He said he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with me. Later, I realized he’d probably been looking for an out, and the baby was his excuse.”

“Piece of shit,” Stan muttered.

“I was gonna have a girl,” she muttered. “I wanted to name her Christina.”

She felt Stan move his arm down, and cup her hand in his. It was warm. She tossed the half-finished cigarette over the railing and into the bushes.

“You could have at least had the decency to finish it,” Stan grumbled, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t you know those things give you cancer?” she replied. “You should be thanking me.”

“You wanna head back in, maybe lay down?” Stan offered. “We’re trying to put together a bit of strategy. Ed’s offering to take us to bust out Ford, and we need to hurry.” She heard the worry creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to keep things casually for her sake. “Apparently, he’s not in great shape.”

“I’m coming with you,” Helen said firmly. There was no two ways about it.

“You sure?” Stan asked. She could see the doubt in his eyes, and she wanted to smack it out of him.

“Never been more sure,” she replied. “I feel like a pretty good catharsis for me right now would be to beat in the face of the fuckwad who caused me all this misery. And since Richard moved to California, that only leaves this Ivan bastard.”

Stan smirked a little, and said, “Alright then. I’m not gonna stop you. You can even take my bat. It’ll give me an excuse to brush off my knuckle dusters. And give your house keys a rest.” He punctuated that last comment with a playful check of her shoulder. She couldn’t suppress the smile.

She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good person, Stanley Pines.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. He began leading her back into the house. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Now let’s go knock around some cultists.”

Helen pushed down the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, nodded, and followed him in.

-----

Rfc fmsp md rpsrf hq ajmqc yr filb

Ufcpe msp jcpmcq ugjj kyic rfcgp dglyj qrykb

Zsr umkcmlc ‘q rpsqr fyq zccl kgqjygb

Ugjj rfcw dglb msr gl rgkc ufm fyq zccl njywcb?

#gravity falls #fanfic #mystery nerds au #seared with scars #ford pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #society of the blind eye #tw panic attack #tw miscarriage #tw ptsd #tw discussions of war #tw graphic injuries

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

Conversation

Stan: Shit, we lost Helen in the crowd.

Ford: Don’t worry, I’ll find her *clears throat* I AM OCCASIONALLY FRUSTRATED WITH STANLEY.

Helen, from somewhere in the crowd: STANFORD FILBRICK PINES BE NICE TO YOUR BROTHER

Ford: There she is.

#Gravity falls #mystery nerds AU #Stanley Pines #Stan Pines #Stanford Pines #Ford Pines #Helen bergstrum #Old joke is old #but this would definitely happen

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

Text

Seared With Scars - Chapter 7 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Previous Chapter

“When it comes to controlling human beings, there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by belief. And beliefs can be manipulated.”

- Michael Ende

---

Ivan knew it was almost time.

He rose from his cot, standing to his full height, and stretched a little. No sense in being stiff and achy for what was soon going to happen.

He looked again at the newspaper clipping, still clasped tightly in his fist, as if it were an extension of himself. He supposed, in a way, that’s what it was. It displayed what Ivan truly wanted and strived for, all the reasons he was still alive. True, those reasons could very well spell his death later on, but he’d had plenty of time to come to terms with that.

But for now, all that mattered was the culmination of tonight’s endeavors with Stanford Pines.

The thought of Dr. Pines made his jaw clench involuntarily. Ivan wanted very badly to blame him as the cause of all this. After all, he was the one who summoned that triangular abomination into their world, offered up his hand and mind to forces he couldn’t hope to understand or control. Had a hand in everything Ivan holding dear inching ever closer to destruction.

He wanted to hate Dr. Pines. It would have been so much easier.

He’d tried to force himself to, assailing him with a pipe and fists and kicks, trying to work his body up into a frothing rage, something that had never been hard for him when his plans were stymied by a foolish man who had almost ruined everything.

He’d tried emotional manipulation, which had proven even more effective than attacking him bodily. He’d actually shocked himself a bit with how easy it was to watch devastation slowly inch into a man’s already-weakened frame, the desperate crumbling of his resolve play out on his face like a beautifully choreographed dance.

It was the closest he’d come to truly hating Dr. Pines all night. The rush of satisfaction, the sick glee that came with knowing that he’d finally dealt a blow strong enough to chip away at the other man’s defenses, bring him low enough that he’d do anything Ivan asked.

A part of him delighted in the suffering he’d foisted on another human being, and it almost completely eclipsed the part of him that should be horrified by that.

But this unsettling sadism flared out quickly, no matter what he did. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate Dr. Pines. After all, if he hadn’t summoned that triangular monster, someone else would have. The demon was crafty that way, full of silver-tongued promises and flattery, and it took a strong will to resist him.

It would have been so much easier to just hate Dr. Pines. But Ivan knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t blame Dr. Pines entirely. He was a weak human, the same as all the others. He wasn’t the first idiot to be tricked by the demon. But, if tonight went well, he could be the last.

Tonight would put an end to this distraction. No one - not Dr. Pines, not his brother, not Dr. Bergstrum, and certainly not Fiddleford McGucket - would stand in the way of him and his army any longer. He was going to end this, and then send that demon back to whatever hellish dimension he’d crawled out from.

His hands were far too stained to even think about looking back now.

The sound of rustling paper caught his attention, and he looked back down the clipping. It fluttering in his trembling hand. Ivan took a moment to breathe deeply, willing the tremors to cease.

Anger that a few stupid people could throw everything he’d worked so hard for in jeopardy.

Fear that all this would not be enough in the end.

Exhaustion, for he’d been at this fight for some time indeed.

And, worst of all, guilt. He felt guilty for so many things: the lying, the subterfuge, the torture - for, yes, he admitted to himself that what he’d done to Dr. Pines was torture, plain and simple.

This hurricane of emotion roiled away in his stomach, making him feel sick.

Oh, it would just be so much easier if he just hated Dr. Pines.

He seemed to remember feeling this way many times before.

Fortunately, he also knew how to make it stop.

The memory gun sat on the floor by his cot. He reached down and picked it up. He twisted the dial a few times, not even having to look at the screen to know that the words “PAIN” flickered on the screen in bright green letters.

Ivan took one last glance at the newspaper clipping, one last glance at the sad young boy staring into the camera. For a brief moment, it felt as if the boy was staring directly at Ivan, beseechingly, brokenly. Ivan exhaled slowly, then tucked the clipping into his sleeve.

Then he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

And all that was left was the hate for Dr. Pines. It flowed through him, like an angry, flooded river, ready to swallow everything in its path.

It came so easily.

He felt better.

----

To the outsider observer, their little group looked utterly ridiculous, and Fiddleford knew it.

There was Stan, who just fifteen minutes ago had given Fiddleford a brutally honest and insightful dressing down through a haze of cigarette smoke, covertly slipping a pair of highly illegal, suspiciously-stained brass knuckles into his pocket.

There was Helen, a baseball bat Stan had given her slung over her shoulder as nonchalantly as if it were a trusted walking stick. Like they were all about to go on a Sunday drive, and not on a rescue mission.

There was Ed, still dressed in his Society robes, who’d politely turned down a crossbow when Stan offered it to him. “I’ve never even been target shooting,” he’d told them. “I wouldn’t even know how to hold that thing right.”

And then there was Fiddleford himself, with nothing more than a knapsack slung over his shoulder. True, the knapsack held a very important bargaining chip for him, but he kept that to himself for the time being.

Yes, they were an odd assortment with a frankly deranged quest in mind. If he hadn’t lived through all the events leading up to this moment in time, he would have laughed. But he knew better.

Ivan had to be stopped. The Society needed to be reigned in. Ford needed their help. And they were going to make sure that happened.

Fiddleford began to open the door to the front seat, but Stan suddenly barked, “You’re in the back with Helen. Matthews is up here with me.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow, then looked back to Dr. Matthews. The older man was staring back in confusion, his hand hovering over the handle to open the door behind the passenger seat. Fiddleford saw that Helen had already slid into the seat behind Stan’s, her face stony and serious, gaze so firm on the headrest in front of her, it looked like she was trying to bore a hole in it.

When Dr. Matthews turned his head to look at her, possibly expecting her to say something to Stan about how it wasn’t a big deal if he sat near her, things were fine, nothing was wrong, she didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t utter a single word. She simply lowered her head a little and stared at her feet.

With a sad sigh, Matthews took his hand away from the handle and walked to the front seat. Fiddleford stepped away to let him pass, then ducked back to slide into the backseat. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Stan’s face. Whereas Helen was regarding Matthews like she was trying to pretend he wasn’t there, Stan settled that steely, fiery gaze on the doctor, and didn’t stop watching him until he had ducked into the front seat and was safely buckled in.

Fiddleford supposed that Stan’s distrust was understandable. Not only did Stan have a decade’s worth of experience with people it was incredibly foolish to trust, but there was also Helen to consider. As the car sputtered to life around them and eased forward, Fiddleford stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. He had no idea what she and Stan had talked about after she’d retreated to the porch, but whatever it was had left her quiet and pensive. Even now, her gaze was focused outside, her chin resting on her hand.

For the entire time it took them to gather their supplies and get out the door, Stan had been very unsubtly planting himself between Helen and Dr. Matthews. Every time the older man got too close to her for Stan’s liking, he’d shove himself up next to her, like a protective, bulky wall, until Matthews got the hint and moved away. Stan clearly blamed Matthews for causing Helen’s panic attack, and he seemed determined to keep Matthews at arm’s length from her.

Fiddleford would have found it noble if Stan hadn't insisted on bringing her along.

When he saw Stan handing her the bat before they left the house, he’d almost balked, demanded to know why Stan thought it was a good idea to hand a person who’d just thrown up in the sink and nearly hyperventilated a weapon and invite her along on a potentially dangerous mission.

Then he’d caught a look at Helen’s face - mouth set in a determined line, shoulders squared, fist clenched tight enough around the grip of the bat to make her knuckles turn white. She was a woman with a mission.

Still, he’d tried to open his mouth to say something, anything. After all, he didn’t want her to be hurt anymore than Stan did, and unlike Stan, he knew that an exhausted and vulnerable person tended to be the one who was hurt the most in situations like these.

It was like she’d read his mind. As soon as his mouth was open and a breath of speech had escaped him, Helen’s head snapped in his direction, and Fiddleford had actually taken a step back. Her eyes were full of an angry fire, hot and intense, ready to burn down anything that stood in her way, him included.

He’d quickly snapped his mouth shut, but nothing about Helen being here sat right with him. She should be resting. Even the bat currently resting against her leg didn’t do much to assuage his concerns.

A bump in the road jostled Fiddleford from his thoughts, and he realized that they had left the uneven dirt road of the woods, and onto the paved streets of town. The only light around them was the dusty yellow of the streetlamps. The only sound was the vague road noise around them. Fiddleford looked at the clock set in Stan’s dash. It was five minute to two.

“Take a left at the next stop sign, then keep going straight until you hit Huckabone Street,” Matthews said suddenly, voice tight and quiet, slicing through the silence like an arrow shot by a quivering hand. As they passed under one of the streetlamps, Fiddleford saw his Adam’s apple bob in a nervous gulp.

“You’re not even going to tell us where we’re going?” Helen asked. Fiddleford looked over at her, surprised not only that she’d finally spoken, but at the sheer amount of venom behind the words.

“I figured it would be easier if I just gave directions to the man who’s only lived here for a couple of months,” Matthews replied. There was an odd playfulness in his tone, like he was trying to joke with Helen, ignore the tension between them and just get back to the professional friendship they’d had as colleagues.

From Helen’s face, Fiddleford suspected the effort was in vain. She just let out a derisive sigh through her nose.

Matthews turned quickly in his seat, the leather groaning beneath him. Fiddleford felt Helen start beside him. Stan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as his shoulders tensed up, ready to fight.

“Helen, look,” Matthews said, pleadingly, “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to say it enough.” His eyes were watery and slightly puffy in the weak light. “I’ll never be able to fully fix what I’ve done. I thought I was doing the right thing-”

“You never bothered to see if that’s what I wanted,” Helen replied, more quietly, but still with rage bubbling just below the surface.

“I know that,” Matthews replied. “I thought the Society...at the time, I thought they could help you. Before tonight, I thought that it would do you good. It was so hard, watching you suffer and knowing there was nothing I could do…”

Matthews trailed off, his eyes once again gaining that distant sadness, like he was one million miles away from them in the blink of an eye. After a moment, he gave his head a hard shake, and continued, “If I had known this was what Ivan was planning, I never would have given him that key. What you and your friends have been through is my fault, and I’m going to do as much as I can to make it up to you.”

Helen didn’t answer him right away, but she did finally turn to meet his gaze. Stony silence hung oppressively between them.

Helen’s face was totally unreadable. She seemed to be studying Matthews, searching his face. For what, Fiddleford couldn’t rightly say.

Whatever it was, she seemed to find it. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she finally said, “Damn right you are, Edward Matthews.”

Matthews’ shoulders slumped as he returned the smile.

“You can start,” Helen continued, “by taking my shift on Tuesday. I’m gonna need an extended vacation after all this is over.”

“You say that like I’m not gonna take Tuesday off to recuperate from all this,” Matthews joked back.

“This is a bad week to be Simon,” Helen said, shaking her head.

“Simon?” Fiddleford asked before he could stop himself. Helen and Matthews turned their gazes on him almost like they’d forgotten he was there.

“Simon McBride. He’s the other doctor at the hospital. He’s in Miami for the weekend, at his parents’ condo,” Helen replied. Her brow furrowed in thought before she mumbled, “He’s gonna be so confused when he gets back.”

Matthews chuckled a bit, and even Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile a little. It was nice to see Helen be able to talk like this again to someone she obviously had a great deal of respect for, and who obviously cared about her a lot.

Then his gaze moved up to Stan in the driver’s seat. His grip on the steering wheel had not lessened. The tension had not left his shoulders. His jaw was still set rigidly. Fiddleford wished he could tell what he was thinking. Seeing him looking so on edge made him anxious, and that was not something he needed to deal with, given what they were going to try and do.

Stan finally spoke up and said, “Alright, Doc, we’re coming up on Huckabone. Now what?”

Matthews turned from Helen to look out the windshield, then said, “Kill your headlights and pull up along the curb. We’ll have to walk the last block.”

Stan gave him an incredulous look as he said, “Pardon me?”

“Ed, all that’s down here is the history museum,” Helen said.

The words “history museum” hit Fiddleford like a brick to his face. His nose was suddenly filled with the scent of dust and mildew. Chanting flooded his ears, drowning out whatever the others were saying. And before his eyes…

His footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor, as he drew closer to the trembling young man. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. He reached out a hand, and laced it through ashen fingers. They fluttered against his grip like a baby bird. “I promise, it won’t hurt. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The young man looked up at him, his filmy red right eye focused intently on the bulb of the gun pressed to his forehead. After a moment, the young man gulped and said, “I trust you, sir.”

Fiddleford inhaled sharply as the memory ended and he was flung back into reality. Stan had parked the car, away from any street lamps or overhead lights from stores. The dark and the quiet smothered him like a down quilt drawn tight around his face.

His small gasp for air had drawn the attention of the others, and they watched him cautiously as he took a few deep breaths. His lungs ached, like he’d been underwater and holding in air for hours.

“You okay, Fidds?” Stan asked. He’d unbuckled his seatbelt to twist in his seat, arm slung around the headrest. Fiddleford noticed that, now that he was focused on him, the tension was totally gone from Stan’s body.

Fiddelford merely nodded, taking another deep breath before he began to speak. “Matthews is right,” he finally said. “I remember the history museum. It’s our base.”

“How do you hide a memory-wiping cult in a public museum?” Helen asked.

“The best way to hide something,” Fiddelford responded, “is camouflage.”

Stan and Helen glanced at each other quizzically.

“There’s a false wall in the building,” Fiddleford explained. “Ivan found it, and thought it’d be the perfect place to conduct the Society - perform the ritual, store the memories, that sort of thing.”

“Wow, who could have foreseen that a shady group that wiped people’s memories run by a guy who insisted they do it in secrecy in a musty basement would ever turn into something sinister,” Stan said flatly.

Fiddleford shot him a withering glance before saying, “At the time, I agreed with him simply because I was running out of places to put the memories. At least down there, we had storage. But as time went on and more and more people asked to join us, we decided to hold the meetings there too.”

“It was good to protect our privacy,” Matthews added. “Some of the members preferred to hide behind the hoods and the anonymity. Not many people want to give up their secrets lightly.”

“Yep, not in the slightest bit creepy,” Stan muttered again.

“Do you have a point, by chance?” Fiddleford asked, .

“Two, actually,” Stan replied. “First, if you really looked at all this weirdness and didn’t think it was the most unsettling shit ever, you have even less foresight than I thought.”

“Noted,” Fiddleford grumbled back. “Anything else?”

“Second, because this is the most unsettling shit I’ve ever come across, and because these people have already proven themselves to be desperate and dangerous, I’m starting to think just busting Ford out isn’t going to be enough.”

“What do you mean?” Matthews asked.

“He means,” Helen said, nodding her head in the direction of her baseball bat, “that these will help us get Ford out, but we need a guarantee that they won’t retaliate.”

Fiddleford decided it was time to reveal his ace in the hole. “I might have a way of doing that,” he said, flipping open his knapsack to reveal the memory gun.

Helen, Stan, and Matthews looked down at it like he’d just revealed a loaded pistol to them.

“I brought it with me in case Ivan proved to be troublesome,” Fiddleford continued. “But Stan and Helen have a point - desperate people will do crazy things. I hope it won’t come to that, but if things get out of hand...I will use the memory gun on my followers.”

Matthews’ face fell in devastation. “Sir, are you...are you really prepared to do that?” he asked quietly. “To bring yourself down to Ivan’s level like that?”

The question hurt, but not for the reason that Matthews probably thought it did. The thing about it was, Fiddleford wasn’t bringing himself down to Ivan’s level with what he had planned.

Ivan had already lowered himself to Fiddleford’s level.

What Ivan had perverted the Society into was never what Fiddleford had intended, but his intentions no longer mattered. Fiddleford wasn’t sure if they ever did. After all, what had his intentions been? To keep people ignorant? To give them a place to hide away from their fear, to forever be victim to it?

What, in the end, had the group ever succeeded in doing, under his direction? If tonight was anything to go by, it had only succeeded in creating people who were so afraid of what they didn’t understand, that they didn’t just want to forget it anymore. They wanted to destroy it.

As selfish as Ivan’s motives were, all he’d really done was take the core tenants of the Society to their logical extremes. If he hadn’t done that, someone else would have. Fiddleford had provided all the groundwork needed for the Society to be turned into something dark and dangerous. All it had required was the right demagogue to complete the transformation.

Fiddleford brought his eyes up to meet Matthews’, and said, “There’s this philosphy I learned about in college called the paradox of tolerance. It basically means that, if tolerance doesn’t have its limits, it’s eventually seized and destroyed by the intolerant. So the only way to make sure that doesn’t happen, is by being intolerant of intolerance.”

He looked down at the gun in his lap. Even in the thick blanket of darkness, it glistened like a living thing. Even though he had boasted upon this device’s creation that it was lightweight and sleek, easy to hide in the sleeve of a robe with no trouble, it felt thirty pounds heavier now. It was a testament to all he’d done, everything he’d caused, and to all that he was determined to make right.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Ivan from hurting anyone else,” he said firmly. “And I will break my own rules to do it.”

He looked into the faces of the three people surrounding him. Matthews’ face was still raw with emotion, like his entire world was crashing down around him.

Helen’s face was unreadable as she studied Fiddleford’s face intently. He fought hard to keep from squirming under that intense gaze.

Stan, however, gave Fiddleford a small smile. It brought a warmth to Fiddleford’s chest that only strengthened his resolve. He hoped Stan realized how much he’d done to finally make Fiddleford see the truth about what needed to be done.

“Alright,” he finally said, his words strong and firm in the dark, quiet car. “Let’s go.”

The others nodded, and slowly began to get out of the car. Fiddleford closed the knapsack, clutched it tightly to his side, and flung open his door into the cold, damp February night.

---

Darryl’s knife glinted in the weak light as it sliced through the last set of ropes, around Ford’s right wrist. He flexed his left hand a bit, forcing blood to start pulsing through it again, ignoring the raw skin where the ropes had bitten into his skin and left angry red marks.

He could worry about the pain later. He focused, picturing a large foot squashing down the pain bubbling up inside him, squashing it down until it was nothing more than a dull blip on his brain’s radar.

Finally, the ropes gave with a satisfying snap. Darryl tucked his knife back into his boot. He began throwing the ropes off and said, “Do you think you can walk?”

Ford didn’t respond, just waited until the ropes had landed on the floor with a dull thud, then grabbed the arms of the chair with his shaking hands. With all the power in his quivering arms, forced himself to stand.

He barely had a moment to realize that that had been a huge mistake, swaying dangerously as soon as his hands left the support of the chair. Darryl dove to catch him, wrapping two strong arms protectively around his chest to keep him from falling.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ford muttered, despite the shrieking warnings from the back of his brain saying no, he was not okay, he couldn’t do this. His vision swam for a moment. His head feeling like it was going to explode. The shaky breath he drew felt like a hot knife being driven into his side.

He shoved it all back into the dark corners of his thoughts where they belonged.

“Here,” Darryl said gently, guiding Ford’s right arm around his shoulders. Using his free hand, he put a firm hand on Ford’s left side, just below his ribs to avoid hitting any broken ones. “Just lean on me, Dr. Pines,” he said. He gave Ford’s right hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Please, after all that’s happened, call me Ford,” Ford replied, smiling a bit despite himself.

“I’ll call you ‘Long, Tall Sally’, if you want,” Darryl replied. “But I’ll do it once we get out of here.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then added, “This is gonna hurt, I won’t lie. I’ll try to go slow, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I’ll be okay,” Ford lied. Even just standing here made him ache in ways he didn’t even think possible. But he wasn’t going to let Darryl know that. He simply gritted his teeth and concentrated on that mental image of a foot stamping down.

Darryl gave a crisp nod and said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Darryl began moving them towards the door, and instantly, Ford felt a shot of pain up his side. He clenched his teeth harder, balling his free hand into a fist by his side, willing the pain to fade, or at least lessen. After about thirty seconds, it did, though not by much. As Darryl reached the door to Ford’s prison, his side still throbbed dully. He ignored it as Darryl eased the door open. It gave one soft creak, but did no more to give away their position.

Fluidly, like a cat, Darryl ducked them both out of the room. Despite everything, Ford took the opportunity to look around, and was frankly amazed at what he saw.

Before them was a short, stone hallway. It was like something out of a medieval castle, lit by torches and lined with tapestries, all in brilliant red with a crossed out eye stitched into them. A few other doors were scattered about. Occasionally, the hallway dipped into an alcove, where stone statues of hooded figures with their arms lovingly outstretched stood, silent and imposing.

How had Fiddleford managed to do all this in the span of a few months?

Pain suddenly exploded in Ford’s side, nearly making him lose his footing and take Darryl down with him. He could practically feel the broken bones somewhere inside him shifting and stabbing at him, tearing soft tissue and threatening to make him bleed. For a brief moment, he was crippled by the imagine of one of his ribs slicing through his lung, and choking slowly on his own blood.

Goddamit, Sixer, stop being so morbid and focus!

The voice echoed from a small, forgotten place in Ford’s mind. In his panicked state, his first thought was that this was Bill, mocking him from his mindscape, but then the voice barked out again. You ain’t dying yet, Sixer. Now get moving!

This wasn’t Bill. It couldn’t be. It was gruffer, but kinder. Encouraging, supportive, and certainly not putting up with his melodramatic bullshit.

Stan.

That voice could only be Stan’s.

As his senses flooded back to him, Ford slapped his hand over his mouth and pressed hard. The shrieks of agony that wanted to erupt from within him came out now as mere strained grunts. He screwed his eyes shut against the pain. He ground his teeth together to have something, anything else to focus on. He begged whatever deity was watching all this that the pain would pass.

It will, Sixer, Stan’s voice said. I promise it will.

Finally, after several agonizing seconds, it did.

Ford took his trembling hand away from his mouth, and only then realized that Darryl had stopped moving and was watching him. He shifted his gaze over to him, and watched Darryl mouth, “Okay?”

Ford nodded, taking in heavy, quick breaths. He still shook, though now it was less from the pain and more from the unrelenting terror of knowing that, no matter what they did, there was always more pain to come. Ford allowed himself only a moment of hopelessness, unsure if he would be able to make it. He’d never known such pain in his life. There was no direction his body could shift where more wasn’t waiting for him. The hallway might as well have been an endless, dark cave, with nothing but a sheer drop waiting for them at the end.

But then he felt that encouraging squeeze from Darryl again, and the black stain was gone. He looked over, and saw that Darryl had set his lips in a determined line. Strangely enough, Ford was once again reminded of his father, and the only concrete memory he had of his father talking about his time during the war.

Whenever he and Stan had come home from school with blackened eyes and bloodied noses and ripped clothes and broken glasses, Stan almost always seemed to have it worse than Ford. His shiner was always worse. His nose always gushed harder. He’d once come home with an entire sleeve of his shirt missing. But one could tell by looking at his busted-up knuckles that, while Stan had gotten the brunt of things, he gave as good as he got.

One day, their mother, her voice harried and exhausted had sat Stan down and asked why. Why did he always get the brunt of this. Why did he act like a common street thug whenever these boys did this?

Stan didn’t looked her in the eye, but he said, “‘Cause they’d just beat up Ford worse if I didn’t.”

And before their mother could even open her mouth to respond, their father had said, “You don’t leave a man behind, Caryn. Leave him be.”

Dad hadn’t even been upset about having to buy Ford another pair of glasses after that.

It was obvious that Darryl subscribed to that same dogma. Even when it’s hopeless, you don’t leave a man behind.

As they worked their way further down the hall, Ford realized that they were heading towards a curtain, hung in an archway ahead of them. It was a dark red, the color of blood. He tried not to think too hard about that as he forced himself to keep taking step after step.

The sound of footsteps echoed around them. Ford realized quickly that they were coming from the direction of the curtain. Someone was coming.

Darryl stopped moving, his eyes darting like a trapped animal, looking for a place to hide. He turned his head towards a statute slightly behind them on the right. He tugged Ford back towards it and stooped down to fit them both behind it. The fit was tight, and Ford fought not to give a gasp of pain as a rib stabbed maliciously inside him, but at least it was dark and well out of the line of sight of anyone coming down the hall.

Not that that helped still the wild pounding of his heart. This close, Ford could feel that Darryl’s heartbeat was very much the same.

The footsteps drew closer, and Ford began to hear voices along with them.

“...just be grateful when this whole thing is over with,” said a gruff, masculine voice. “Having that six-fingered weirdo here gives me the creeps.”

To Ford’s shock, the voice of an older woman answered the man. “At least no one is looking at you like you’re some kind of failure.” He heard her give a frustrated huff. “Still can’t believe that little bitch did this to my face.”

“It’ll heal, Louise.”

Louise? Wait, the grandmotherly secretary from the hospital? That Louise?

“How the hell am I supposed to explain it to my husband, huh? Between Helen and that oaf who was with her, I look like I’ve been in a bar fight.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You are a pretty dern good liar after all.”

Louise let out a small giggle. He’d never have believed that something so small, dainty, and innocent-sounding could ever send an unsettled chill down his spine.

“You’d make a girl blush, Leroy Muggins,” she said, as casually as if they were exchanging pleasant small talk.

Leroy Muggins? As in Sheriff Leroy Muggins? The sheriff was in on this?

“‘Sides,” Muggins continued, “at least you got a few good hits in on the grimy one. When I saw him at Helen’s, he looked pretty rough.”

“Serves him right for hitting a lady. I should have given Helen a few good ones too. Never did like that uppity little tramp much…”

“Well, don’t you fret too much, alright? If everything goes the way Ivan wants tonight, you’ll get plenty of chances to pay them back…”

The voices faded as the two figures walked on, and Ford heard a door close. They must have gone into a different room.

Ford and Darryl stood there for another full minute before either moved a muscle.

This wasn’t just a group of frightened townsfolk anymore. The Society was out for blood, and their reach was deep enough that the medical community and law enforcement were involved.

When Darryl finally seemed to snap back to life, he turned his head and looked Ford directly in the eye. The message in them was clear, for it was the exact same thing that was now screaming in Ford’s brain.

They needed to move faster.

Slowly, Darryl edged them back out into the hall from behind the statue, and eventually reached the curtain at the end of the hall. Darryl lifted it back, less than an inch, checking the room that lay beyond. He let it drop back, then gave Ford’s hand another reassuring squeeze. It must have been all clear on the other side.

In one fluid motion, Darryl parted the curtain and walked them through. They were now in some kind of open, circular chamber. In the middle of the room was a chair, with straps on the arms. Less than a foot away from it was a pedastal, upon which sat an orante box. The bulb of a memory gun, the large one that Ford had seen Ivan weilding earlier, glinted in the weak light.

The sight of it made Ford shudder, and he forced himself to look away, pushing down the roiling nausea that flared up in the pit of his stomach.

“Almost there,” Darryl said in a low whisper. He was taking Ford in the direction of another curtain, at the foot of a small set of stairs, set between two stone pillars.

A sense of inexplicable relief washed over him. He didn’t know how much farther they had to go, but knowing that beyond those curtains was “almost there”, out of this living nightmare he’d spent the last several hours in, away from the pain and the torture, was enough to dull every aching part of him for a moment.

Then the curtain began to rustle.

He felt Darryl’s body tense up against him in fear. Darryl whipped his head around sharply, doubtlessly looking for another place to hide.

There was none.

Ford’s heart began to beat wildly against his broken ribs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. There was no way they could have come this far only for it all to amount to nothing.

The curtain parted, and Darryl took a tentative step back, clutching Ford tighter to him that ever before.

And through the curtain stepped Stan, looking around at the bizarre scene in front of him. Helen followed shortly after, looking just as confused. She was carrying a baseball bat.

Ford didn’t think before he let out a raspy, “Guys?”

Stan’s head whipped in their direction, and the confusion gave way to pure shock, like he was looking at a very familiar ghost.

“Ford?” he said quietly.

“Yeah…” Ford ground out in response.

“Holy shit, Ford!” Before Ford could say anything else, his brother was upon him, pulling him close to him in a tight hug.

Ford’s eyes welled up instantly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been needing this, the strong, loving support of his twin. He thought back to that morning, now seeming like a lifetime ago - Stan’s hand on his back to soothe away his anxiety, his gravelly voice offering soothing platitudes and nonsense to ease his guilt, his warm smile making him feel like everything would be okay.

He’d been genuinely afraid that he’d never get to experience any of that again. He buried his face against into the crook of his brother’s neck and let out a strangled sob.

“Hey, Sixer, hey, it’s okay,” Stan said. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Ford wanted to say something, but Stan shifted his arm, and suddenly his broken ribs were stabbing at him again. Ford pulled his head out of Stan’s shoulder and gave a weak cry of pain. He managed to say, “Stan…” in a strained whisper before it was swallowed up in a desperate gasp for air.

Stan pulled his arm away immediately and began babbling, “Oh god, Ford, I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay, alright? We’re gonna get you outta here. You’ll be okay, pal, you’ll be okay.”

“Oh my god, Ford, what did they do to you?” Helen’s worried voice reached him, and Ford managed to pull his head back up enough to see her practically running to close the distance between her and the brothers. Behind her was Fiddleford and Dr. Matthews, from the hospital. Ford didn’t have time to ask what he was doing there before Stan stepped off to Ford’s unsupported side to let Helen in closer to him.

“How the hell did you guys get here?” Darryl asked incredulously.

Helen and Stan seemed to realize in that moment that Darryl was there, and turned to take him in - his mouth hanging agape, his eyes wide.

“Darryl? The fuck are you doing here?” Stan asked, his voice practically climbing an octave in shock.

“You know what,” Helen finally said, sounding so very tired, “I’m not even surprised.”

A brief look of sheepishness flashed across Darryl’s face. He composed himself quickly, though, and said, “He’s in pretty bad shape, Doc. We need to get him out of here.”

“What’s the damage?” Helen asked, clearly trying to keep her gaze analytical and objective, to force herself into doctor mode. But Ford could see the concern in her eyes, that maternal warmth that had let Ford know, from the moment he met her, that she was someone he could trust. It was clear she wanted to embrace him just as much and as hard as Stan did. Instead, she merely reached out a hand and stroked it quickly, but lovingly, through his hair. She winced a bit when her finger got caught slightly where it was matted with blood.

Ford leaned into her touch, not even caring how silly it made him look. He was past that.

“Blow to the back of the head, broken ribs. ” Darryl replied. “He’s been having trouble breathing, so I’m thinking one of them is getting close to his lungs. We need to get him to the hospital before we got a real mess on our hands.”

Helen nodded, her eyes watery behind her glasses. “Let’s get you out of here,” she said, voice strained.

“I’ll help Darryl support him, Stan,” said Dr. Matthews, coming up to Stan’s side. “We need you at the front.”

Stan didn’t move, and gave Matthews a look that could have frozen molten steel. Ford felt his brother’s grip around his waist tightened protectively.

“Stan, he’s right,” Helen said. “You’re the semi-professional boxer. If we run into any trouble, we’ll need you to do what you do best.”

That finally seemed to get Stan to relent, and he gently helped Doctor Matthews arch Ford’s arm over his shoulders. Ford noticed that, throughout the entire maneuver, Stan never took his steely gaze off Matthews, even for an instant. They began to move toward the steps.

“Let’s hurry and get back up into the museum,” Fiddleford suddenly said from his position at the bottom of the stairs. He was pulling back the curtain, and frantically looking beyond them, clutching a knapsack close to his side.

The museum? They were under the museum? Had Fiddleford been that close to him this entire time and Ford hadn’t even realized it? All he had to do was come into town and come to the museum, and he could have spared his friends this horrible night?

Fiddleford wouldn’t have been targeted by a mad cultist with a mysterious but dangerous agenda.

Stan wouldn’t have a series of angry-looking stitches trailed down his temple.

Helen wouldn’t have had her very sense of peace and privacy violated.

Darryl wouldn’t having to risk his life for someone who’d caused him nothing but misery.

Once again, if he’d just been a better person, none of this would have happened.

A wave of pain that had nothing to do with broken ribs crashed over him as his eyes welled up again.Before he had a chance to think about it, Ford murmured, “I’m so sorry, guys. Th-this is all my fault.”

“Shut up, Ford,” Stan said firmly. “Just shut up. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, you hear me?”

“He’s right,” Helen added gently, “This isn’t anyone’s fault but Ivan’s.”

“If it wasn’t for me, Ivan wouldn’t even be a problem,” Ford countered miserably. “This entire night, i-it’s my fault...I’m sorry…”

His eyes drifted shut as the tears trailed down. He was just so tired, not just physically, but mentally. He was tired of being the one who dragged everyone else through emotional hell because he was too much of a short-sighted ass to see beyond what he wanted, how he was feeling in that moment. Even when he tried to make things right, all he did was fuck it all up worse.

He heard footsteps approach him, soft and tentative, but determined. Then he felt two hands reach out and cup his face. A calloused hand gently wiped the two streaks of tears away. “Aw, hush,” Fiddleford’s kind voice said.

When Ford opened his eyes, he didn’t know what he expected to find in Fiddleford’s expression - distrust, fear, maybe even anger. The way they’d left things at the start of all this, Ford really wouldn’t have been surprised by any of them.

What he was greeted with instead was the soft, sweet smile of his dearest friend in the whole world.

That damn smile. It had always been like concentrated sunshine, something that always made Ford feel better when they were in school together, even at his most frustrated, his most lonely, his most afraid.

The effect hadn’t changed.

“There’s no need for talk like that,” Fiddleford replied. Before Ford could say anything back, Fiddleford had moved his hands from Ford’s face, and wrapped his arms around his neck, in a small hug. “We both made mistakes,” he muttered into Ford’s shoulder. “At least you owned up to yours and tried to fix them. I hope, when we get you out of here, that you’ll let me do the same for you.”

Ford couldn’t find it in himself to respond, so he just nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stan and Helen, watching the two. They both wore relieved smiles.

After holding Ford for a another few seconds, Fiddleford pulled away, and said, “Back up we go.”

That seemed to spur the rest of the group on, and Helen and Stan started down the stairs, Fiddleford following shortly after. Darryl and Dr. Matthews began gently guiding Ford toward them.

“Y’all never did answer my question,” Darryl said. “How the heck did you get here? I wasn’t exactly planning on running into any friendly faces.”

“You can thank Ed for that,” Helen replied. “Without him, we never would have gotten this far.”

A voice from the shadows suddenly boomed, “How fortunate for all of us, indeed.”

Everyone froze, only for an instant. Then in a dizzying flurry of red, almost a dozen hooded figures emerged from the shadows and descended upon them.

One collided with Fiddleford’s back and slammed him into the ground. Stan and Helen were blindsided by two more figures and knocked the rest of the way down the stairs, landing in a tangled heap just inches from the curtain that lead to their freedom. Ford watched as they tried to kick and throw punches, but another pair of figures leapt into the fray and added more weight on them both. One even jerked the bat from Helen’s hands and tossed it away. It landed with a clatter on the stone floor, at least fifty yards away.

The support at Ford’s right was suddenly wrenched away, and Darryl only let out a shout of surprise as a robed figure wrapped an arm around his neck in a chokehold, and began wrestling him to the floor.

Only Ford and Dr. Matthews were left standing, and he knew this old man wouldn’t stand a chance against feral cultists out for blood. He was just about to tell Matthews to run, to do something to protect himself, when suddenly he felt his left arm being wrenched backwards. He gasped as it popped in protest, pulled back further than he ever thought possible. The pain struck him like a bullet to the chest, and all he could do was let out a strangled gasp as he was forced to his knees.

“Be a good boy and stay down, interloper,” he heard Matthews hiss at him, “or I’ll dislocate it right now.”

Through the pain, something clicked in Ford’s mind - the angry words, the voice that sounded minutes from snapping, the hands that gripped him like a vice.

Dr. Matthews was the follower who’d been with him when he first woke up.

Ford heard Helen yell, “Ed, what the hell are you doing?!”

Almost overlapping her, Ford heard Stan practically scream, “Matthews, get your goddamn hands off him, or I swear to God I’ll-”

The voice from the shadows rang out again. “Not to point out the obvious, but there’s not much you can do, Stanley.”

Ford lifted his head, heavy and trembling on his shoulders, towards the source of the voice, and from the shadows emerged Blind Ivan, seamlessly as if he’d melted into reality from the inky blackness. On his face was a satisfied smile. Ford felt his heart fall to his shoes.

This had been Ivan’s plan all along.

He’d used Matthews to lure Stan, Helen, and Fiddleford here.

Matthews had been working against them from the beginning.

And now Ivan had all the pieces he needed.

The realization hadn’t seemed to dawn on Stan, and he spat, “You’re not gonna be looking so smug once I knock back your goons, cueball! When I get my hands on you, you’re gonna wish all I’ll do is kill you!”

Ivan didn’t respond. He just snapped his fingers.

At the sound, Matthews reared back his foot, and brought it down sharply on the back of Ford’s knee. It gave with a sickening crunch, like a piece of rotted wood being split by an axe.

A roar of agony was ripped from Ford’s lungs, and he lost his balance completely. He hit the cold stone roughly on his side, and he let out another, tighter scream of pain as he landed squarely on a broken rib. Matthews brought his foot back down roughly on Ford’s back, applying just enough pressure to make Ford fearful to even breathe, for fear that Matthews would start grinding his heel into more of his broken bones.

Ford let his head fall limply to the floor, and looked to his friends. They all stared, in dumbstruck horror, between him and Matthews.

There was nothing any of them could do to help him.

They’d lost.

“Now then,” Ivan said. “I believe it’s time we got down to business.”

#gravity falls #fanfic #gf #seared with scars #mystery nerds au #stanford pines #ford pines #stanley pines #stan pines #helen bergstrum #fiddleford mcgucket #blind ivan #the society of the blind #tw graphic injuries #tw violence

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

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Pictured: Helen Bernice Bergstrum, after two months of hanging out with Stanford and Stanley Pines.

#Mystery nerds AU #Helen Bergstrum #Stamford Pines #Ford Pines #Stanley Pines #Stan Pines #Gravity Falls

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

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Seared With Scars - Epilouge (Mystery Nerds AU)

And here we are at the end, my friends. I'd like to thank everyone who's stuck with me through the frankly insane and arduous undertaking. I keep every single comment that people leave on my stories, and reading yours on this one is what eventually inspired me to get back in the saddle and pick it up again after two years. You guys are pretty damn awesome. I'm probably not gonna do something this ambitious again for a good, long while, but the Mystery Nerds series is far from over. So enjoy the ending, and hopefully we can all venture into the unknown once more very soon.

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of overcoming it.” - Helen Keller

---

Helen hesitated only a moment as she slid her key into her front door. She knew, logically, that there couldn’t be anyone from the Society on the other side, waiting for her. There was no Society left. There was nothing to be afraid of in her home. And besides, she had to go in. Her spare pair of glasses were in her nightstand. She needed them. Darryl had graciously driven her all the way back to her house, when he had a family of his own to get back to, just so she could get them and Stan wouldn’t have to leave Ford’s side.

Plus it couldn’t be more than thirty degrees out here and she was freezing.

She had to go inside.

The sight of her keys, still stained slightly with Louise’s blood, made her gut feel things differently.

Darryl spoke up from behind her. “Want me to go in first?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Thanks,” she muttered. Hot shame pooled in her cheeks for a moment as he walked past her and turned the key, but she stamped it down. Even though she knew that there would not be anyone in her house, she had every reason to be anxious. She wasn’t going to let shame keep her from trying to get better anymore.

And the first step towards healing was admitting that the trauma was there.

Darryl swung the door open and walked in, looking from side to side as he went. He motioned to her, an indication that he saw nothing out of the ordinary. She pooled all her courage and followed him inside, holding her head high.

The house was very much the same as she and Stan had left it. She noticed, with a wry sense of annoyance, that Stan hadn’t even pushed in the dining room chair he’d been sitting in while Darryl patched up his bleeding head.

“You need me to check your bedroom too?” Darryl asked. His tone was one hundred percent serious. Helen had no doubt in her mind that he’d search the entire house, top to bottom, if she’d asked.

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “Go ahead and have a seat. I won’t be too long.”

She started down the hall, her hand trailing down the wall to keep her steady, and immediately, a flash of memory popped into her head, of turning around and finding a stranger in a red hood staring back at her. It was followed by a stab of fear because where was Stan, what had they done to him! She felt Darryl’s presence at her side. She looked over at him and he smiled sweetly at her. He was going with her now, and it seemed like there was no arguing it.

She found that now, she didn’t mind.

There was no one in her bedroom.

There was no one in her house.

She was safe.

She had a friend.

They walked down the hallway together, and Darryl said, as casually as if they did this all the time, “I thought you might like to know the status of our friends, the former cultists. I didn’t want to say anything while we were at the hospital. Didn’t want to be overheard and stir any memories, ya know?”

“Give me details, man,” she said, leaning towards him exaggeratedly. She felt a bit silly, but she needed some silliness right now.

“Well, for starters, Louise is going on extended leave. Absolutely no word was mentioned about her coming back.”

“I would say that I’m sad we’re gonna be stuck with sourpuss Sharon for a while, but Louise did break into my house and punch me in the face.”

“Maybe they’ll actually hire some who doesn’t have staggering emotional issues to replace Louise,” Darryl said.

They reached her bedroom door, and Helen peered in. The only evidence of what had happened to her was a small brown stain on the carpet, less than a foot from where she stood at the door frame.

She had expected seeing that stain would have been what made her crumble. Miraculously, she found it elicited no thought other than she was going to have to call a carpet cleaning service on top of her optometrist and goddammit did Louise have to make her life harder?

And that thought just made her laugh quietly to herself as she crossed the door frame and walked to her nightstand.

“Also Matthews is in talks for his retirement.”

“I knew he and Andrea had been talking about that for a while before she died.”

“Yeah, everything just kinda fell through after that. But apparently his daughters have been pretty insistent. I think what happened kinda brought it all to a head. Liz has got Meg on a flight up right now.”

“Damn. I don’t think Ed’s getting out of it this time if she’s flying up here all the way from New Mexico.”

She pulled open the drawer and there, sitting on top of a pile of dried out pens and pocket change and spare tampons was her spare pair of glasses, slightly dusty with disuse, but at least in one piece. And with a relatively recent prescription.

“Right? But even they’re not playing as dirty as Ruth is right now with Muggins.”

“Oh, Leroy’s in trouble.”

Darryl laughed. “Yep. Ruth was giving him an earful right before I got to Ford’s room. Something about this job of his prematurely aging her.”

“Funny, I thought that was because she drinks grain alcohol out of a measuring cup.”

“Semantics. Point is, they’re leaving. I heard the words ‘timeshare’ and ‘Fort Lauderdale’ right before I got to Ford’s door.”

“Sounds utterly heinous.”

She slid her glasses on, and the first thing that came into view was the phone. Not for the first time since things had died down, she thought of calling the kids. She wouldn’t dream of it right now. A glance at her tableside clock told her it was barely six, and Michael would scream her deaf if she woke him up this early on a Sunday. Maybe later, after she’d gotten back to the hospital and slept a bit more. Had some more time to get her thoughts together.

She still had no idea what she was going to tell them about her battered face. It wasn’t exactly something she could explain away with a tired excuse of “I tripped and landed on my face”. Not even Amanda would buy that.

But really, why did she need an excuse?

She thought back to her conversation with Daisy the night before, the shame she’d felt at causing her daughter to worry for her, over something she’d been certain that she could handle.

She still didn’t want her children to have to worry for her. They didn’t need that kind of burden in their young lives. They needed to worry about school and friends and their hobbies, not if their mother was going to have an emotional breakdown or get into a fistfight with crazy cultists.

But, perhaps, she thought now, that worrying about someone you loved was inevitable. She’d been doing it for almost twenty-four hours now - not just about her biological kids, but about Stan and Ford and Fiddleford. No matter how old they were, she didn’t think she’d ever stop seeing them as more children for her to look after. It was just her nature.

She didn’t want her children to worry about her, but she also didn’t want to lie to them. Her lies about being okay had done everyone more harm than good, even though they’d proven somewhat useful in the end. She still smirked a bit as she thought of Blind Ivan falling for her distressed mother act hook, line, and sinker.

But now she didn’t need to lie anymore. She didn’t need to keep her pain locked up so she didn’t make other people worry for her. She didn’t need to be concerned that everyone would look at her differently. Everyone that she respected and cared about already knew, and they still treated her the same as they always had.

And if Daisy, Scott, and Amanda could be okay after what had happened to them on that awful night almost two years ago, they could handle their mom explaining why she looked like she’s lost a fight with a two-by-four.

She closed the drawer on her nightstand and turned. Darryl was leaning against the doorjamb, turning over a dog tag in his hand. His face was unreadable.

“You okay?” she asked.

He looked up at her like he’d forgotten he was in her house, and quickly said, “Yeah, I’m alright. Just thinking.”

“What about?” She came over slowly, stopping a few feet from him.

“‘Bout what you said to Matthews,” he replied, looking back down at the dog tag. “‘Bout getting help.”

“Yeah?”

“Listening to him, talking about Andrea, not being able to sleep...not being able to do anything…” He gulped heavily. “I don’t want that to be me one day, Doc.”

“It won’t be. Not after all you’ve done. You fought it when no one else would.”

“Well, I wanna make sure. And I’m gonna start by delivering this to Hank’s little brother, first thing tomorrow.” He held the dog tag out to her.

She took it, and read the words punched into the metal.

BLUBS HENRY J. A POS 91-470-441 LUTHERAN

“You might have met Little Daryl,” he said. “He works over at the Dusk 2 Dawn right now, but he’s training for the police academy.”

“His name is Daryl too?”

He gave her a wistful smile and nodded. “Hank always thought it was a riot that his best friend and his baby brother had the same name. So he called us Darryl Little and Little Daryl.” For a moment, he focused on the dog tag, and seemed to be a million miles away from her. It only briefly reminded her of Ed, but she very quickly noted a key difference.

Darryl was still smiling.

When he came back to her, he added, “Hank’s family got the tag he wore around his neck. They let me keep the one from his boot. Been carrying it with me ever since I got home. Twelve years, I been carrying that thing around my neck like a weight. I thought it was good to have, to keep him close.” Darryl paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath, then releasing it slowly. “But maybe it’s become more of a penance than a memorial.”

Helen didn’t reply. She simply handed the tag back to him.

He quickly tucked it away in his pocket. “Little Daryl will definitely get more comfort from it than I ever did,” he said.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Helen replied. “I can give you the names of a few good therapists when you’ve finished that. Especially since I’m looking up mine again come Tuesday.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He sighed heavily. “Stan was right. We are a bunch of sad idiots.”

“At least we know what we’re about.” Helen gave him a warm smile. “Now come on, I told Stan we’d swing by his house to take care of the dog, if that’s okay with you.”

“You had me at dog,” Darryl replied. He jammed his hands in his pockets and followed her down the hallway, to the front door, and out into the sunlight. ---

“So what are we gonna do with all that stuff under the history museum?” Stan asked before he tore off a hunk of sausage with his teeth. It wasn’t Greasy’s, but it would do. He’d never felt more ravenous in his life.

Fiddleford swallowed a mouthful of apple and replied, “I don’t rightly know. We definitely can’t just leave them there, but I don’t feel right watching any of them. Now that I know what the others were using them for, I’d feel...I dunno, like it was a violation of trust or something.”

“Honestly, after the hell they put up through, I think they all kind of deserve a violation of trust,” Stan replied with him mouth full.

“Well, I think I’ve had enough traumatic events to last a lifetime,” Ford said, setting his carton of orange juice back on his tray. ��Maybe we could store them somewhere else. Somewhere more safe. The bunker might work, once it gets a bit warmer and all the snow melts.”

“Is the Shapeshifter still down there?” Fiddleford asked, narrowing his eyes in Ford’s direction.

“You remember the Shapeshifter?”

“You guys had a shapeshifter?” Stan said. Just when he thought these two nerds’ adventures couldn’t get any more bizarre.

“I asked you first, Ford,” Fiddleford said. He took another bit of his apple, almost menacingly.

Ford looked downright sheepish as he muttered, “Last I checked.”

“Then we’re not using the bunker, Fiddleford replied, his mouth still full.

“Fiiine,” Ford said dramatically, flopping back against his pillows, the smile was evident in his voice.

Fiddleford’s only reply was to stick his tongue out at him. Stan couldn’t help but chuckle. These two dopes were made for each other.

Then he had an idea. “What about the basement? There should be plenty of room down there once you guys get the portal squared away.”

Ford considered for a moment, and then said, “That sounds plausible.”

“It might not even take that many trips if we take multiple cars,” Fiddleford added.

“Sounds like we got ourselves a plan,” Stan said. He raised his paper cup of coffee to his lips, but at that moment, the swinging door in the hallway was flung open, and another draft barreled down the hall. It’d been happening all morning, a savage draft from the rain-chilled morning practically lowering the temperature of the entire wing. Stan set his breakfast tray off to the side, and reached for his jacket, slung over the back of his chair. “As if this hospital wasn’t cold enough,” he grumbled. “What, do they turn off the heat to make people leave faster?”

He heard the tube hit the linoleum before he ever saw it.

He’d actually forgotten the thing was in his pocket until now, as it rolled across the floor and into his foot.

“What’s that?” Ford asked, attempting to lean forward in his bed for a better look, but grimacing when he put pressure on some broken thing inside him.

“That’s a memory tube,” Fiddleford replied, straightening up in his chair. “They’re what the memories the gun erased are recorded on. Where did you get that, Stan?”

“Ivan dropped it, out at the cliffs,” he replied. “I only noticed it after he went over. Must have had it in his sleeves or something.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Some guy named Preston Northwest.”

“Wait,” Ford said. “The Preston Northwest?”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Stan replied.

“The Northwest family founded Gravity Falls,” Ford said. “They’re the richest family in town, possibly in the state of Oregon. There’s hardly a thing here that they don’t have their hands in.”

“So, what, you think this Preston guy is a member of the Society that we just didn’t catch?”

“I mean, I doubt it, since he’s only about fifteen years old.”

“Why would Ivan want the memories of a teenage boy with him while he escaped?” Fiddleford pondered aloud.

Stan studied the tube a bit more, as it caught the light of the morning beaming through the windows. Despite that, it felt cold in his hand. That familiar, primal repulsion was back. He wanted to throw it out the window, let it smash against the pavement in the parking lot below.

Instead, he held the tube out to Fiddleford and said, “I guess it doesn’t matter. The only person that memory is really gonna be of any used to is currently having his body dredged out of the lake.”

“I suppose,” Fiddleford said as he took the tube. “It’s just strange.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time to find out later,” Ford said. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m pretty adventured out for a while.”

“That is an amazing point,” Stan said. “It’s been a rough night. I vote this is one mystery that can wait its turn. Whatdya say, Fidds?”

Stan saw the uncertainty pass over Fiddleford’s face as he studied the tube in his hands. A familiar look of concentration was there, signifying that he was trying hard to conjure forth any member associated with the tube, try to unlock whatever it may be hiding from him.

But it was gone in moments as Fiddleford let out a mighty yawn.

“I reckon you’re right,” he said. His eyes reminded Stan of a tired puppy, fighting sleep every moment it could. “These memories aren’t going anywhere for the time being. We can get to the bottom of them another time.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stan said. “Right now, the only thing I wanna get to the bottom of this cup of coffee, and then nap for about six months.”

“Coffee is supposed to do the opposite of making you want to nap, Stan,” Ford chuckled.

“I watched a man jump to his death, Ford. Don’t underestimate my desire to nap right now.”

Ford chewed his lip for a moment, as if he were giving the matter serious thought. “Alright,” he said. “Fair enough.”

---

In the depths of the forest, there was a river. The river fed usually fed directly in the falls, but a small tributary had branched off it over the centuries, and it gathered in a small lake. When it was first formed, it was mostly used by animals as a watering hole. But that was before the town, before people, before time had shrunk it to nearly nothing. Now, it was too shallow for anything, even for winter’s bitterness to freeze it over. It stood stagnant and brown and cold, and not even the most desperate beast touched it.

So there was nothing around for miles when Ivan finally broke the surface with a loud, gulping gasp.

He dragged himself to the bank, ignoring the burning in his arms and legs, from weary muscles that had spent an hour keeping his head above the water before giving out completely. Fortunately for him, he’d lost his strength at the mouth of this lake. He’d simply gone limp and let its current carry him here.

As soon as he felt the dry, frozen earth under his hands, he collapsed, face down in the dirt. He didn’t care that he looked horrendously undignified. There was no one around to see him, and besides, he’d earned a moment of exhausted self-pity. His plans - the Society, the gun, his army - all lay in ruination at his feet. Four months of tireless work and it’d all be destroyed by a gaggle of prying, headstrong fools.

He let an angry fire blaze through him for a minute. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his aching face, where he’d been headbutted and punched. Something that wasn’t his wet robe, making his internal temperature drop even faster than if he’d been wearing nothing at all. The rage that boiling in his blood made him forget all that for just a moment.

But it couldn’t last forever. He couldn’t stay out here in these wet clothes and find somewhere out of the cold, or he’d freeze.

This was, after all, only a momentary setback. He wouldn’t be thwarted. Not until he finished what he needed to do.

He rallied all the strength he had left in his body, and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. A powerful shiver nearly knocked him back down, but he ignored it. He wouldn’t be out here for a much longer. From watching McGucket’s memories, he knew that, not far from here, was a system of caves, all connected under the waterfall near Gravity Falls Lake. Inside were tiny little creatures that could make fire if they were struck together. That would suit Ivan’s needs just fine, for the time being.

With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up farther, going slowly, until he’d gotten back to his feet. He stumbled a bit, his limbs still heavy from the time he’d spent underwater, but he caught himself before he fell. Then he pulled his heavy, wet robe over his head and shucked it off. He tossed it to the ground. Wearing it while it was soaking wet like that would only put him at greater risk for hypothermia. It wasn’t as though he needed it anymore anyway.

As he turned, he saw, over the treeline, a great manor, looming over him, perched high on the hills. It seemed to be looking down upon the humble town beneath it, proud and arrogant and fully prepared to rub the townfolks’ collective noses in its decadence. It made Ivan sick to look at, but he also knew that, with any luck, it wouldn’t be there for much longer.

He began walking into the forest, making sure the manor never left his sight. It was his beacon as he sought his shelter.

The Northwest family had so much to answer for. Not just the ones currently living, but the generations that had come before them. One-hundred and forty years of Northwest blood, building their legacy on lies and deceit and fear, reaping the benefits of their treachery and leaving the weak to wallow in whatever meager fate the accursed family had left them to.

He was going to burn it all to the ground.

---

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#gravity falls #mystery nerds au #seared with scars #fanfic #stanley pines #stan pines #stanford pines #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #the society of the blind eye #tw ptsd

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

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Seared With Scars - Chapter 8 (Mystery Nerds AU)

“A company of believers is like a prison full of criminals; their intimacy and solidarity is based on what they can least justify about themselves.” John Updike

--- The ropes biting into Stan’s wrists brought back a slew of unwanted and unpleasant memories - the stifling heat of the trunk of a car left in the desert. The tight handcuffs slapped on him as he was ushered into a tiny, dirty prison cell with two guys who were bigger and much tougher-looking than him. The vice-like grip of an angry, uncaring nurse who warned him what happened to patients that stepped out of line.

All these memories flashed in his mind, churned up like chunks of a shipwreck in a frothing sea, each one a new exercise in fear.

But he couldn’t let that fear overcome him. He had to think. Every time he brought his gaze back to his brother’s prone figure, gasping on the ground under Matthews’ foot, he reminded himself what was at stake.

Those broken ribs could puncture lungs.

Those blows to the head meant traumatic brain injuries that needed attention.

The leg that was now a disgustingly twisted mess could, at best, not heal right, and, at worst, cause a whole host of infections that could-

No, he wasn’t going to think about that. He’d just gotten his brother back after ten years. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lose him again, especially not to the snot that stood before him and his friends, trying his damnedest to look tall and imposing, and called himself Blind Ivan.

Stan would have laughed at this young man, barely even an adult, trying to convince the world he was not to be trifled with if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at them.

His eyes passed over each of them lazily, like their presence before him was the most mundane thing in the world, something he dealt with every day, a simple chore that needed tending to. And yet, there was...something wrong in his face. Stan couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was how, no matter which direction he turned, his eyes never seemed to catch the light. Maybe it was his skin, so ashen and pallid it made him look like a creature of the undead. Maybe it was his bony hand clutching Fiddleford’s knapsack, knowing exactly what was in it and why it was so dangerous that Ivan had it now.

It stirred a primal repulsion in Stan’s gut, that set all his instincts into overdrive to find a way out of this.

A quick glance at his immediate left showed him Fiddleford looked exactly the same as Stan felt. Guilt mixed ever so subtly with the apprehension as Stan recalled how he’d slung the little nerd around earlier, throwing all kinds of insults and threats at him. Now Fiddleford’s face looked like his entire world had just been shattered, and in a way, Stan supposed that it had.

Ivan, this person Fiddleford obviously thought that he could trust, was staring down at him like he was a fly to be swatted. Stan didn’t blame him for looking afraid.

“Get your hands off me, you bathrobe-wearing freaks!”

Helen, however, did not seem in the least bit intimidated by Ivan or any of the other cultists currently trying to restrain her. If anything, it all made her struggle harder, and most of that struggle was focused on her desire to break free and throttle Matthews.

“You absolute bastard,” Helen shrieked at him, lunging forward so hard that the cultist trying to tighten the rope around her wrists was nearly jerked off balance. Stan had never seen her so angry, not even after she’d gotten her first glimpse at the portal a few hours before. That had at least been brought on by the culmination of all the crazy shit she’d been forced to endure up to that point. Now, there was nothing in her eyes but cold, hard fury. “I believed you!” she yelled. “I gave you a second goddamn chance!”

“What can I say, Helen,” Matthews replied, flatly. “Thanks.”

Helen let out a low growl, reminiscent of a rabid dog. One of the robed figures tried to grip her by her arm, in an attempt to wrangle her back to a more prone position, but she merely shot her elbow back and up, managing to clock them square in the jaw.

The figure stumbled backwards, their hood falling back, but before Helen could take advantage of it, another cultist grabbed a clump of her hair and pulled hard. With a pained shouted, she was forced back into a kneeling position on the floor. The figure she’d struck slowly straightened up, the doughy face of Sheriff Leory Muggins glaring icily back down at her.

“Sure wish you hadn’t done that, Mrs. Stillwell,” Muggins said, massage his jaw where he’d been struck.

Helen stopped moving and her eyes went wide. “Muggins?” she breathed.

“That’s right,” the figure clutching Helen’s hair said, voice snide and mocking. Reaching up their free hand, they pulled back their own hood, revealing the grandmotherly face of the secretary from the hospital, her lips pulled back in a sneer through a jagged cross-hatching of scars.

She had seen them with Fiddleford when they first entered the hospital. That’s why she thought he’d be in Helen’s house. That’s why she’d been there, waiting to attack them.

She’d played them.

“Louise? Y-you…” Helen began. Stan could almost see the fight dripping out of her. “You were the one...the one in my house?”

“Sure was,” Louise replied, her tone sickeningly sweet. “And speaking of what happened at your house…”

In a blur of motion, Louise shot out her fist and punched Helen directly in her eye. Helen’s head snapped to the side as she let out a surprised cry of pain. Stan heard her glasses crunch under the force of the blow, then watched as they went flying from her face, shattering completely as they made contact with the floor.

Helen lowered her head, panting heavily. Stan watched blood drip from her nose and spatter on her pant leg. She didn’t look back up.

Any fear that Stan felt dried up in that instant, and he growled, “You’re gonna regret that, you hag!”

Finally, Ivan spoke up. “There you go, Stanley, making threats you couldn’t possibly hope to carry out,” he said, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the mayhem unfolding before him like a surgeon’s scalpel. “It would seem you and your brother share the idiotic tendency of trying to get out of problems you created by playing the brave hero.” Ivan’s smug grin widened. Stan wanted to claw it off his face.

“A pity,” Ivan continued, “that you’re not the only ones its gotten into trouble.”

Stan growled again, and barked, “I’ll show you trouble when I get out of this, you bald son of a bitch.” He then turned his attention to Matthews, and spat, “And once I’m done with him, I’ll be sure and fuck you up, nice and slow, you fucking traitor.”

Matthews didn’t respond. He just stared almost sleepily at Stan, right before digging his heel directly in his brother’s back. Ford practically spasmed beneath him, and let out a weak whimper of pain.

Stan forced himself to be still, even though the boiling heat of his rage still simmered inside him.

He needed to think.

Ford’s struggles were lessening. They were running out of time.

“You need not waste so much of your energy being angry with Dr. Matthews, Stanley,” Ivan said, taking a step closer to him. “He was only acting on my orders to finally bring our leader back to us. And then, of course, it dawned on me that this would be the perfect opportunity to reel in and dispose of not just one problematic interloper, but three, all in one fell swoop. All we needed was the proper lure.” He nodded his head in Ford’s direction. “And your brother more than proved effective for that.”

Ivan turned his attention over to Darryl, who’d been so quiet that Stan had almost forgotten he was there, and said, “But the person I really owe the most thanks to is you, Private Little.”

Darryl didn’t say a word in response. His expression didn’t even change. Despite the ugly bloody lip he’d received from the other cultists, payment for throwing his lot in with their enemies, his spine remained rigid, his eyes focused intently on the air in front of him. He gave no indication to Ivan that he’d even heard what he’d said.

“Had it not been for your bleeding heart and wavering faith, I would never have had the idea to...extend the olive branch, as it were,” Ivan continued, stooping low into Darryl’s field of vision, seemingly intent on getting some kind of reaction from him. He came within inches of Darryl’s face. “So, thank you, Private Little, for making all this possible.”

Darryl remained stonily silent, but Stan didn’t miss the flicker of shame in his eyes.

Ivan’s smile melted away, so quickly and so fluidly that it seemed almost inhuman, like the removal of a mask. “It does sadden me though, Private Little, that I simply must punish you for your transgressions against us.” There was not a hint of sadness at all in Ivan’s voice as he reached out a hand, his fingers ghosting dangerously close to Darryl’s neck.

“Leave him alone, Ivan!” Fiddleford called out.

Ivan’s hand froze in the air. Everyone in the room turned to look at Fiddleford.

It was like looking at a completely different man. Gone was the quivering, jumpy beanpole from before, trying to make himself small, avoid confrontation, appease rather than fight.

The man before them now had fire in his eyes; not an angry fire, but a righteous one, intent on stopping the cruel sideshow of horrors unfolding before him. His jaw was set in a determined line. He was straining to pull his arms free from the two cultists attempting to hold him down. Stan wondered where this side of this man had come from, so suddenly.

Then again, as he thought of the skinny nerd’s convictions at their kitchen table, the way he’d thrown back as good as Stan had given him when they argued, the finality of his proclamation that he was willing to stop Ivan by any means necessary...maybe it was safe to say this had always been a part of who Fiddleford McGucket was. And now he had reason to unleash it.

Ivan seemed to regard Fiddleford’s outburst more with annoyance than anything else, straightening up and turning that eerie gaze directly to this angry man on the floor. Fiddleford didn’t seem at all bothered by that look, and instead said, his voice as stern as if he were talking to an unruly child, “You got what you wanted, Ivan. You won. Your plan is over.”

Stan noticed that the room had gone completely still and silent. All heads - even Helen’s, despite her missing glasses and swollen eye - were turned towards Fiddleford, watching, waiting for whatever was going to happen.

Ivan blinked at him, then straightened himself back up to his full height. Although that meant that his hand was no longer anywhere near Darryl’s throat, he now began taking slow, deliberate steps towards Fiddleford. Stan’s stomach gave a lurch as he watched Ivan reach down into the knapsack and pull out the memory gun from inside it.

Fiddleford saw it too, but rather than showing any sign of fear, he kept talking. “Ya see?” he said. “You’ve got me, you’ve got the gun. You have everything you set out to get. No one else needs to get hurt tonight.”

Ivan closed the distance between them in a few steps, never once taking his piercing gaze off Fiddleford. It was the predatory gaze of a wolf that had just found an injured fawn in the forest, lean and hungry and ready to give itself up to whatever feral impulse came first.

Still, Fiddleford did not back down. “Stanford needs help, Ivan. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he could die. I promise - I’ll stay here, things can go back to the way they were. I won’t fight you. I’ll do whatever you want. But you have to let Stanford and the others go.”

Ivan raised the gun until it was level with Fiddleford’s forehead.

Fiddleford kept his hard gaze trained on Ivan, but Stan saw the faint flash of his throat as he gulped, betraying his terror.

“I don’t want things to be the way they were,” Ivan said in a harsh, low whisper. “And I don’t want your pathetic, malfunctioning toy.”

With that, Ivan hurled the memory gun to the ground. It slammed into the stone, the sound of breaking glass and buzzing wires filling the space for the briefest of moments, before settling into a smoking pile of debris.

Ivan reached out and grabbed Fiddleford’s face, digging his fingers hard into the other man’s flesh, pulling him close. “You don’t understand anything,” he hissed. “You with your arbitrary rules, your moral pontificating about trauma and endurance and how resilient humans could be.” Ivan’s tone dipped into a high-pitched parody of Fiddleford’s voice, complete with exaggerated accent. “‘Humans were meant to deal with the trauma of the every day, and overcoming it makes you stronger.’”

He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh and said, “Trauma doesn’t make people stronger. It just breaks them, a little more every day. It never gets easier and it never gets better. You were content to let these good people suffer because of your self-righteous nonsense. I offered them real help. The only reason I wanted you to be returned to us is so you could fix the flaw of the gun and we could be done with you. We are better off without you.”

Ivan flung Fiddleford’s face away, and flounced to the center of the room. A pedestal holding an ornate wooden box stood next to a chair with straps on the arms. It wasn’t hard for Stan to put together that this must be where the Society conducted their freaky little rituals.

He was quickly proven right when Ivan reached inside the box and pulled out another memory gun. It was bigger than the one he’d destroyed, almost ridiculously oversized, but he realized this must be the original. He remembered Fiddleford explaining how this gun could hold any amount of memory, no matter how long or how long ago they happened.

They were fucked.

“What I want is to help the Society reach its full potential,” Ivan said, studying the gun in his hand as if it were a beautiful and rare flower. “We will help heal this town, make every scar it’s ever been seared with seem like nothing more than a bad dream. You and these interfering fools you call your friends are the one thing standing in our way. But I intent to change that.”

Ivan began to twist the dial. “None of you will be telling anyone else about what you’ve learned here,” he said as he reached Matthews’ side. He knelt down and, almost tenderly, reach out and lifted Ford’s head in his hand, by his chin. For the first time since the cultists had jumped them, Stan managed to get a good look at his twin’s eyes. They were glassy and distant, eyelids drooping down heavily, creeping ever closer towards unconsciousness. Without Ivan supporting him, Stan was sure Ford’s head would flop right back against the concrete.

“I believe we will begin with you, Dr. Pines,” he said. His mood seemed to have shifted again, and he almost sounded kind, compassionate, even as that evil grin split his features once more. “Perhaps, once I’ve wiped your friends’ memories, they won’t even remember why you need to go to the hospital.” Ivan chuckled darkly. “I can think of a few people here tonight who would love to watch you slowly die.”

Rage burned in Stan’s gut. He strained his wrists pathetically against his ropes. They wouldn’t give.

He was going to be forced to watch his brother die, and he wouldn’t even remember why.

Ivan pressed the bulb of the gun against Ford’s forehead, and began to ease the trigger.

“Do me first!”

Helen’s voice rang out like a church bell in the deathly silent chamber.

What the fuck?

Stan snapped his head in Helen’s direction, and saw her looking wildly at Ivan, tears streaming down her face. “Please,” she said, her voice now tiny and broken. “I want to join you.”

What the actual fuck?

Fiddleford looked about as stunned as Stan felt, staring incredulously at Helen, his mouth hanging open, probably burning to question what the hell she thought she was doing.

Then Stan remembered their conversation on the porch.

Every morning I wake up and it’s still there.

Oh god...she wouldn’t…

Would she?

Ivan certainly seemed very interested in the possibility. He turned his head every so slightly to look in Helen’s direction, carrion eyes narrowed and inquisitive. After a moment, he lowered the gun from Ford’s head, and once again stood to his full height. In a few long strides, he’d come face to face with Helen.

“This is a trick,” he said simply.

“No,” Helen said, sounding so very, very small. “No tricks, I promise. I just...I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. You’re right. It doesn’t get easier or better. It never will.” Helen exhaled shakily, and bowed her head. Two fresh streams of tears fell from her eyes.

“Helen, what are you doing?!” Fiddleford cried. He looked like his world was crashing down around him.

“Trying to get some goddamn peace,” Helen yelled back, turning her burning, tear-filled gaze to him. “Ivan is right. You don’t care about how much people have suffered. How much I suffered. You’re nothing but a cowardly idiot who won’t do what’s necessary! I just...I want my mind to be clear…”

Dear god, he was so sorry he’d ever dragged Helen into this. What had he done?

Suddenly, Stan felt something poke him in the arm.

Tearing his eyes from Helen, he looked down, and saw a folded pocket knife. Darryl was jabbing it into his arm. Stan looked back up at the other man, and saw his eyes frantically jump from the knife to Stan’s face.

Stan stole a glance at Darryl’s wrists. The ropes had been cut.

He wanted Stan to do the same to his own restraints.

Stan looked back over to where Ivan was still scrutinizing Helen. It almost seemed like Ivan was specifically focusing his red, filmy eye over her, as if it held some power to see into her soul, strip her bare, and expose any falsehoods. Helen sniffed heavily, trembling under his gaze, anguish plainly written on her bruised face.

His heart ached at the sight of it. If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d get them out of here and make it up to her.

Darryl slid the knife into Stan’s waiting palm. He flicked it open, and with a flick of his wrist, turned up the blade and started sawing through the ropes.

Never once removing that piercing gaze from Helen’s face, Ivan said, “What is it that you have seen? Speak honestly, or you will live to regret it.”

Helen gulped heavily, and then replied, voice trembling, “My baby...I...I lost my baby.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“How?”

A beat of silence as Helen drew a deep breath, and let it out shakily. Then she said, voice thick, “I miscarried. Seven months in. They couldn’t tell me why. It just happened. My little boy...my Richie…” Stan stopped sawing as Helen’s words were swallowed up by a sob.

Little boy? Helen told him she was going to have a girl. Christina...

Realization hit him like a rock to the face, and he frantically began sawing again.

“You have to help me,” Helen said, her voice raw. “You’ve helped all these people. You understand. I can’t live this way.” She lifted her head, and Stan saw those dark green eyes of her, usually so full of warmth and maternal love, now desperate and full of pain. “These...these horrible men...all they’ve done is make it worse. Dragged me into their deranged world. I realize now that nothing good can come from them. I can’t trust them. But I trust you.”

Ivan’s face softened, ever so slightly, and he turned to Louise, who stood dumbfounded behind Helen. “Untie her,” he said. “She is no threat to us.”

Louise didn’t move for a moment, a symphony of conflicting emotions playing out at rapid speed on her face. She managed to open her mouth a bit, as if to protest, but Ivan snapped, “Have you gone deaf? I said untie her. She has clearly seen the light. She will make an excellent addition to the Society.”

Louise quickly moved to obey, and undid Helen’s restraints. Helen didn’t move as her ropes coiled to the ground limply. Ivan reached out, offering his hand to help her up.

After a moment, Helen, her hand shaking like a leaf in an unforgiving winter wind, accepted it.

“There, there,” Ivan said, the way one might soothe a frightened child. “Soon this will all be over.”

Stan could feel the ropes under the knife start to give. Just a little more...

Helen’s face fell in pure relief. She reached up her other hand, and breathed, “Thank you. Oh god, thank you so much. I knew I could count on you.”

Then, with a furious shriek that echoed off the walls, Helen slammed her forehead into the center of Ivan’s face.

Ivan roared in pained anger and stumbled back, shooting out the arm that held the memory gun, obviously hoping to strike Helen with it. Instead, she caught his arm and began to wrench tightly, gritting her teeth as she applied more force. Stan got a good look at her eyes, and saw the furious hellcat from before, heard it in the angry yell she unleashed as she gave a final tug, and Ivan’s hand opened involuntarily.

The memory gun fell from his hand, and Helen caught it before it hit the floor. Before Ivan could recover from her attack, she’d thrust the gun in his face, finger itching on the trigger. Her hands no longer shook. Her tears had quickly dried. The desperate pain in her eyes was gone, replaced now with white hot fury.

“I would never want to forget my baby, you arrogant piece of shit,” she growled.

Stan felt another of the ropes snap as the knife sliced through it. Come on, he was almost there…

“This is how it’s gonna go, Ivan,” Helen snarled. “You’re going to untie my friends. You’re going to tell Ed to back the fuck off and let us take Ford out of here. And before we go, we’re going to make sure none of you ever threaten or hurt anyone ever again. Understand?”

Gurgling was the only answer she received. Stan turned his attention toward the sound, and felt his heart stop for a moment. Matthews, his eyes still far away and glassy, had moved his foot from Ford’s back to his neck. Then he started to press.

“Put the gun down, Helen,” he said firmly.

“Ed, if you don’t get the hell away from him right now, I swear to god I’ll make it so this bastard forgets how to fucking breathe!”

“Stanford will be dead before you can pull the trigger!” Matthews shouted back. “Now put. It. Down.”

Stan could see the indecision play across Helen’s face. The gun shook minutely in her hand.

“Face it, Helen,” Ivan said, his tone superior even as he was held at gunpoint and his nose gushed blood. “You can’t possibly hope to defeat us all.”

The last rope finally gave.

“Maybe not,” Stan said. “But I sure as shit can.” In one fluid motion, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knuckle dusters, slipping them on like a worn, comfortable pair of gloves.

He launched himself at Matthews. In the blink of an eye it took to close the distance between them, he got a good look at Ford, still under Matthews’ heel. This close, he could see the evidence of the brutal assaults his brother had been subjected to - his face was a mess of black and blue, mixed with blood and tears. His glasses were cracked. The leg Matthews had smashed was twisted in a horrifying way, a way that made Stan want to vomit and weep all at the same time. And then there was that goddamn shoe, pressing into his twin’s throat.

There was no two ways about it. He was going to kill Matthews for this.

With a furious roar, he slammed himself bodily into the old bastard, then raised his fist. The brass knuckle made a deliciously satisfying crunch as it made contact with Matthews’ face, and sent him stumbling backwards, into a stone pillar. He wheezed as air was forced from his lungs when his back made sudden and forceful contact with it.

Beneath him, Ford coughed a few times, no doubt sucking in as much air as he could now that his airway was free.

Stan forced himself to look away from his battered brother and focus on the cultists now moving in to surround him.

He threw out his arms, welcoming them to give it their best fucking shot.

“Anyone else want a piece?!”

The chamber exploded in noise.

Muggins was the first one to move toward him, his face drawn tight in animalistic rage. Stan shot out a left hook, catching him in the temple. It disoriented the pig, making him sway dangerously. Stan finished him off with a good one-two to the side, then an uppercut under his chin. Muggins fell like a sack of potatoes.

Another cultist tried to come in on his right and blindside him. Stan whipped around to face them, and shot out his left arm in a cross, catching the hooded freak in the cheek. When they bent down, a natural response to nursing an injured face, Stan gave a small jump that morphed into an overhand, landing squarely on the back of the cultist’s head, and they crumpled.

The next idiot who came wide at him received a right hook directly to the teeth.

It was all coming back to him now.

A heavy weight was suddenly thrown on his back, and Stan was thrown off balance. Someone was shrieking angrily in his ear, attempting to get sharp fingernails close to his eyes. He tried to shake them off, but they held on as tightly as they could, and suddenly a fist was flying in his face, sloppily, but doing enough to distract him and throw off his rhythm. One of the fingernails caught, and he grunted in discomfort as they dug into his skin, dangerously close to the stitches on the side of his head.

Then there was a loud crack, like the snapping of a twig, and the weight slipped from his shoulders. Whipping around, he saw Louise laying there, her fingernails stained slightly with the blood she’d drawn from his head.

Standing over her was Fiddleford McGucket, brandishing a baseball bat. He looked quite proud of himself.

The disbelief Stan felt must have been evident on his face, because Fiddleford shrugged and said, “Fight like a hillbilly.”

Behind Fiddleford, Stan saw Darryl, grabbing a cultist behind the neck and jamming a knee right into their midsection. The cultist fell to their knees, and Darryl quickly slammed his elbow into the back of their neck, splaying them out on the cold stone.

Helen, Stan saw, had abandoned Ivan and rushed to Ford’s side, saying something to him Stan couldn’t hear. All the while, she frantically twisted the dial on the memory gun.

One of the hooded figures started sprinting towards her, clearly seeing her and Ford as easy targets. Helen saw them, then simply leveled the gun at them and fired.

A brilliant column of blue light shot from the bulb, the force of it actually succeeding in knocking Helen back a bit. It smashed directly into the cultist’s face, and they gave a cry of surprised pain. Then they stopped, as still and lifeless as a statue. Even after the blue light faded, the cultist didn’t move, simply standing there, swaying slightly.

Helen had wiped their memory.

Made perfect sense. If these guys wanted to forget so bad, Stan had no problem helping them.

Fiddleford came up behind the mind-wiped cultist and brought the bat down hard on their head, bringing them down like a felled oak.

“We need to start wiping as many of their memories as we can,” Fiddleford cried. “Helen, as soon as we bring them down, hit them with the gun, got it?”

Helen gave him a stiff nod, then turned the gun to Matthews’ limp body behind her. She barely had a moment to put a flicker of pressure on the trigger before a shot of red slammed into her side, knocking her away from Ford and Matthews.

As the tangled ball of limbs rolled to a stop, Stan made out Ivan as he pinned Helen to the floor, teeth bared and eyes wide in animalistic fury. He snatched at the memory gun she still clung to and held just barely out of his reach.

“Give it back!” he roared.

Helen didn’t reply, simply reared back her foot and slammed it into Ivan’s midsection. He fell back with a pained grunt, and Helen rolled away from him until she was on her side.

She lifted her head, and saw Fiddleford, currently bashing the bat into the side of a cultist whose hands were dangerously close to his throat. She called out, “Fidds! Catch!” Fiddleford turned just as she tossed the gun.

The world seemed to suddenly descend into slow motion as the gun arched through the air towards him. Fiddleford turned sharply and reached up.

Then Stan saw Ivan getting to his feet, and spring across the room. Stan could only yell out Fiddleford’s name before Ivan’s fist suddenly connected with the other man’s face.

As Fiddleford stumbled back, the gun sailed directly into Ivan’s hand, and he began sprinting. Within moments, he’d vanished behind the curtain that lead to the stairs back up to the museum. Stan didn’t even stop to think about it. He ran after him. He couldn’t let him escape with that gun. They could take down every one of these loons, but if Ivan got out of here and still had that memory gun, then all of this would be for nothing.

He threw open the curtain and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. His heart pounded away, like it was about to burst out of his chest. He never let his sights waver from Ivan, keeping them trained on that red robe swirling around that bony, colorless frame.

As they reached the upper level, into the room with the secret passage, Stan found himself wondering what Ivan had to gain from all this. It was an odd thing to wonder now, after everything that had just happened, but it still wiggled its way to the front of his thoughts.

Ivan claimed that all this - the violence, the threats, the attempts on their lives, even the Society as a whole - was all in the name of protecting Gravity Falls. But as he’d pointed out to Fiddleford, this town wasn’t as fragile and unsuspecting as Ivan seemed to believe. The town wouldn’t even be there if the people weren’t tough enough to deal with whatever was here and endure it. Gravity Falls didn’t need anyone to protect it. It’d done a pretty good job of that all on his own.

So what did Ivan have to gain? Power? Control? Pure sadism? They were indeed pretty powerful motivators, as Stan had learned from years of dealing with criminals. But Ivan had proven himself so different from the run of the mill criminal scum that Stan had dealings with in the past.

Ivan didn’t seem to take any pleasure from having the control the Society afforded him. If anything, he seemed to view it as a burden, a hard, thankless task that only he could perform, now that he’d deemed Fiddleford inadequate. And while he did seem to relish in swiftly dealing out retaliation to any and all who opposed him, he clearly had managed to get away with the secret of the Society for some time without ever having to resort to it. He didn’t need to, as what he was offering seemed to be enough to keep members coming.

So the question still remained: at the end of the day, when everything was said and done, what did Ivan get out of all this?

Stan didn’t have time to ponder it any further, as Ivan neared an emergency exit. He must have been running on pure adrenaline, as there was a sign next to it that plainly stated that an alarm would sound if the door was opened, which Stan knew would also immediately alert the police to their location. As little love as he had gained for law enforcement over the course of his life, Stan knew that right now, authority figures were exactly what was needed, because they generally had ambulances in tow. But the only reason he could find for Ivan to do something so monumentally risky to himself was sheer desperation.

And Ivan being desperate just made Stan’s job a whole lot easier.

He slammed himself through the emergency exit and followed Ivan out into the darkness. ---

As Fiddleford brought the bat down on the head of the last charging cultist, Helen heard the distant clanging of an alarm bell, so faint and far away that for a moment she thought her ears were ringing. It wouldn’t have been the first time, as she gingerly touched the cheek where Louise had socked her. Who would have thought that this roly-poly grandmother had such a powerful punch?

It gave Helen a bit of sick satisfaction as Fiddleford went over to help drag Louise’s limp body over to the ever-growing pile of unconscious cultists they’d started in the center of the room. She was, quite frankly, tired of the gut-punch feeling that came with every one of these crazed yahoos dramatically flinging back their hood to reveal themselves as someone Helen worked with and even considered to be her friends. It made one feel rather indignant.

She ached all over and her face felt like one big bruise. The world was a blurry mess, thanks to the fact her glasses now lay twisted on the floor, shattered beyond all hope of repair. Somehow, the fact that meant she’d have to schedule an eye exam and get a new pair just rankled her all the more, to the point where she had to fight the urge to go over and plant her foot directly into Louise’s gut.

Her exhaustion was overruling her desire for retribution, however. They still had to drag all these idiots back upstairs, after all. It was going to be difficult enough to explain this all to the cops. They didn’t need to throw in a hidden chamber hidden under the history museum, at least not right now.

She’d honestly rather just curl up next to Ford and go to sleep for the next ten years or so.

As if on cue, she heard Ford groan quietly from his current position in her lap. She absentmindedly ran her hand through his blood-crusted hair, trying hard not to catch any tangles and hurt him any further than he was. He’d already been unsettlingly still since Ed had brought him down with a swift, merciless kick to the leg, which was now most likely broken. Even after spending nine years practicing medicine, seeing people mangled by car crashes and attacked by wildlife, looking at her poor young friend in obvious, exhausted agony made her stomach turn violently.

“Shhh, Ford,” she found herself muttering. “It’s okay. Everything's gonna be okay now.”

A dark chuckle echoed through the chamber. Helen turned her head and saw Ed, cheek swelling where Stan had struck him, but very much awake, as he lazily swung his head up like a rickety theme park animatronic to meet her gaze. His eyes were still glassy and vacant. That same distance from before, that stare that made him seem so very far away, was there again, but was now saturated with sadness. There was something broken in those eyes.

Ed’s eyes were the eyes of a man ready for death.

It sent a shiver up dread down Helen’s spine.

“They’re pretty words, Helen,” he said. “But we both know that, without that gun, all this struggle has been for nothing.” The truth of those words taunted her, but there was nothing taunting in how Ed spoke. His voice sounded like it was being carried away by the wind, raspy and soft. He sounded as tired as Helen felt.

“Shut up, Ed,” was all she could muster. She wanted to look away, away from that horrible look in his eyes that filled her with an apprehension she didn’t fully understand. But she couldn’t. It was like a car crash; the morbidity of it was almost fascinating.

Fortunately, Darryl spoke up, breaking whatever hold the gaze had on her. “That’s about enough out of you,” he muttered. He entered Helen’s field of vision, a coil of rope in his bloodied hands, moving behind Ed to lash his wrists together. Helen briefly wondered why he or Fiddleford didn’t just knock Ed out the way they had all the others, but then Fiddleford came to her side, at just the right angle to see his face, drawn and serious and above all tired, probably more tired than any of them. His entire world had pretty much imploded on him in a less than twenty-four hours.

“You can do whatever you like,” Ed muttered. “But you know I’m right. I guarantee you that Ivan won’t give up that gun without a fight. And I also guarantee that oafish friend of yours won’t be coming back with it, if he comes back at all. Not when he goes up against Ivan.”

“Stan can take him,” Helen replied, ignoring another jolt of dread that tripped down her back.

“He’s nothing but a dumber, sweatier version of that freak down there,” Ed shot back, nodding in Ford’s direction. “And he won’t stand a chance against Ivan when he’s angry.”

Ford let out another groan from Helen’s lap, and when she looked down to console him, she realized that he’d shakily brought up his head just enough so he could look Ed in the eye. Helen could feel him trembling against her, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to relax and save his energy. He ignored her, and ground out, “Y-you...don’t know shit about my brother.”

Helen couldn’t help but smile.

Ed simply sighed and fell back against the pillar as Darryl finished binding his wrists.

“At least we can trust Stan,” Fiddleford said, every word heavy and accusatory. He sounded like a father whose child had just committed a terrible crime, and had left him wondering where he’d gone wrong. “Which is certainly more than I can say for you. All that pretty talk about wanting to help us, about wanting to help Helen...and the entire time you were just lying to our faces.” He turned his steely gaze to Ed. “And you had the gall to tell me that I was lowering myself to Ivan’s level. If anyone here is no better than him, it’s you.”

Ed’s eyes flicked up to meet Fiddleford, and once again, Helen was unnerved by the utterly inhuman way it made him look. Like a rusted robot, going through the motions of its ancient programming, just waiting to break down completely.

“McGucket, believe me,” Matthews finally said, sounding exhausted. “I never wanted Helen to get mixed up in all this. I meant it when I said all I wanted was to help her. I understand the kind of pain losing the baby caused her-”

“You don’t understand dick, Ed,” Helen spat, fury bubbling in her belly. “You’re the one who joined this freakshow because of some lake monster.”

Ed let out a harsh bark of a laugh, and said, “If you really bought that I’d go through all this just because I saw some monster in the lake, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Darryl asked, looking up from tying Ed’s wrists, a quizzical look on his face.

“I didn’t erase memories of a lake monster. I erased Andrea.”

“Andrea?” Helen felt her heart sink. “You erased your memories of Andrea?”

He shook his head, and said, “No. Not of her. Of her death.”

Oh dear god…

“Everyone believed me when I said that she was already dead when I came back from my rounds,” he continued. His voice quivered ever so slightly, the broken robot mask slipping further and further the longer he spoke. “But she was still hanging on. Not for more than five minutes, not long enough for me to actually be able to do anything. She was struggling to breath and I could tell she was scared and trying to claw her way back to life.” He gulped heavily. “And then, she looked at me. Those beautiful brown eyes locked on me and they were begging me to help and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her die!”

Ed’s shrill cry echoed through the chamber. Helen saw tears pricking at his eyes as she stared at him in disbelief.

He took a few shaky breaths, and then said, “It kept me awake for weeks before I found out about the Society. This group is the only reason I didn’t just fall apart after Andrea died. That gun was what kept me sane. She was my whole world, Helen, and in the end, I couldn’t save her. I thought you, of all people, know what it’s like to be able to do nothing as someone you love painfully slips away from you. I thought you’d understand.”

For a moment, no one said anything, and the only sound was Ed’s raw, pained gulps of air, desperately trying to hold himself together.

Helen pitied him, much as she was loathe to admit it.

She thought back to the details of that horrible night.

Richard was at a late dinner meeting, so it was just her and the kids. They were at the dining room table, struggling through algebra, notes on the Industrial Revolution, the next chapter of The Great Gilly Hopkins, and she was filling the dishwasher. Her back had been hurting a lot that evening, but she also had been forced to sleep on it for the last week or so, since Christina really didn’t like it when Mom tried to lay on her side. Maybe she’d just leave the rest of the dishes for Richard and lay down for a while.

She’d just started to turn when the pain blossomed through her, like someone driving a hot knife into her kidneys, and a pained yell was ripped from her. She felt something hot and sticky trail down her leg through the haze of pain. She heard chairs frantically scraping at the hardwood floors and then Daisy was standing in the archway to the kitchen, staring down at her mother in abject terror, making her look about ten years younger than she was. Helen wanted to comfort her, say anything to ease her daughter’s fear. But nothing came out expect another pained gasp.

It was only when Scott and Amanda started trying to get past Daisy to see what was going on that she moved. Daisy began ushering them out, telling them in an authoritative voice Helen didn’t recognize coming from her that they were not to look, to go wait in the living room.

Daisy dashed to the kitchen phone, nearly pulling it off the wall as she frantically punched three numbers. Helen heard her speak four words that, to this day, made her insides clench and her brain send her into a mess of panic - “My mom needs help.”

She gave her head a hard shake, and looked back over at Ed. He looked much more human now than when this conversation had started. But Helen knew what he needed to hear.

“You’re right, Ed,” she said quietly. “I do know what that’s like.” Flicking her gaze down, she found that her hand had found its way to her abdomen. She didn’t remember putting it there.

Ed’s face flashed briefly in a look of relief. No, she wasn’t going to let him think he’d gotten to her.

“But you know what else I know?” she asked, her voice firmer, clearer. “I know that my pain doesn’t give me an excuse to hurt anyone else. Look at what this society has gotten you to do, Ed.” Helen gave Ford’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Look at what you’ve done to a man who never did anything to you. You never even met Ford until this morning. And you’ve broken every oath you had to take as a doctor, all because the man who made it so you didn’t have to face reality told you to.”

Ed said nothing. He merely looked away.

“That gun, this group,” Helen continued, “they’re not helping anyone. All it does is make it hurt worse. Every time the memories come flooding back to you, it’s like living through it again. No one can live that way, let alone heal. Even if you had offered me a chance to forget Ed, I wouldn’t have taken it. It wouldn’t have fixed anything.” She sighed. “These things can’t just go away, Ed. But they do get easier. Get some real help.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, no one moved. It was as if time had stopped, just to focus in on this moment of pure human misery, simmering between this group of people with scars invisible to the naked eye.

Finally, Darryl cleared his throat and stood up, brushing the dust from the floor off his pants. Then, he pulled his robe up and over his head, revealing a white t-shirt and black jeans underneath, the average street clothes he’d been wearing at Helen’s house hours ago. A pair of dog tags clinked together, on a chain around his neck. He tossed his robe off to the side, in the dark surrounding them. He didn’t watch to see where it landed. He merely reached down and grabbed Ed’s bound wrists, and pulled him to his feet.

“We need to head back upstairs,” he said. “That ringing sounded like the fire alarm. Gotta get all these guys back up before the cavalry arrives.”

“Can’t wait to see how you explain an unconscious group of bystanders,” Ed muttered. “With injuries made by an illegal set of brass knuckles, no less.”

Helen shot him a scathing glance, but he had a point. There was no way they’d ever be able to explain this to the authorities without coming off like a bunch of deranged psychopaths. Three of these people were practically pensioners. There was no way the police would believe that they were the ones who’d caused any of their injuries.

“I think I have a solution to that,” Fiddleford said, wandering over to the wall. He felt along the surface for a bit, before his hand hit a stone that gave under his fingertips. The wall pulled back with a rumbling groan, and revealed half a dozen more memory guns, all the same size as the one Ivan had destroyed.

Ed scoffed and said, “Those things? They can barely hold an hour’s worth of memory. How are they supposed to help you?”

Fiddleford ignored him. “Darryl, would you check and see if Muggins has his police radio on under his robe?” He pulled open the panel on the side of the small gun and began fishing about in the wires. Darryl bent over Muggins, and pulled up his robe until it was around his midsection. Sure enough, attached to his belt loop, was his radio.

“Well, what do you know,” Darryl muttered. “Muggins may be an idiot, but at least he’s a reliable idiot.”

“Give it here,” Fiddleford said, pulling a long red wire out from the gun, curling it about in his fist. When Darryl placed the radio in his hand, Fiddleford pried off the battery compartment, and dug his thumb into the guts of receiver, pulling out another, shorter wire from within it. As quickly as one might tie their shoe, he connected them, and the receiver crackled to life. He twisted the dial a few times, then set the device on the ground, in the middle of the small group.

The screen attached to the gun said “SOCIETY OF THE BLIND EYE”.

It began to whine.

Then he reached down and grabbed the hem of Ed’s robe. Ed only had time to give off a small, indignant sound as Fiddleford began tearing off a long strip, then tore that into two smaller strips. “Helen,” he said, handing the bits of cloth to her, “use these to plug up Ford’s ears. Then you and Darryl need to cover yours.”

She did as he said, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “What did you do?”

“I amplified its frequency,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’s still not as powerful as the original, but it should have a wider range now. Enough to store bigger memories from at least everyone in this room.” He punctuated that last sentence with a mischievous smirk at Ed.

Ed’s eyes went wide as the implications hit him.

The gerry-rigged memory gun whined louder.

“Say good night, Sally,” Fiddleford said, putting his hands over his ears.

Helen and Darryl did the same, right before a brilliant blue light flooded the chamber. ---

Twigs snapped under his feet as Stan sprinted through the forest, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing red cloak roughly a hundred feet in front of him. He beat branches away from his face as he moved deeper and deeper into the dense trees, ignoring them when he didn’t push them hard enough and they came back to slap him in the face. He tried to block out the feeling of the frigid night air constricting around him, leaching through his jacket and clothes like he’d been submerged in a cold bath.

He wasn’t going to let this bastard get away from him, not with that gun. He’d chase him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took, but he was not going to let all the pain they’d gone through - Helen’s heartache, Fiddleford’s mental anguish, Ford’s torture - go to waste because of Blind Ivan.

The branches suddenly parted as he stampeded into a clearing, hazy moonlight peaking through the clouds to illuminate patches of mud and dead grass beneath his feet. He whipped around, looking for that shock of red. It was nowhere to be seen.

No, no, he couldn’t have lost him.

“Come out here and face me like a man!” Stan shouted, his voice echoing in the inky darkness. “You can’t hide from me forever, you bony coward!”

A mirthless laugh answered him, though from what direction it came from, he could scarcely begin to guess.

Ivan was toying with him. Despite the fact he could have used this opportunity to escape, he still stuck around to taunt Stan, lord over him how much smarter he was than him for escaping him so deftly. And arrogance like that could be exploited.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Stan shouted into the night.

“The fact that you think you’re somehow in control of this situation,” Ivan answered. Stan still couldn’t pinpoint exactly where his voice was coming from, but that hardly mattered. All he had to do was keep him talking, and Ivan would do the rest himself.

“Your kind always think that they can solve their problems with their might,” Ivan continued. “Yes, I know your kind quite well.”

“You don’t know shit about me!”

Another chuckle. “Perhaps not as much as the others, but you present yourself so plainly, it’s easy to draw my own conclusions. And what I find is this - you’re young, but you bear the scars of an old man. Scars that only come through unimaginable hardship. They’re not from any singular source, but every one is as painful as the last. And the worst part is that no one seems to care. After all, your suffering has made you who you are. Toughened you up. Made you a man. Isn’t that right?”

Stan flinched at the familiar words of his father being flung at him, but he couldn’t let that or the thought of how Ivan knew about them distract him. He simply had to make Ivan think he was getting to him. “Shut up!” he screeched at the trees.

“You keep trying to reach out to someone, to help you deal with these scars, but they brush you off. They sympathize, but they never try to change anything, and you’re left all alone to deal with it.”

Stan shouted back, “At least I’ve got people in my life because they want to be there. All you’ve got is a gaggle of robed weirdos who stick around because they’re afraid of you. If I had to make a bet, I’d say you’ve never had anyone around you that you actually gave a damn about. You wouldn’t know caring for another human being if it bit you in the ass.”

Silence was his only answer. He feared that perhaps Ivan had finally grown tired of his game and retreated.

Then something heavy slammed into his back.

His face struck the dirt hard and bounced, and for a moment, stars danced in front of his eyes. But then he felt the cold bulb of the memory gun press into the back of his head, and he rallied all his strength to push himself upward, flinging Ivan up and away from him, close to another cluster of trees.

As Ivan scrambled back to his feet, Stan saw his eyes flash in the moonlight, the first time he’d ever seen them catch any sort of light. And what he saw there was nothing but fury. This wasn’t just anger or gloating or frustration.

Ivan’s eyes burned with murderous hate.

Stan didn’t let him get any further than a low crouch before he sprang at Ivan and slammed him into the underbrush. They rolled over each other, both clawing and grasping, Ivan trying to shove the gun into Stan’s face and fire, and Stan trying to wrench it out of his grasp.

Then something solid and sharp slammed into Stan’s temple, right where he’d been stitched up, and his vision was flooded with white. He felt himself being slammed onto his back, and Ivan’s weight being pressed into his chest. As his vision cleared, he saw that Ivan wasn’t holding just the memory gun anymore. High above Stan’s head was a large, blood-stained rock. It must have been what Stan hit. And now Ivan was going to use it to smash his head in.

Acting on pure instinct, Stan shot out a fist, managing a hook right into Ivan’s right eye. The brass-aided punched forced Ivan from his position on Stan’s chest, and caused him to lose his grip on both the rock and the gun, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

Stan rolled just as the rock came down. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass caught his attention, and he looked up. The memory gun had landed directly on the rock, and lay broken in pieces. Ivan seemed to forget all about the pain from his injured eye. He simply gaped at the destroyed memory gun laying before him, occasionally sparking uselessly. “No,” he said quietly. “No...nononononoNO.” Suddenly his bellows filled the entire forest, and that burning gaze was back on Stan. “What have you done?!”

Stan took a moment to take in a few deep breaths and get his bearings. They’d managed to roll into another clearing. He faintly heard water rushing, and realized that behind Ivan was a cliff. Below it must have been the river that fed into the falls.

“It’s over, Ivan,” Stan said. “You’ve got nowhere left to run. You lost.”

The gaping devastation on Ivan’s face melted away like wax from a spent candle. From his throat bubbled up laughter, deep and unhinged. Stan felt the hairs go up on the back of his arms and neck, and he raised his fists in case this was the prelude to another attack.

But Ivan didn’t move, outside of his shoulders bobbing with his insane laughter. He raised his head to look at Stan, almost like he expected him to be in on whatever joke had played out in his head, like this was all some rollicking fun they’d partaken in together.

“You really think you’ve beaten me?” Ivan asked, his laughter now dying down into chortling hiccups.

“Look around, Ivan,” Stan replied. “You’ve got nothing left to throw at us.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Stanley,” Ivan said. Swaying slightly, he got back to his feet, not seeming to notice Stan readying himself to start throwing his fists again. “If you think that one night of your interference can stop what I have planned, you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined.”

Ivan stumbled back slightly, steadying himself a bit as he added, “I have plans, you see. Plans that I have worked too hard for too long to see stopped by the likes of you. You can’t possibly grasp the magnitude of what’s coming, Stanley Pines. Not like I can…”

Ivan took another step back. He was less than two feet away from the edge of the cliff. A gust of wind whipped around him dangerously, making him teeter closer to the edge. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall. Stan actually found himself taking a step forward, ready to lunge for him if started going over, not out of any sense of wanting to help. He just didn’t want an accidental fall to keep this twerp from getting the punishment he deserved.

But then Ivan turned his gaze back up towards Stan, and he stopped dead.

Ivan’s eyes were sharp and clear.

Ivan wasn’t in danger of accidentally falling.

He was backing towards the edge of the cliff on purpose.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stan called out, not even trying to hide how panicked his voice was.

“What I’ve always done,” Ivan said simply. “What is necessary.”

He took one more step backwards. Then he was over the cliff.

Stan rushed forward, though he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d be able to do. By the time he closed the distance between them, Ivan had vanished from sight.

He heard the splash as Ivan’s body hit the raging river below. Stan finally reached the cliff’s edge, and looked over. All he could see was swirling foam as the water settled back into its current. Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t think of anything else to say or do.

He heard the wail of sirens drifting over the trees. He needed to get back, make sure that Ford was okay. Be there for him, the way he’d wanted to be there for him throughout this entire thing. He gave himself a shake it get out of the stupor that shrouded him.

He took a step forward, and stepped on something smooth and hard. He raised his foot and saw a tube, laying in the grass. It was white, with two brass nodes at each end. Ivan must have dropped it when they’d rolled into the clearing.

He bent down and picked it up. The moon offered just enough light to see words, scribbled shakily in dark ink on the side of the tube.

Preston Northwest’s Memories.

Who the hell was Preston Northwest?

Why did Ivan have his memories?

And why were they so important that Ivan would carry them with him, even as he jumped to his doom?

He glanced over his shoulder, to the cliff’s edge.

The raging current below offered him no answers. ---

Ford knew he was safe as soon as he opened his eyes.

Not just because his surroundings were a clean, bleached white, clearly not that awful, dank chamber under the history museum. Not just because the pain that had permeated his existence for the last several hours had faded to barely a dull throb.

It was because as soon as he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Stan’s tired smile. Blurred though it may have been because of his missing glasses, he’d recognize it anywhere.

Still, he wanted to hear it, out loud.

“Stan?” he said, his voice a pathetic, dried-out whisper. The single word seared his throat, but he didn’t care. He needed to hear it.

“I’m here, Ford,” was the reply. That wonderful, caring, supportive voice that sounded like a fork in a garbage disposal. It was music to Ford’s ears. He felt his hand being squeezed warmly, and it made him want to cry out of sheer relief.

“Here,” Stan said, reaching over to grab something from the night table. He leaned close, and slid Ford’s glasses back on his face. The world became clear again, despite the glaring crack in the left lens, and he could finally make out his surroundings. He was in a hospital bed, and a glance down revealed that his leg, the same leg Matthews had kicked in, was now entombed in a huge plaster cast, a foam wedge tucked underneath it to keep it elevated. An IV was at his bedside, no doubt responsible for the fact he wasn’t moaning in agony right now. The lights had been dimmed and the dark curtains drawn, although Ford could still see the pale gray of dawn peeking through.

But that wasn’t what Ford eventually focused on. No, what he focused on was the angry red gash at his twin’s temple. A line of neat stitches ran down the length of it, but it had clearly been a bad wound when it was received. Despite all his limbs feeling heavier than lead, Ford reached up and put his hand on the scar, and lightly traced his thumb down the length of it.

“Hey, don’t you start apologizing for that,” Stan said, reaching up to move Ford’s hand away, giving it another reassuring squeeze. “This had nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Ford replied. “I still don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“How do you think I feel?” Stan asked, a smile creeping into his voice. “I’ve only been staring at your busted-up mug for two hours. Believe me, you’re no oil painting.”

Ford chuckled a little, forever grateful for whatever painkiller was being pumped into him by the IV by the side of his hospital bed.

“So, how are you feeling?” Stan asked.

“Like I got beat up by cultists,” Ford replied. “But the drugs help. And speaking of cultists...”

“Taken care of,” Stan replied quickly. “By the time the ambulance got there, none of them could even remember why they were in the museum to begin with.”

“Should we examine the moral implications of us stopping a group of violent memory-wiping fanatics by forcing them to violently have their memories wiped?”

“Who are we, the Justice League?” Stan scoffed. “Those nuts were gonna do a lot worse to us than just wipe our memories. You’re, ironically enough, living testimony to that.”

“Irony hurts like a bitch.”

“You’re telling me.”

A beat of silence passed between them, the question Ford wanted to ask and simultaneously never hear the answer to hanging between them. Finally, he took a deep breath, and asked, “What about Ivan?”

Stan bit his lip, obviously struggling with how he was going to answer. Ford’s stomach roiled a bit. Ivan had to have escaped. That’s all there was to it. Stan wouldn’t have been this hesitant if that wasn’t the case. If those words left Stan’s mouth, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to not vomit, out of sheer panic more than anything else.

“He jumped off a cliff.”

Ford blinked. That certainly was not what he expected Stan to say.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Stan replied with a halfhearted shrug. “I chased him to a cliff near the river. He tried to fight me. He lost. The gun got smashed up, so I guess he panicked. Took the coward’s way out.”

“Then it’s really over,” Ford said. He wasn’t even embarrassed by how meek his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Yeah, it is.” Stan gave his hands another squeeze. Ford hadn’t realized until then that they were shaking.

Another beat of silence passed between them, this one less oppressive than the last. For that moment, Ford just let the relief that his tormentor was gone wash over him. It was better than the drugs.

Then, he asked, “Is everyone else okay?”

Stan nodded off to the other side of the room, and with a bit of effort, Ford turned his head enough to see Helen and Fiddleford, set up in a couple chairs against the wall, passed out on each other. Both of them were covered in bruises and cuts, evidence of their struggle against the Society.

“They pretty much passed out as soon as we got the word from the paramedics you were gonna be okay,” Stan said. “Can’t say I blame them. We really put them through the ringer for this. Helen, especially...”

Stan trailed off, for a brief moment, as if he were thinking hard about something. Then he quickly added, “Ford, she knows about the portal.”

Ford felt his stomach fall to his feet. He gulped a bit, even though it made his throat stick, and asked, “How did she take that?”

“‘Bout as well as expected.”

“She freaked out?”

“Big time.”

“Oh boy.”

“To be fair to her, she found out about it directly after the whole thing with the crazy old lady attacking us in her house, so...maybe she’ll be a little more open-minded about it when she wakes up?”

“I know intense physical abuse always helps me process any bombshell secrets my friends drop on me.”

“You’re lucky your face is already one giant bruise, smart-ass, or I’d knock that sarcasm right out of you.”

Ford gave a weak chuckle, but he couldn’t fight the shame that bubbled up in his chest. He’d hoped no one else would ever find out about that damnable portable, that gargantuan testament to his shame, let alone someone he trusted and respected like Helen.

“We never should have dragged her into this,” he muttered.

His inner turmoil must have shown on his face, because Stan reached out an put a reassuring hand on Ford’s cheek, tilting his head so that his twin was looking him in the eye. Stan’s gaze was alight with compassion and love. It made the shame twisting in a Ford’s stomach seem like nothing.

“Hey,” Stan said gently, “Knowing her, she would have found a way to get involved. She’ll come around to this. And I’m sure she’s going to be much happier about the fact you’re alive to help her understand it.”

As if on cue, Helen let out a sleepy sigh. Ford turned to look at her just as her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly in her seat, which roused Fiddleford. Both of them looked around the room blearily before realizing what was happening in the bed in front of them.

“Oh, Ford,” Helen breathed, on her feet and at the bed in the time it took Ford to blink. She sat on the edge of his bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, and planted a soft kiss directly on his forehead. He leaned into it greedily.

“Don’t get too cozy, you little shit,” Helen mumbled into his hair. He could hear her voice getting thick. “I’m still mad at you for stealing my car.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. “I’ll get you some cash for the gas.”

She only responded by holding him tighter.

Ford turned his head slightly, and saw Fiddleford looking back at him, near the end of the bed. His face was a strange mix of exhaustion, confusion, and relief. Ford couldn’t help but think back to that morning - or rather, yesterday, he supposed - when he’d seen Fiddleford’s face for the first time in four months. The haggard, gaunt, lost little man in the alley seemed to have vanished over the course of a day. Every time Ford looked at Fiddleford, he saw a bit more of his dear friend creeping back to the surface, out from under the smothering electricity of that horrible device he’d created.

Ford wanted to say so much to him. He wanted to apologize, but Fiddleford had told him not to, that he didn’t blame him, not anymore.

He wanted to promise to be better, but the smile Fiddleford wore, that smile that always made him feel like he somewhere safe and warm, seemed to advertise plainly that Fiddleford always believed in Ford’s ability to improve, that there’d never been a doubt in his mind.

He just wanted to talk, and listen to that soft, kind voice - the one that knew and could sing every John Denver song ever written and talked endlessly about James Baldwin and theoretical physics - answer him for the rest of his life.

Instead, all he said was, “I’m glad you’re okay, Fiddleford.”

“You too, Ford,” Fiddleford replied.

Before Ford could think of anything else to say, Fiddleford had come up to his side. Helen, almost intuitively, had moved to the side to let him through. And then Fiddleford’s arms were around his neck again, his head buried in his shoulder. His hair brushed against Ford’s cheek like thistledown. Ford could feel that smile stretch wider against his neck, and he knew that Fiddleford was exactly where he wanted to be. Ford brought an arm up and draped it over Fiddleford’s back, holding his friend as close as his worn out muscles would let him. He wished he had the strength to hug him forever.

Too soon, Fiddleford pulled away, looked up into Ford’s face. Ford saw tears welling in his eyes as he said, “I said some terrible things to you, and I’m so sorry.” He sighed shakily, and added, “I’m responsible for how I reacted to what happened to me. And now I’m responsible for fixing the damage I caused.”

Ford reached up and put a hand on Fiddleford’s. “Maybe we could try fixing things together,” he replied.

Fiddleford nodded, smile as bright as a hundred watt bulb, and said, “Sounds perfect.”

“I’ve got a portal of doom in my basement that needs dismantling,” Ford said. “If you’re up for that, I mean. I’m a little...indisposed at the moment.” To illustrate his point, he gave his plastered-up leg a small wiggle.

Fiddleford chuckled, and said, “I think I can handle that. I imagine it’ll feel pretty good reducing that thing to scrap.”

“Well, you might wanna put the kibosh on portal talk for a while,” Stan interjected, “and start thinking about how you’re gonna be getting around the house with a pair of crutches. I’ve walked around on crutches enough to know that going up and down stairs constantly with them eventually makes your armpits go numb.”

“I’m not even going to bother asking why you’ve been on crutches so many times,” Helen said, voice flat.

“That’s for the best,” Stan replied.

“Well, I suppose I could move down to the couch for a few weeks,” Ford said. “Especially since we are gonna have a house guest for a while.”

Fiddleford looked at Ford like he’d just said he’d give him his kidney as opposed to his bedroom. “Oh no,” he said, a bit of color flushing to his cheeks. “I can’t ask a man with broken ribs to sleep on a lumpy couch.”

“You’re not asking,” Ford said playfully. “I’m telling you that’s what I’m doing.”

“And I’m siding with Fidds on this one,” Stan said. “I’ll take the couch. Since I’m on the bottom floor, you can take my bed, and Fidds can have yours.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Stan,” Fiddleford said, giving him a cheery smile.

Ford looked between them in confusion. Where had this chummy camaraderie come from? A few hours ago, Stan was regarding Fiddleford like a forest creature that had wandered into their house and wouldn’t leave. Now, he was returning the smile, with a kind of conspiratorial smugness, like he and Fiddleford were in on some kind of joke together.

“Who are you two, and what have you done with Stan and Fiddleford?” Ford asked, only partly joking.

“Hey, someone’s got to keep you from falling apart completely,” Helen chuckled. “And between the three of us, I think we can manage it.”

Ford laughed a bit himself, just as the door opened slowly. He saw Darryl peek in, and, seeing everyone was awake and talking and even looking rather upbeat, open the door to come in. “Glad to see you guys looking better,” he said with a toothy smile, a blue jacket slung over his shoulders. “How’re you feeling, Dr. Pi-I mean, Ford?”

“They tell me I’ll live,” Ford replied. He found it so odd how the light tone rolled so naturally off his tongue. Here before him stood a man who’d risked his own safety, just to help this group of people he barely knew, and had really no reason to trust. “Listen, Darryl,” he said, “I wanted to thank you. For everything. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for everything you did for me.” “None of us can,” Stan added. “You were amazing back there.”

Darryl reached up to rub his hand down his neck bashfully, obviously trying to hide the faint glow that had suddenly risen to his cheeks. “There’s no need for that,” Darryl said. “I was just doing what was right.”

“So how’s everything going out there?” Helen asked.

“‘Bout as chaotic as you’d expect,” Darryl replied. “I don’t think anyone was ready for a bunch of injured amnesiacs to turn up in the history museum in the wee hours of the morning, let alone small-town cops.”

“Not even factoring in that the sheriff was one of those amnesiacs,” Helen muttered darkly.

“You got it,” Darryl replied. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small sucker. As he pulled the wrapper off and popped it in his mouth, he said, “Damn, my wife picked a bad time to convince me to give up smoking.”

Ford saw Helen and Stan exchange a glance over the bed. “You got two more of those?” Stan asked as he turned his attention back to Darryl.

Darryl didn’t reply, just pulled two more suckers out of the jacket pocket and tossed them to Stan.

Stan caught them, took one, and offered the other to Helen. She accepted it without a word.

It seemed to Ford that everyone had these little secrets together tonight.

Stan pulled the wrapper off his and asked, “So, what are we telling the cops, exactly? We need to make sure we keep our stories straight.”

“Officially, Ivan’s the main mastermind behind everything,” Darryl replied. “As far as everyone else from the Society is concerned, they were victims of a terrorist with a weird gun.”

“Not far from the truth, if we’re being honest,” Stan said.

Darryl smiled wryly and continued, “I even managed to convince them that you all were brave heroes who couldn’t stand by and let innocent people be tortured by some madman, so you gallantly stormed the place and beat the shit out of him.”

“And those were your exact words?” Fiddleford asked, clearly biting back a laugh.

“Well, the rookie cops may have started embellishing things a bit,” Darryl said with a shrug of his shoulders. “You know how things travel in a small town. Also, Ford, if someone asks you how you managed to wrestle Ivan’s trained attack deer with your bare hands, just know that I did not come up with that part.”

That finally drew a laugh out of the whole group. It was a marvelous sound, after all they’d endured. Honestly, it was all rather difficult for Ford to believe. All the secrets that had been spilled, all the conspiracies that had been blown wide open, all the wounds they’d been dealt, physical or otherwise - that had all happened over the course of one day. It felt like they’d been at it for years. Ford felt Helen lean up against him a little more, and he got a look at her face. Even once you got past the deep blue bruising, she looked utterly exhausted, absently swirling her sucker around in her mouth. Ford saw that she’d draped an arm over her abdomen. As much as he didn’t want to, he thought back to that dark chamber, heard Helen’s broken plea ringing in his ears.

Before he had a chance to stop himself, he said, “Helen?”

“Hmm?” She flicked her eyes down at him, sucker stilled for a moment.

He almost took it back. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to ask what he wanted to know. If it was true, he didn’t want to be the one responsible for upsetting her again. It wasn’t his place to ask that question.

But his mouth had other plans, and he said, “That...thing. About the baby? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but...was what you told Ivan true?”

Helen didn’t respond right away.

He’d fucked up. Oh man, he’d fucked up.

He averted his eyes from her and quickly added, “I’m sorry! Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. If you think it’s none of my business, just say so. I don’t -”

Suddenly a finger was pressed to his lips. He looked back up at Helen. She was giving him a lopsided smile. “Yes, Ford, it’s true,” she said. She gave the other three men a quick glance. “It’s not like everyone else in this room doesn’t already know.”

Ford wanted to say something, but then he looked again into Helen’s eyes. They were sad, as anyone’s would be when they had just admitted to something so heartbreaking, but there was something else too. To Ford, it looked remarkably like peace.

Stan sighed, and muttered, “We’re all just a bunch of sad idiots, aren’t we?”

Ford and the others gave grunts of agreement, but he saw that Fiddleford’s eyebrows were scrunched up in thought.

After a moment, he said, “I suppose it could always be worse.”

“Ugh, booo,” Stan groaned, rolling his eyes so far back in his head they might have been in danger of popping out.

“Man, you did not just say that,” Darryl said with a wry laugh.

Fiddleford gave them bother a withering glance, and said, “If you two would let me finish, I was gonna say it could be worse, because we could all be alone.”

No one interrupted him this time.

“I mean, we’ve all been through some kind of hell that no one else can really understand,” Fiddleford continued. “We don’t even understand each other’s trauma all that well. But we can at least be there for each other, when things get tough. We’re lucky in ways a lot of other people aren’t.”

Ford felt Stan’s hand tighten around his. Helen’s arm was back around his shoulder. Even Darryl had closed the distance between himself and the bed, and leaned against the edge.

Each of them had a pain unique to them.

They could drown out that pain together.

In that moment, Ford did indeed feel like one of the luckiest men on the planet.

---

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#gravity falls #mystery nerds au #seared with scars #stanley pines #stan pines #stanford pines #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #the society of the blind eye #tw violence #tw suicide #tw miscarrige #tw ptsd

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babybluebanshee · 7 years

Text

Seared With Scars - Chapter 5

*rises from the ashes* I LIIIIIIIIVE.

I am so sorry this took so long, guys. Real life and other fandoms just shoved their way into my life and I couldn't keep up with this. But now I'm back, hopefully to finally put this baby to rest in the next couple of months.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, discussions of death, and mentions of a suicide attempt.

Previous Chapter

“Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.”

- Rudyard Kipling

--------------------

Helen wanted a nap. And a drink. And mostly a puzzle.

Her head buzzed with pain and agitation, and she wanted to curl into a ball and have it be this morning again. She would have slept through the ringing phone, ripped it out of the wall if she had to, and gone back to sleep. She would not have woken up until the kids needed to be picked up Monday evening.

Tonight had, in no small words, been a nightmare. She didn’t need this right now. She didn’t want to be reduced to the hysterical woman, screaming and fainting and drowning in her own angst, but it was very hard not to fall into the pattern. Being attacked in her own home, an obviously-brewing conspiracy, and now a world-ending portal? All with Muggins’ stupid comments sprinkled on top?

God, she really wished she’d packed a puzzle. Her fingers twitched with the anxious need. Even a measly 100-piece one would have sufficed right now.

Rain began to pelt the side of the house. Thunder rumbled outside, announcing the strengthening storm. A gust of wind rattled the bare branches of the trees, making the rain slap against the wooden walls of the cabin harder. It was going to be a bad one.

She heard Stan come up next to where she sat on the couch, looking off at nothing. Every step he took was nervous. Ever since Fiddleford had gotten his desired toolbox and scampered off upstairs to tinker with the gun, Stan’s entire attitude toward her had changed.

Where he’d been flippantly dismissive of the portal and her reaction to it when she’d first seen it and subsequently freaked out, now he edged around her like she was a ticking time bomb. She supposed, in a way, she was. Her entire body felt wound too tightly, and her head radiated with painful heat.

Stan hadn’t spoken a word to her since she’d sat down sat down, pointedly looking away from him, and she preferred it that way. She wondered how much he knew about that odd portal downstairs. How much had Ford shared with his brother about it? The basics and nothing more? Or did Stan know exactly how much hell his brother had been through because of the portal?

Another bolt of pain flared, right behind her eyes. She pulled her glasses off, tossed them down to the other end of the couch, and put her head in her knees. The headache was making her slightly nauseous. She hadn’t felt this way in quite some time.

She felt something cold being pressed to the side of her head. It was amazing, and she wanted to let it sit there forever and ever.

Looking up, she saw Stan there, holding out a frosty can of beer. He held another, presumably for himself, in his other hand. His face reminded her of Scott’s, specifically the day he’d failed a huge math test and was thinking of a million and one ways to beg his mother’s forgiveness.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She lifted her head the rest of the way out of her knees and took the beer. She pressed it against her forehead, then let her eyes slide shut as the cold, wet tin soothed away the worst of the pain. It was almost enough to put her to sleep.

“Not exactly the medicinal purpose I had in mind for that,” Stan joked weakly. Silence hung between them as he waited for her to joke back. She said nothing, just opened her eyes and looked at him blankly. The failed-math-test look deepened, and he said, “Ya know, I can get you some ice or something, if you need it.”

“This is fine,” she replied. She was being standoffish, but she had no energy for anything else.

Stan shifted nervously, looking at the floor. The beer hung limply by his side, and he fiddled with the tab with his thumb. He looked very much like he didn’t belong.

And that just made Helen feel like garbage. This was Stan’s home, and she was making him feel like he didn’t belong there. Stan and Ford had told her in very brief detail about their father’s cruel punishment when Stan was a teenager, but she didn’t need much to understand two things about it.

One: if she ever met their sorry excuse for a father, she was going to deck him right in his stupid face.

Two: that, even though Stan shrugged and waved off his time on the street, it still bothered him. It hung around him some days, oppressive and heavy. There was a fear there when it did - fear of being cast out again, of what he considered family turning on him and leaving him a second time. And Helen never wanted anyone to feel like that in her presence, least of all Stan. She liked him too much to ever be the one to make him feel like he wasn’t wanted.

She heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “I’m sorry, Stan. I don’t mean to be this way. I just -”

Stan seemed to relax immensely, and smiled a bit. “Don’t apologize,” he said, finally raising his beer and snapping the tab. “You’ve had a crazy night. Not the least of which is helped by that hunk of junk in the basement.”

Helen felt a heat rise to her cheeks, and didn't reply right away. There was that “hysterical, fainting woman” thing screaming in her head again. It made her feel burdensome, dainty, useless. She knew that, compared to the likes of Ford, Stan, and even Fiddleford, she was woefully inexperienced with the unusual. She’d experienced it, to be sure, and it had left its mark on her, body and soul. But, by comparison, her small, paltry scratches were nothing compared to the scars her friends bore. She felt like the swooning heroine on the poster for a sci-fi B-movie, a shrieking load with nothing helpful to offer. She never wanted to be that afraid.

Her rational side knew that Stan didn’t mean to imply anything. He was only trying to be nice. But her rational side was also very, very tired, and not willing to put up much of a fight.

She decided that the soothing buzz of alcohol sounded pretty good right now. One beer certainly wouldn't be able to do it for her, but she was certain there was more stashed in the Pines brothers’ fridge. She popped the tab, and tipped it back into her mouth. The beer was cheap, and tasted bitter going down. But once it hit her stomach, the comforting warmth spread like the embrace of an old friend. The sensation of wanting to burp filled her. It felt nice, and she was relieved to find it taking more of the edge off her headache.

When she lowered her head again, a slightly fuzzy Stan was staring at her. She had to think for a second before remembering that she took off her glasses. She leaned forward and started

pawing around for them. “One of the many trials of the bespectacled,” she mumbled. “Lose your glasses, but you can’t see to find your glasses. You see my problem.”

“You can’t even see your problem,” Stan said without missing a beat.

Helen couldn’t stop the barking laugh that escaped her, and it shook her so much that she nearly lost her grip on her beer. She found that it felt so very good to laugh. Easy too. Maybe this beer was stronger than she gave it credit for.

Stan chuckled beside her, and walked to the end of the couch, picking up her glasses, all but invisible against the dark fabric of the couch. He held them out to her, and she quickly took them and slid them on her face. “Thanks,” she said. “Now you’re less fuzzy.”

“Welcome,” Stan said. He settled himself down on the end of the couch. Helen noticed he was a lot less rigid than when he’d first come back in. “You’d think, being bespectacled and all, you’d manage to keep better track of those things. Maybe you need one of those old lady chains to hold them on.”

“I’m only forty, Stan. Let me retain my dignity for another ten years, at least.”

Stan chuckled again, popped the tab on his beer, and took a swig. A strange look passed over his face. “Ford does that kind of stuff all the time. Has ever since we were kids. Sets them down, forgets where. Or puts them on top of his head, and spends twenty minutes tearing the house apart trying to find them. I give him all kinds of hell for it. I’ve have more than one book thrown at me because of the bad glasses puns.”

Stan trailed off, staring down at the can in his hands. Concern tugged at his features. Helen felt an empathetic lurch in her stomach. The rain picked up, followed by another rumble of thunder.

There had still been no word from Ford, and with this storm, it wasn’t safe for any of them to go out and look for him. Stan had tried to remain calm about the whole situation, but Helen knew that he was very, very close to falling apart.

But they could only keep hoping that Ford was okay, and would contact them soon. Outside, the rain lessened, but a stronger, louder crash of thunder filled the void. The storm would not let up for some time. Stan tightened his grasp on his beer. Helen could see the sides denting in from the force of it.

She reached out a hand, and gently set it on Stan’s hand. She said, “Stan, I’m sure he’s okay. Ford has faced a whole mess of weird shit coming out of that forest. Whatever is happening to him now, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Stan looked up at her, and Helen could tell he did not believe her. His eyes remained a steadfast beacon of brotherly love and concern. But he smiled at her, just to placate her, she knew. She had to take his mind off things. She looked around the room, hoping to find something, anything, to talk about, to distract him. Maybe, in a way, distract herself from her own nagging thoughts.

She saw a stack of books on the floor, tucked away at the side of the couch. Library books, it seemed, from the white sticker on the spine. Tucking her beer between her legs, she pulled the stack closer, so she could look through it. A Stephen King sat on top. Definitely not interested, thanks. She’d had nightmares for a week when, at age seventeen, Henry Stickler took her to see The Tingler at the movies. He’d been hoping that she’d cuddle up to him during the scary parts so he could heroically comfort her. What he’d gotten was her bashing him right in the face with her purse when Vincent Price warned them the Tingler was loose in the theater, and her seat began to jolt.

She’d obviously been adverse to horror fiction ever since. She moved the King aside, and looked at the rest.

The next was The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Pass.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Dammit, didn’t Stan ever want to read something pleasant?

The final book in the stack was, if anything, the one that confused her the most - Crossing the Water by Sylvia Plath. She picked it up, eyebrow arched. It seemed to get Stan’s attention, and he looked over at her.

She opened the book and thumbed through a few pages, saying offhandedly to Stan, “You don’t strike me as a poetry type of guy, let alone Sylvia Plath.”

“I read Ariel a few years ago,” he said. He took another long swig of beer. Helen suddenly

remembered what that chilly sensation between her legs was, and brought her own beer up for another drink. “Back when I was still on my own. Friend of mine introduced us. At the time, the anger spoke to me. Especially “Daddy”. You can probably guess why.” Another long drink of beer, this time with heavy gulps.

Helen nodded, and quickly changed the subject. “I read The Bell Jar when I was a senior in college. My roommate actually wrote my parents because she thought I was suicidal. They drove five hours to make sure I was still breathing.” She knew that was a stupid thing to say as a silly anecdote, and yet it’d tumbled tumbled out of her mouth anyway. She supposed she was distracted by the warm, slushy feeling in her belly caused by the beer. She took another drink, to add to it.

“There’s more to her than the anger and the suicide,” Stan said. Helen was actually pretty surprised at how firm his tone was. “She’s intense, but she’s focused, and she can write about a lot of issues that hardly any poets like talking about.

Helen couldn’t stop staring. he recalled earlier, when Stan had mentioned Ford thinking of him as the guy for the heavy lifting. She couldn’t imagine Ford or Stan ever being more wrong in their lives.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp trill of the phone, so loud, even when battling against the storm outside, it made Helen and Stan nearly jump out of their skin. Stan even lost his grip on his beer, and it nearly fell to the floor. He managed to grab it before it sailed too far away.

As soon as Stan got his bearings back, he leapt to his feet, and jogged to the kitchen. Helen felt good for him. It was probably Ford, calling to say he was trying to head back, but the rain was just too heavy. He was probably sitting in a booth at Greasy’s, waiting for it to pass before heading back home, safe and sound.

Helen thumbed through the book while she waited for Stan to come back, deflated and heavy with relief. She scanned some of the poems briefly. She thought vaguely that she needed to check this book out when Stan returned it. She hadn’t returned to Plath after the embarrassing incident with her parents rushing up to her school. Maybe it was time to change that.

“Yeah, she is, hang on,” Helen heard Stan say from the kitchen. She lifted her head, curiosity piqued. Was Ford asking about her? She wondered why. A petty, silly part of her (probably more than a little effected by the beer; how strong was this stuff anyway?) hoped he just wanted to tell her that he was sorry for swiping her car, and he’d wash it for her if she wanted.

She heard Stan walking back to the living room, and turned to him. He looked decidedly dejected. When he looked up at Helen, his eyes were red, betraying the fact he was ready to fall to pieces, cry out of sheer frustration. Guilt surged through her as he said, “It’s Daisy. She wants to talk to you.”

Confusion mixed with the guilt as Helen got up from the couch, setting her beer off to the side where it wouldn't be kicked over. She flicked a glance up at the clock on the wall. It was half past eleven, and generally, her children were in bed by now. It was one of the few things none of the kids had ever fought her on, Daisy especially. Unlike most teenagers, Daisy wasn’t rebelling or trying to buck her mother’s authority by disregarding a childish bedtime. If anything, Daisy couldn’t get to bed soon enough. She loved to sleep. She took naps whenever she could, and went to bed early on school nights, knowing that going to sleep around ten-thirty meant the maximum amount of sleep possible before her alarm went off at six. It was one of the many things Helen smirked about when discussing the perils and pratfalls of motherhood with her PTA friends.

She walked towards the kitchen, trying her damnedest to ignore Stan throwing himself sullenly against the couch, disappointment practically radiating off him. At the same time, she figured Daisy wouldn’t risk long distance charges to Michael’s credit card (not that he was hurting, but she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it) if this was just calling to say hello. Her maternal instincts for her flesh and blood overruled those for her friend, no matter how upset he was at the moment.

Stan had left the phone laying face up on the kitchen table. Helen picked it up, trying not to think too hard about the fact it stuck to the formica a little. She really needed to remind the Pines brothers to clean up after themselves more often. Then she shoved that thought to the back of her head, knowing Stan really wouldn’t want to hear it right now.

She held the phone to her ear and said, “Daisy?”

“Hi, Mom.” Her daughter sounded like she was lounging, and hadn’t a care at all in the world, but her voice was soft, like she was trying very hard not to be quiet and not wake anyone.

“Hi, sweetie. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. I’m super exhausted though. We went to the marina and Michael took us on his boat. I had to stop Amanda from trying to carry every fish she saw home in a bucket. She thought you’d like that as a souvenir.”

Helen forced a chuckle, even though the questions on her tongue were slowly but surely chipping their way forward. A beat of silence stretched between them.

Daisy suddenly spoke up again, “Before you ask how I knew where to call, I already tried calling the house. When you didn’t pick up, I figured you were with the Wonder Twins.”

This time, Helen chuckled in earnest. “Yeah, it was getting kind of lonely around the house,” she lied, thinking only for a moment about how easily it rolled off her tongue. “I think I may actually be getting used to the three of you running around like crazies.”

Daisy laughed a little.Or rather, released a burst of hot air from her nose that was supposed to constitute a laugh. Helen knew she was smirking too. Very distinctly Daisy.

“So,” Helen continued nonchalantly, ignoring the part of her that told her to hurry up, stop tying up the line, Stan was worried enough as it was, “does Michael know he’s going to be receiving some bills for a long-distance call his niece made when she should have been asleep?”

She could practically feel Daisy’s eyes rolling through the phone. “Chill out, Mom. Uncle Mike said we can use the phone whenever we need. A call home is totally cool with him.”

Another beat of silence.

“Besides,” Daisy added quickly, her voice suddenly very strange, “He got really badly sunburned, so he’s sleeping that off. And let me tell you, sunburn comas make a person sleep like a rock. You’d think, living in San Francisco, he’d be, like, immune to sunburns by now, or something.”

“I see,” Helen said. She felt something akin to anxiety churn in her gut. The way Daisy spoke, and the phone call from out of the blue, while everyone was asleep. She had to know. “So, to what do I owe this late night phone call? It’s almost midnight. I figured you’d be asleep by now and wouldn’t be awake for another twelve hours.”

Yet another beat of silence. Helen could picture Daisy on the other end of the line, nervously biting her lip. That was holdover from her childhood, something she always did when she had something unpleasant on her mind.

“Sweetie?” Helen said gently. “Is something wrong?”

“I guess I wouldn’t really say wrong, exactly,” Daisy replied slowly. “I just wanted to make sure, ya know, that you were okay. Ya know, by yourself.”

“Oh hon, I was just kidding about being lonely,” Helen said, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks. She certainly didn’t want to come off as clingy and protective as her own mother. “I’ve got the Tweedles to keep me company.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Daisy said, her voice almost stern. It made Helen’s gut tighten again.

“Well, what did you mean?” she asked.

Daisy took a deep breath, and said, “Next Saturday, it’ll have been two years.”

A low rumble of thunder shook the floor under Helen’s feet as realization dawned on her. All she could manage was a soft, almost whispered, “Oh.”

“I wanted to talk to you about it alone,” Daisy continued. “I didn’t want Scott or Amanda to get upset. I mean, last year, it was kind of a mess.”

“I wouldn’t call it a mess - “ Helen offered weakly.

“You called out of work,” Daisy replied. It made Helen feel as though she were the chastened teenager here, answering to a mother who was only concerned and wanted to help. And how wrong was that?

“Amanda almost got sent home because she was so worried about you. Gave herself indigestion,” Daisy continued. Helen could tell her daughter was not trying to make her feel guilty. She spoke plainly, just stating the facts as they’d occurred. “But she thought that having to pick her up would just make you sadder, so she told her teacher she was okay.”

She wanted to say that she would have been fine if Amanda had come home early. When she’d come home at three-thirty on the bus, like usual, and complained of a sour stomach, hadn’t Helen immediately leapt to her child’s aid, offering her antacids and water and a gentle tucking into bed early?

She had. But a small part of her knew that Daisy was right too. At the time, she probably wouldn’t have handled Amanda coming home early very well. She’d been too busy being the hysterical woman. Wallowing. Feeling sorry for herself.

Helen’s gut clenched again, this time in disgust at her own weakness. She almost missed Daisy speaking up again.

“I’m sorry to bring up this painful stuff again, Mom,” Daisy said. She sounded so sincere, so guilty. Helen wanted to hug that feeling out of her. A fourteen-year-old girl should not be having that feeling towards her own mother.

“I just want to avoid all that again,” Daisy continued. Her voice was becoming very small. She sounded several years younger than she was. “Not just for Scott and Amanda.”

The “and me” remained unspoken, but Helen knew it was there.

“I just want you to be okay,” Daisy said. Her breath was somewhat labored, like saying those words was the emotional equivalent of sprinting a great distance. “I felt so scummy taking this trip without you.”

It was Helen’s turn to interrupt. “Daisy Jane, don’t you dare say that. You have nothing to feel guilty about, alright?”

Daisy didn’t reply.

Helen sighed a little and said, “I appreciate your concern, sweetheart. And I’m not going to deny that, yeah, last year was rough. But everything was still fresh. Wounds that haven’t healed yet are easy to agitate and get bleeding again, know what I mean?”

Daisy offered a weak, “Yeah.”

“But things are getting better all the time, Daze,” Helen said. “I’m getting better all the time. I’ve found ways of coping. And I owe a lot of that to you and your brother and your sister. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for you guys.”

Daisy sniffled a little. If she started crying, Helen knew she would too. She had seen a great deal of death during her time at the hospital, and had pretty well learned to control her emotions in that setting of disease and loss and pain. But if one of her children cried in her presence, Helen fell apart. She cried right along with them, until they both were out of tears to shed.

And she’d had enough of that two years ago to last her a lifetime.

Helen swallowed thickly, pushing back the heat that flushed her face, and said, “Hey, listen.

You know what we’re gonna do?”

“Hmm?” was all Daisy offered. It was weak and tight with impending tears.

“Next Saturday, the four of us are going to have a day of nothing but fun,” Helen replied. “We’re gonna go to the mall, and we’ll go to any store you guys want. I’ll buy you all something, whatever you want. We’re gonna splurge like crazy. Make your grandma cluck her tongue at our extravagance.”

Daisy gave a small chuckle. Helen could practically hear a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Helen continued, “And then, after we’ve bought out the mall, we’re gonna go to whatever restaurant you guys want. Somewhere delicious and terrible for us. We’re going to eat and drink and repeat until we can barely move. We’re going to have so much fun, we’re going to forget why that day is supposed to be sad. Deal?”

Daisy sniffed, drying her tears, and said, “Deal.”

Helen’s gut finally loosened, allowing relief to flood through her. “Good,” she breathed. “Great.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. There seemed to be something a lot less painful in this one, something calm and accepting. It almost made Helen forget everything that had happened throughout the day. About the current clusterfuck that was her life. About the fact her friend was missing, and his brother was on the verge of an anxiety-induced aneurysm because of it.

All that mattered right now was her, and her baby.

The amicable silence was broken by Daisy suddenly letting out a long, loud yawn.

Helen smiled a bit and said, “Hey, little girl, it’s almost midnight. I think you need to get some sleep.”

“I guess,” Daisy mumbled, her response heavy and tired. “You’re sure you’re okay though?”

“I’m positive, sweetheart.”

“Kay,” Daisy answered lazily. Helen heard leather groan in the background, from Michael’s loveseat, overlooking his ocean view. Daisy suddenly spoke again, her voice slightly more alert than a few moments ago. “I forgot to ask,” she said. “Do any good puzzles lately?”

Before Helen could answer, she was alerted to the sound of someone running, directly above her head, somewhere on the second floor. Fiddleford was rushing down the steps, panting in excitement. Helen saw him stumble into the hallway, looking around, looking like he was ready to burst with the news he had.

Helen turned her attention back to the phone and said, “Yeah, I’m actually working on one right now. Hardest one I’ve ever done.” She flicked a glance over at Fiddleford, who’d finally caught sight of her, and looked practically sheepish for creating a stir during her conversation. He even shuffled his feet a bit.

“Okay,” Daisy said, the words almost swallowed up in another yawn. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Oh, and Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Daisy.”

And then the line was dead.

Helen hung the phone back on the wall, and wished to God that there had been more time. She knew that her children would only be gone a few more days, but she found herself wanting now more than ever to just scoop them up in her arms and never let them go.

Was she doing the right thing, allowing herself to get mixed up in the Pines brothers’ escapades? It was fine when it was just gnomes and other harmless things. But now things were serious. Very serious. Missing persons and possible kidnapping and grievous bodily harm serious.

This wasn’t just the hysterical woman talking now. This was her own grounded worry, clear and sharp through a mother’s lens. She didn’t want to give her children anymore reason to worry about her.

She was their mother. Worrying for them was her job.

She heard Stan speak up then, addressing Fiddleford. “What’s the ruckus, little man?” Even though Stan was trying to be familiar, casual, like he didn’t have a care in the world, it fell flat. His voice was still stretched thin, indicative of a man ready to burst.

Fiddleford either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, lost in his own excitement and achievement as he was. He looked up at Helen with what could only be described as unbridled glee, and motioned for Helen to follow. “You won’t believe this,” he said, beginning to walk towards the living room. “I figured it out.”

Taking a deep breath, Helen followed. She hoped her beer was still cold.

She really wished she had brought a puzzle.

------------

Ford flinched as the gun in the video went off again. Even the small movement made his aching head throb.

This was the third time he’d seen his friend completely destroy his mind, bit by bit, in a vain attempt to save himself from the horrors he’d faced.

Horrors Ford had foisted on him.

Three times, Ford’s traitorous mind chanted your fault your fault all your fault.

His stomach lurched with guilt. His eyes involuntarily began to mist, hot tears fogging his cracked glasses. Pain dealt by an angry boot lit his entire body on fire.

Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, even as he sat stock still, watching his friend’s life crumble over and over and over again. These ropes made his brain belch up memories of a knife at his palm. Of the bottom of the stairs, and not remembering how he got there. Those ropes, more than anything, made him think of Bill. And thinking of Bill - the possibility that he was there, still hiding in the darkest corners of his mind, laughing at him - made him want to crawl into a hole and die.

Ford felt Ivan squeeze his shoulder, tightly, in a warning. There were always more bones to crack. Always more flesh to bruise. More wounds to inflict, inside and out.

The video of the memories ended once again, Fiddleford’s small, broken body pausing as he held the gun to his temple, ready to fire. Fiddleford’s desperate gaze met Ford’s.

With the memories stopped, another wave of guilt crashed over Ford. He slumped forward a bit, wanting to cry or maybe vomit. Ivan tightening his grip on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him somewhat grounded.

A beat of silence passed, oppressive and suffocating. When Ivan spoke, it was like a freshly-sharpened blade had sliced through the air. “You know what you need to do to make this stop, Dr. Pines,” he said. His tight, threatening grip never wavered for a moment.

Ford knew very well what he had to do. Ivan wanted Fiddleford. It would be so easy. Four words and Ivan would grant him his freedom. That would be the end of it if he just said one thing.

Come on, sixer. Hasn’t that bumpkin caused you enough pain already?

The taunting thought came from a place in Ford didn’t recognize. A dark, angry, tired place that demanded respite. He’d suffered enough, it told him. Let someone else suffer for once. Some mistakes you just can’t fix. Just give up Fiddleford, and he could go back to his life. Go back to healing. His brother was waiting for him. He was already dealing with one mess he’d caused. Why pile more on himself? To feel like some kind of martyr? To punish himself?

And then his mind would latch on to that and scream again punish punish you must suffer this is all your fault your fault ALL YOUR FAULT.

“You are shaking, doctor.”

Ford’s eyes shot open. He didn’t even remember shutting them. He cast a glance down at his hands. Ivan was right. They trembled under the ropes, sending tremors up his entire body.

“You’re exhausted, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said. He lazily let his hand fall from Ford’s shoulder. Surprisingly sharp fingernails dug into his arm as Ivan moved in front of Ford, blocking the frozen image of Fiddleford. He leaned down, reached out, and cupped Ford’s chin in his hand. He raised Ford’s heavy head to look him in the face. Ford found himself oddly focused on the red, filmed-over eye that seemed to bore into his skull.

“I can make this end,” Ivan said softly. “All I need is McGucket.”

Ford felt his lips fall apart, ready to let words trickle forth. He was just so tired.

The screen on the monitor flickered, drawing Ford’s eye. He was once again locked with the image of his friend - Fiddleford McGucket, brilliant, kind, good, so much better than Ford deserved, reducing himself to a mocking parody.

Fiddleford deserved better than Ford as his friend. But he also deserved help. And Ivan and this mad cult was not who was going to give it to him.

Ford brought his gaze back to Ivan. There was a certain triumphant smugness in Ivan’s face. It was like staring into the face of a hungry mountain lion that knew it had its prey trapped. A fire rose up in Ford’s belly, drowning the guilt and the pain and the desperation for a brief moment.

He hated this son of a bitch.

“No,” Ford croaked.

Ivan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Ford would have mirrored that smug smirk himself if just thinking about smiling didn’t make his face hurt.

Ivan sighed and straightened himself up. It was in that instance that Ford knew what was coming, and began to brace himself. Ivan had beaten him once when Ford had refused him. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t happen again. Despite looking so sickly and thin, Ivan was surprisingly strong. A pain shot through Ford at the mere thought of Ivan’s foot coming down on his rib cage again.

Ivan began to move his hands. Ford screwed his eyes shut, preparing to be struck.

He heard Ivan clap his hands together. Cracking open his eyes, Ford saw that Ivan had indeed clasped his hands together in front of him, with a strange look on his face. Ivan almost looked...excited. Like a tour guide, showing off priceless antiquities to the ignorant public, hoping to educate them. The expression Ivan now wore wasn’t the smug grin or the calm smirk. It was a full-toothed smile, and it was just so...plastic. Wrong.

It sent a shiver down Ford’s spine.

“If that is your decision, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said, a chilling eagerness in his voice, “then I suppose we shall simply have to watch the memories again.”

Before Ford could even begin to react, Ivan’s hand shot out, clamping down around the ropes that bound Ford’s right wrist to the chair. Ivan inched his hand down, until he grasped Ford’s index finger.

Then he pulled the finger backwards. Ford let out a cry of shock when pain shot through him again.

“And this time,” Ivan said, a sinister edge creeping into his voice, his eyes wide and wild, “for every minute of footage that goes by, and you say nothing, I shall snap one of your fingers. You have twelve, Dr. Pines. Do you think you can hold out for twelve more minutes?” Ivan punctuated the question by pulling Ford’s finger back further. Ford let out a gasp of pain and he felt muscles tighten, joints grind. He couldn’t take this.

There was a knock at the door.

Ivan stopped pulling, but didn’t release Ford’s finger right away, even as Ford gasped and tried to wriggle it out of his grasp.

Finally, letting out a sigh reminiscent of a perturbed teenager, Ivan rolled his eyes, released Ford’s fingers, and put his hood back up. Then he walked over to the door and opened it.

Another hooded figure stood there, bowed their head slightly. “Sir,” they said. “There is a matter than needs your attending.”

“Can’t it wait?” Ivan barked. “I am in the middle of something.”

“Another argument has broken out. I fear things will escalate unless you calm things down.”

Ivan muttered something under his breath Ford didn’t bother trying to decipher. Then he spoke to the hooded follower at the door. “Stay here with the interloper,” Ivan commanded.

The hooded figure nodded, stepping into the room quickly enough to let Ivan flounce out of the room, robe billowing behind him. He pulled the door shut with a deafening, angry slam. The hooded figure now in the room with Ford barely moved at the heavy thud.

As the pain faded in his finger, Ford looked up at this new figure before him. They had a short and stout built, and, like the others he’d seen, their face was completely shrouded by their hood. Even so, as the figure stood there in silence, Ford could feel their eyes trained on him.

Ivan had mentioned his followers hated Ford. And now he was stuck with one. He felt his heart rate pick up, pounding in his ears as he tried to prepare himself for the pain.

Maybe he would have been better off with Ivan.

The follower began to move towards him. Ford couldn’t help but let out a tiny whimper as he ducked his head and tried to think of anything else but what was about to happen.

A gentle hand touched the back of his head, fingers ghosting over the wound left by the blow Ford had received. The figure let out a low noise in their throat, almost like consideration. Then they pressed, very lightly, on the blood-crusted hair and down against the flesh of his skull. It felt like a hammer had been slammed into the base of his neck, and he couldn’t help but yelp loudly, jerking his head a bit to get away from the thing causing him pain.

“Sorry,” Ford heard the figure say softly. He felt the hands leave his head immediately. One of them rested on his hand, his right one. The one with the fingers Ivan had tried to snap. He instinctively curled his fingers into a fist, trying to protect them.

The hand pulled away, and Ford could almost feel the shame in it. “Oh no,” the figure breathed. “No, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see. Is that okay?”

The hand was suddenly back, gently squeezing the fist Ford had made. It was placating, reassuring, comforting. The touch of a parent soothing a child.

Ford cracked open his eyes. The figure’s hand was still there, still squeezing. “Don’t be afraid,” the figure said. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

He couldn’t help himself. A long, keening cry burst forth. After hours of nothing but torment and pain, this gentle touch, the kind words, they were like being doused with cold water. He felt hot tears brimming again, didn’t care that they fogged up his glasses and left him blind. More ragged sobs escaped him as he let his head loll forward.

Gentle fingers brushed the hair away from his face, then smoothed it back into place. The hooded follower was actually petting Ford’s head. In between sobs, Ford heard soft, soothing nonsense being muttered to him, telling him it’d be alright, he was okay, he was safe for the time being.

He didn’t even really have it in him to be confused. He just wanted to relish in the touch forever.

The figure continued to pet his head until he began to calm down a little, which must have at least been another several minutes. Finally, as he hiccuped and sniffed, the figure said, “You need to tell him what he wants to know.”

Ford lifted his head up a fraction, and let out a tiny, “What?”

“Ivan. When he comes back, you need to tell him where Fiddleford is. He won’t stop until you do.”

“I c-can’t,” Ford stammered out, trying to sound less like a frightened child. He didn’t succeed. “He...he can’t...Fiddleford needs help.”

“I know,” the follower said. Ford was almost shocked the frankness of the response. “And I know Ivan is a madman that can’t give him that help. But that’s precisely why you need to tell Ivan what he wants to know.”

“But I can’t-”

“If you don’t, he’ll keep going until he kills you.”

Ford felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He felt himself begin to tremble again. He must have let another tear slip, because the hooded figure stopped smoothing his hair and put a gentle hand on his cheek, wiping it away with their thumb.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” they told him. “But Ivan will kill you if he doesn’t get what he wants. And if he kills you, he’ll just go after your brother and your friend.”

Ford choked back rising bile. He knew Stan and Helen wouldn’t let anything happen to Fiddleford. They’d fight. That’s the kind of people they were. But if they went up against a person like Ivan.

He let out an involuntary whimper at the thought.

“I’m so sorry,” the figure began. Before they could say anything else, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall with a bang.

“And what, may I ask, is going on here?” Ivan’s voice dripped like poisoned honey.

The follower scrambled to straighten up, ripping their warm hand away from Ford’s face. He missed it immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they said frantically, bowing quickly at the waist. “I was...well, I...I just…”

Ivan raised a hand to silence his follower, who shrank in on themselves like a scared child. “I do expect an explanation from you, but we shall deal with that later. For the time being, I have a job to finish with our guest.”

Even though Ford couldn’t see Ivan turn his face towards him, he could feel that red, filmy eye boring into him.

In an instant, visions of horror flashed before his eyes. More torture from Ivan - broken fingers, more beatings, watching his friend destroy himself over and over again. And then, when Ivan finally used him up, he’d move on to Stan and Helen. Subject them to the same tortures, probably worse because they were bound to fight back.

Ford screwed his eyes shut, desperate to chase away the images of those he cared for left broken and bleeding by this monstrous man. Desperation and fear clawed in his belly. His whole body trembled.

“He’s in my cabin!”

Ivan and the follower both swung their heads in Ford’s direction. It took him a minute to realize the shrill declaration had come from him.

A beat of silence filled the room, and Ford allowed the utter, helpless failure engulf him completely.

He’d failed. It was all his fault. He’d doomed Fiddleford to the life he’d been trying to save him from.

“Excellent,” Ivan said. Ford could hear the smile in his voice. It made him sick. “I’m so glad you finally see things from our point of view, Dr. Pines.”

Ford wanted to strangle him.

“The hour is late, though,” Ivan said casually. “And this storm has not lessened. I believe you’ll keep until tomorrow, doctor.”

“W-wait,” Ford sputtered, “you said you’d let me go if I told you where he was.”

“Doctor, you wound me,” Ivan said. There was that detestable smirk again. “What sort of host would I be if I sent you home in a downpour?” He made his way towards the door, the hooded follower slinking behind him. Ford saw the follower look back over their shoulder at him. Even though he couldn’t see their face, he knew they looked as helpless as he felt.

Ivan reached the door, ushering his follower out in front of him. As he stepped through the doorway, Ivan said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay, Dr. Pines.”

It was only when Ivan had closed the door, darkening the room once more, that Ford noticed he’d left the monitor on. Fiddleford’s wild, desperate gaze stared back at him.

He let his head fall forward, although he no longer had it in him to cry. “I’m sorry, Fiddleford,” he whispered out loud.

He swore, somewhere behind his eyes, he heard Bill cackling with demented delight.

-----------

McGucket had lost them, but he really didn’t seem to notice.

Stan had honestly tried to keep up with the little nerd, but it became clear pretty quickly that he was just too excited about his discovery to remember he was talking to two people that didn’t have degrees in advanced mechanical engineering.

At least he saw even more clearly why Ford had gotten so attached to the twerp.

The sharp stab of guilt and fear that was roiling quietly in his gut suddenly spiked. There was still no word from Ford. The rain still beat down on them mercilessly. He’d never felt so helpless in all his life.

He had to think of something else.

He chanced a glance over at Helen, sitting in the other kitchen chair to his right, who wasn’t even trying to pretend like she understood what was happening. Her eyes were distant and unfocused, had been ever since she’d gotten off the phone with her daughter. She lazily squeezed the almost empty can of beer, making the sides buckle in on themselves slightly. Stan felt another pang of guilt well up in his chest. She looked exhausted and miserable, and Stan knew that was his fault. She hadn’t asked to be dragged into any of this.

Helen was a strong person, there was no denying that. She was level-headed and firm and a voice of reason when things got chaotic. But even the strongest pillars could break if they were beaten enough times by a churning, unforgiving sea. And Stan shuddered to think that he might be the one to break her eventually.

“...and the procedure was supposed to be permanent.” Suddenly, McGucket’s voice drifted up to his ears, and Stan’s attention snapped back over to the excited hillbilly. In one hand, McGucket held a pair of pliers. In the other, a small bundle of wires, pulled apart to expose a small, gray, chip-like piece. A small, near microscopic, section of the chip had a charred black spot on it. McGucket pointed the nose of the pliers at the chip and continued. “This micro-actuator looks like it was overheated at some point and stopped working. Without it the gun can’t function, since there’s nothing to keep the internal mechanisms moving. The electric charge as a control signal is fine, but it looks like the source of energy - that being, of course, the charge from the memories themselves - overloads it and causes a cascade failure and -”

“Hey,” Stan finally interjected. He had a sneaking suspicion that, if he didn’t, McGucket would launch himself into orbit.

McGucket’s head shot up to look at him. He looked surprised that Stan and Helen were even still there.

“As fascinating and completely incomprehensible as all this is,” Stan said, raising a hand to massage away the rumblings of a headache, “you think you could explain, in the simplest way you can, exactly what the hell all this means?”

McGucket blushed a bit. Stan was beginning to realize that the little man didn’t really enjoy being the center of attention. The only way he could really get going was if he talked so much he thought he was alone in the room.

“Well, it basically means that the part of the gun that was supposed to make the memory erasing process permanent won’t work more than a few times.”

“So that’s why it didn’t work when that guy attacked us in my house?” Helen asked. Stan was actually kind of shocked to hear her finally speak.

“Exactly,” McGucket replied. “I would venture to guess that all the smaller version have the same problem. I had to significantly decrease the size of the actuator to ensure mobility. None of them will last, and it makes the effects wear off faster. Especially when you’re exposed to stimuli, like photos or videos or -”

“Or a giant portal of doom,” Stan said. He bit down his urge to smirk.

Irritation creased McGucket’s brow, and he said, “Yes, that too.”

“But that still doesn’t answer the question of why that guy was in my house,” Helen said, clearly frustrated with the not knowing.

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” Stan said. “He was looking for McGucket.”

“Yeah, but why would he think he was in my house?” Helen said, looking up at him, her dark green eyes practically burning a hole in his forehead. “Hell, how would he even have known he was with us? The only person who even saw us today is Ed.”

That got Stan thinking for a moment. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He was the only person who saw us today.”

“Oh god,” Helen said, incredulously. “You’re not seriously suggesting...Stan, I mean, come on. Ed Matthews is almost sixty-five. He’s a harmless grandpa!”

“Hey, if we can think the bean pole is behind something,” Stan said, jabbing his thumb in Fiddleford’s direction, “then grandpas aren’t in the clear either. Besides, I’ve met some pretty spry old guys in my time.”

Helen turned and addressed McGucket, “Ed wasn’t the guy in my house, right? You would have recognized him earlier if he were in your little...group, wouldn’t you?”

McGucket thought for a moment, obviously trying to conjure forth something that made him think of Dr. Matthews. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration, and said, “I don’t think so? My mind is only just now starting to heal, and things are still mighty mixed up in there. I induct every member myself, though, so he might be in here somewhere.”

“Ed doesn’t even believe in the supernatural stuff in this town,” Helen added, squeezing her beer can harder. It sounded to Stan like she were trying to prove it more to herself than him and McGucket. “Even if he had come across it, he wouldn’t need some memory-erasing gun to convince himself it wasn’t real.”

“Maybe that’s not the thing that Ed was trying to forget,” Stan said.

Helen glanced over at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stan chewed his lower lip, trying to find a way to say this without setting Helen off again. As thoughts of being kicked out, living out of his car, crushing loneliness assaulted him from all sides, he realized there wasn’t really a way to do that. So he said, “Let’s just say things don’t necessarily have to be supernatural for people to want to forget them.”

Helen turned fully in her chair to face him, and Stan immediately regretted opening his big mouth. The beer can crumpled completely under her grip. He steeled himself against whatever angry words Helen was preparing to sling his way.

Then McGucket cleared his throat. Helen snapped her head back to look at him, and Stan swore he saw the other man shrivel a bit under her gaze. Eventually, McGucket managed to stammer out, “I would...that is, I think Stan might be right? Maybe you could, um, I dunno, tell us if anything unusual has happened to Dr. Matthews. Y-you know, if that’s okay with you.”

Stan could practically see the anger drip from Helen’s shoulders. The guilt returned with incredibly force. He’d never seen her like this, but whatever was going on in her mind, he could tell it was eating away at the edges of that level-headedness he so admired in her.

Helen sighed, and finally said, quietly, “I mean, his wife died about two years ago, but it wasn’t what anyone would call unusual. She’d been in a bad way for a long time.”

“What happened?” McGucket asked. His tone was genuinely sympathetic.

“Ovarian cancer,” Helen replied. “Poor Andrea wasted away for months near the end. Then Ed came into her hospital room one day after his rounds, and she was...already gone.” Helen cast her gaze down to the floor, letting silence fill the moment. Stan and McGucket stayed respectfully silent.

Helen sighed again, lifted her head, and said, with renewed conviction, “Ed was torn up about it, sure, but he would never want to forget Andrea. He loved that woman. They were married for forty-two years. There’s no way he’d ever want to wipe her from his memories.”

“Of course not,” McGucket said. Stan saw him reach out a hand, as if he could comfort Helen from the awful thoughts from across the table. But then McGucket thought better of it and pulled it back. “Besides,” he continued, “we don’t deal with memories like that.”

“What do you mean, ‘memories like that’?” Stan asked.

“I guess you could call them “real life” memories,” McGucket said. “Things like the death of a loved one or bad break ups or other traumatic things like that. I would never agree to erase those memories.”

“Why not?” Helen asked.

“Well, there are just some memories people can’t deal with,” McGucket replied. “Memories we weren’t designed to deal with, because the things they concern shouldn’t exist. Like the things out there in those woods. Those things are too much for normal people. But trauma - the real, honest-to-goodness kind - people are strong enough to overcome those everyday traumas. Dealing with those sorts of memories helps you heal. It might even make you a stronger person in the end.”

McGucket smiled serenely as he finished his little sermon. It made Stan’s gut bubble in irritation. Hearing McGucket talk about “everyday trauma” like it was some kind of...character-building exercise, it brought that irritation up his throat and come out his mouth.

“You really buy into that, huh?”

McGucket’s smile slipped from his face as he flicked his glance over to Stan. Stan tried to maintain an air of nonchalance as he said, “You really think that people should just...deal with shit like their wives dying, but not with little bearded men rooting around in their trash?”

“Of course not,” McGucket replied, sounding legitimately shocked Stan would even suggest such a thing. “A tragedy like that isn’t just something to be glossed over. But the sort of things that the people in the Society of the Blind Eye have witnessed...it’s unfathomable. It shouldn’t even have been seen by normal human beings. We can’t begin to process it. I certainly couldn’t, thanks to Stanford.”

“I told you to watch your mouth about my brother, string bean,” Stan ground out. He forced down the tidal wave of anxiety with righteous brotherly fury.

“Guys…” Helen muttered, uselessly.

“Well, I’m sorry,” McGucket retorted, “but you can’t deny that he has to shoulder some of the blame here. What happened to me was because of him. If he hadn’t brought me out here, if he’d just left well enough alone, none of this would be happening at all.”

“Guys,” Helen repeated. A bit louder this time.

“Ford didn’t put that goddamn gun to your head and pull the trigger!” Stan shouted, rising from his chair so quickly it almost tipped over. “Ford didn’t make you run away like a coward. Ford didn’t force you to start a cult to wipe other people’s memories. One that quickly proved to be frigging useless anyway because that damn gun doesn’t even work right. Ford might have caused the accident, but you made your own choices. Was it worth it, McGucket? Was it worth dragging yourself and my brother through nine kinds of hell just because you didn’t want to deal with what happened to you?”

McGucket narrowed his eyes at Stan, in what looked to be as close to actual anger and resentment as Stan figured he could get. Through clenched teeth, he said, “You have no idea what I went through when I was here with your crazy brother. And it wasn’t just the portal. He dragged me on all kinds of insane little adventures with him. We were nearly killed half a dozen times, every time at the hands of some ungodly creature we could barely comprehend!”

“At least you got to be with my brother!” Stan shouted back. He didn’t even care that his voice cracked, although it seemed to surprise McGucket a bit. The anger left the other man’s face. Even Helen was staring at Stan in shock.

Stan continued anyway. “You didn’t even know I existed before now, did you? Even when you knew Ford and had all your memories, he probably never told you about me. Wanna know why? Because up until a month ago, I was living out of my fucking car because he hated my guts. One stupid mistake and I lost my brother for ten years. Is that one of your “everyday traumas”, McGucket? Am I strong enough to move past poverty and prison and near suicide?”

McGucket flinched like he’d been struck across the face. “Oh, didn’t like hearing about that, did you?” Stan said, pulling back the sleeve of his sweatshirt. A faded, ghostly scar ran up the length of his arm. If you weren’t looking close enough, you could miss it entirely. He shoved the scar close to McGucket’s face, and said, “Is this the kind of trauma I can just work through? While you were out having the life with my brother I’d only dreamed about? While I nearly bled out in my car?! Answer me, you little bastard!”

“Stan, stop it!” Helen shouted.

Stan stopped talking, but he didn’t take his gaze off McGucket or make a move to take his arm away. He wanted the uppity little shit to know exactly who he’d just told to “work through it”.

“Walk away, Stan,” Helen said quietly. The firm, maternal tone was back. He knew he should listen. But a sadistic part of him stayed still, his arm still outstretched. A phantom pain tripped up his scar, the first he’d had in years. It made him want to scream.

A whine from Ripley echoed from the hall, followed by her scratching at the door.

“Stan.” Helen was urging him again. Just walk away.

Finally, he pulled down the sleeve of his shirt, once again covering up the scar. He pushed his chair back and stepped away from the table, then stomped out of the kitchen. Another glance over his shoulder showed that McGucket looked pretty damn horrified by what he’d just seen.

The only thing that really upset Stan was the look on Helen’s face. She looked so tired, ready to fall apart at any minute. He found it very telling that she didn’t leap to comfort McGucket as soon as Stan was out of their view.

He grabbed his coat from the living room sofa where he’d tossed it. Ripley was still at the door, decidedly subdued. Instead of leaping about in excitement over a trip outside, she watched her master carefully, almost fearfully. Stan patted her head as he opened the door to let her out. He followed her.

The last time he and Ford had fought, Stan had gone to the gas station the next day to pick up a pack of cigarettes. Just in case. They and a lighter were in the glove box of the Stanley Mobile. He thought it was a pretty good testament to not only his resolve, but the strengthening bond between the brothers that he hadn’t had a reason to open them yet.

Not to mention he knew Ford and Helen would give him such a lecture if they ever caught him smelling like smoke.

But now, as Ripley trotted beside him, matching his purposeful stride, he headed towards the car. He didn’t even bother putting his hood up to keep himself dry. Not like the fleece jacket could help much anyway. At least the rain had stopped coming down in sheets and was now just falling steadily.

He’d forgotten to lock it when he and Helen had rushed inside, so he slid into the driver’s side easily, the leather squelching under him. Ripley sat on the ground right outside the door, looking at him thoughtfully. She seemed to be in no big hurry to be done and out of the rain. He leaned over, popped open the glove box, and removed the cigarettes and lighter.

The flame licking at the tip of the cigarette filled the small space with an orange glow. He doused it quickly and took a long drag. As he held it in, he let all the fantasies come rushing back - the things he and Ford had planned to do as children, treasure hunting, picking up babes, traveling the world and seeing new sights. All the stuff that self-righteous little idiot inside had and was too dense to realize how precious it was.

Two fat streams of tears fall down his cheeks as he exhaled.

------------

Ivan didn’t sleep very often. He didn’t like how vulnerable it made him feel. And he certainly didn’t like to dream.

So, most nights, he just sat up on his cot in the bowels of their inner sanctum. Sat up and looked at the picture he’d clipped out of the newspaper.

The boy in the picture was fourteen years old. Even though the picture wasn’t in color, Ivan knew the boy had brown hair and steely gray eyes. He was tall, slender, his face betraying not a single emotion perceptible to the average person. But Ivan could see the sadness in the boy’s eyes - a sadness deep and painful, but not fully understood. Ivan supposed he could be blamed for that, at least.

Perhaps blamed for the sadness going a bit deeper than it should.

But he was going to fix that. He’d promised to after all.

As soon as this business with McGucket was taken care of, he could move on. Fulfill his promise.

He read the caption below the picture. Preston Northwest, son of the late Auldman and Angelica Northwest of Gravity Falls Oregon.

Ivan returned his gaze to the picture. This time, he didn’t focus his normal eye on the face of Preston Northwest.

Instead, he focused his red, filmed eye right over the boy’s head.

To the thing no normal camera would reveal to anyone with a normal set of eyes.

To the floating, yellow triangle in a top hat, lazily hovering, almost seeming to whisper in the boy’s ear.

---

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#mystery nerds au #seared with scars #ford pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #the society of the blind eye #tw torture #tw violence #tw suicide mention #tw discussions of death #tw smoking

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