Chapter Text
The last six years had been the worst of Stan Pines’s life; the day he tried to cheat a wizard at poker, however, made it very suddenly and unexpectedly worse, even though he’d thought that was impossible at this juncture.
In his defense, there had been no obvious signs that the man who offered to play a friendly game of cards with him in the nearly-empty bar (except for them and the bartender) was a wizard; no pointy hat, no robe decorated with moons and stars or whatever, not even a long beard-just a neat little clipped one that he was pretty sure was dyed black. The only thing that might have indicated he wasn’t quite what he seemed were the rings he was wearing on all his fingers. No two were alike, and they sparkled with far more luster than your average rocks; one of them was shaped like a tiny dragon wrapped around his finger. But Stan figured that just meant he was rich, and possibly easy pickings. So he’d put on his best charmer smile, and pulled out his lucky deck, and sat down across from the man, ready to make a killing.
He’d been wrong. He’d been so, so wrong.
As Stan tried to grab his pile of winnings, one of the many-ringed hands clamped down on his wrist.
“Do you really think you can cheat me at cards and get away with it, ‘8-Ball’?” the man asked in icy tones.
Stan’s heart jumped into his throat, and he briefly considered trying to lie...but one look into the other man’s cold dark eyes negated his chances of getting away with that. So he just yanked his arm free, and threw his hands up in mock surrender.
“Okay, you caught me, I’ll just let you keep everything and-” Seconds later he was out of his chair and sprinting for his car.
He didn’t get far; it was like a giant hand suddenly closed around him, lifting him into the air and turning him (which definitely didn’t do his fear of heights any favors), and despite his struggling with all his strength he was towed back to the man. The bright blue-green gem set in one of his rings was glowing, and his eyes were shiny with contempt.
Stan looked around in a panic, but the bartender had gone into the back, and seemed unable to hear the ruckus. There was not a soul around to help him (situation normal).
“Sorry, but you’re not getting off that easily, 8-Ball Alcatraz. Or is it Hal Forrester? Oh, no, wait-Steve Pinington?” His hand closed into a fist, and for a moment Stan couldn’t even breathe. Then he asked, “Just who are you really, hmmm?”
Stan told him to [CENSORED] off.
The wizard (Stan suspected that was the right description for him) raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at the suggestion.
“Very well, then. That actually helps me greatly in deciding your punishment.” One of his other rings, set with an amber stone, began to glow.
“I think I’m going to give you a new form, something to match the personality of one who’s forced to beg and steal and fight to protect his own worthless, pitiful existence.” And Stan barely heard the next part, because by then the new light had wrapped around him and he’d started screaming in pain. “And the only thing that will change you back is for another to know who you really are, and to say your name in love.” The wizard sniffed. “Old-fashioned and melodramatic of me, I know, but it will serve its purpose.”
It was the last thing Stan heard before he lost consciousness.
Four months later, Stanford Pines opened his front door, ready to go exploring the wondrous woods of Gravity Falls again, and found a dead dog lying on his front porch.