Chapter Text
Stan really should have known better than to think things couldn’t get any worse. Because every time he thought that, things would get worse. When he got thrown out of his home as a teen, he thought things couldn’t get any worse. When his entrepreneur businesses kept failing, he thought things couldn’t get any worse.
When he’d ended up dealing drugs for money, because no one would buy his products and no one would hire him, he thought things couldn’t get any worse. When he’d ended up in prison—for the first but certainly not the last time—he thought things couldn’t get any worse. Surely, he’d reached the bottom of the barrel.
Yet he’d still proved himself wrong after that. He’d learned there were worse things to sell than drugs, and that even when he’d hit rock bottom, he was desperate enough to dig. He did a lot of things he wasn’t proud of (many of them he wished he could forget) in order to survive. And each time he tricked himself into thinking it couldn’t get any worse.
And, well. Ten years into being homeless and getting banned from many states (and even some countries), Stan had just about done it all. Drugs, alcohol, gambling, and getting mixed up with one too many wrong crowds. A few of which he still owed a lot of money to. He was a wanted man by more than just the law.
He’d robbed people, threatened people, hurt people. The only thing he hadn’t done was sell people. Himself, sure, but not other people. Trafficking drugs had been fine, but trafficking people was the one line he had left in the sand that he wasn’t willing to cross.
He hadn’t been willing to cross the line of killing either, but he’d stumbled through that one anyway. He was fine with dealing blows, just never final ones—except once. It had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to kill the man, truly. Stan had just been trying to escape from him. He hadn’t wanted him dead, it had just… happened. He still saw that man’s face in his nightmares.
But despite all that. Despite the fact that Stan was well past rock bottom. He still made one last mistake. He thought to himself, at least things can’t get any worse.
Which is, of course, when the apocalypse happened.
“Stupid apocalypse,” Stan muttered to himself. He absently kicked a piece of trash as he walked down the empty sidewalk. “Can’t believe this happened. Like, sure. Why not, I guess. Not like my life was going great anyway, but really?”
It had been about a month since the whole “weirdmageddon” thing had started. At least, that’s what the floating triangle in a top hat had called it. Stan had seen him on TV shortly after whatever he was had started causing chaos with his henchmen—or henchmaniacs, as they called themselves. Stan didn’t really care. All he cared about was that they had made life even harder for him.
Sure, compared to other, normal people, Stan was doing fine. Pretty good, actually. He was still alive, and his time already spent being homeless meant he had more street smarts and skills to keep him that way. He wasn’t floundering like many people had after losing their homes or loved ones or everything. Stan had already been there and done that.
It was just that the apocalypse made it even harder for him to find safe places to go and food to eat. The whole country was in a panic, and desperate people did desperate things. Especially when they weren’t used to having nothing. Everyone had been catapulted into survival mode, and the result was a collapsing society.
Stan had really thought it would just be a rat race until death. Surviving for as long as he could before he couldn’t anymore. That triangle guy, Bill or something, had seemed like he was just bent on destroying the world and causing as much chaos as possible. And for the first three weeks after they’d shown up, he and his henchmaniacs had certainly done that. People had died, buildings and cities had been destroyed, and the world had been thrown into terror.
And then last week they had just suddenly stopped.
Apparently Bill didn’t want to completely annihilate everything. Go figure. He wanted to rule the world instead. He’d made some sort of big announcement setting himself up as their new global leader or whatever. Stan didn’t care about the specifics, he was just glad the utter chaos had (mostly) stopped. People were still panicking and rioting, but at least the alien whatever-they-were guys had chilled out a bit.
And Stan had survived all of that. Though his car, unfortunately, had not. That had been a huge blow to him. The Stanley-Mobile had been his home ever since he’d been kicked out. The one thing that was his, that had held what little stuff he’d had, that had faithfully gotten him around the country. It had been the roof over his head and his place to sleep, and now it was gone. Traveling had become much harder since.
As he continued walking, Stan stupidly said, “Well, at least things can’t get any worse.”
Something flickered on his right then, and Stan’s eyes were drawn to an old storefront. The place had clearly been looted and abandoned, but a few televisions still sat in the display window. It made sense; not much good a TV would do someone in an apocalypse, after all.
But those televisions flickered again, and Stan slowed to a stop out of curiosity as a red banner rolled across the screens, “GLOBAL ANNOUNCEMENT” written on it. Looked like that Bill guy was going to make another public statement.
Sure enough, the announcement banner faded away to show the world’s new triangular dictator, surrounded by his henchmaniacs in the background. This time though, someone new stood right next to Bill. A human. He was dressed in some sci-fi looking clothes with a dark cloak around him. Clearly, he was meant to fit in with the other henchmaniacs, but stood out anyway because he was human.
But the sight of a human among the alien infiltrators wasn’t what caught Stan’s attention. No, what caught his attention was the six fingers the man had on each hand, positioned loose at his sides rather than hidden behind his back. And that, despite the hard, cold look on his face, it was still a face Stan would recognize anywhere, anytime.
His jaw dropped.
“STANFORD?!” he screeched aloud to the empty street.
He pressed himself up against the dirty glass window of the storefront, staring at the old box televisions with wide eyes. He was so flabbergasted and hooked on the unexpected sight of his brother, that he missed the first few things Bill said. Shaking his head to reorient himself, Stan forced himself to actually listen.
“Anyway,” Bill was saying, “though we can never have enough about me, I’m not the main point of the message today. A tragedy, I know. Hold your tears people.” He swivelled around, turning his attention to Ford.
Stan balled his fists at the reminder of his brother being surrounded by all those alien creatures. Ford, however, seemed incredibly unfazed. He held himself differently, Stan could see it even through a screen. Ford held himself with a cool confidence, shoulders squared but not tight. His body loose but not quite relaxed.
It was a very poised look. The kind Stan had seen before on cartel drug lords and gang leaders. The type of guys who knew they were the boss and in control. And that while they wouldn’t ever truly relax around you, they knew they had enough power and strength that you weren’t a threat to them.
It was a strange thing to see on his nerdy, socially awkward twin.
“I’m sure many of you already know him,” Bill said, slinging an arm around Ford’s shoulders like they were pals. “But for those who don’t: meet the newest guy in my crew! All you snivelly humans have Fordsy here to thank for our being here. We wouldn’t have made it to this dimension without him creating the portal that allowed us in!”
…What.
“And let it not be said that I’m not a good friend!” Bill crowed. “Sixer has proved himself loyal to me by bringing us here and agreeing to become one of my henchmaniacs, which means he’s one of us now.”
Stan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His jaw was back on the ground.
“So, since I’m such a good guy, I offered Fordsy a reward for his loyalty. And now that he’s told me what he wants as his gift, I’m here to tell all of you!” Bill turned back to face the camera dead on, his one eye staring unblinkingly through the screen as it zoomed in on him. “There will be a one million dollar reward for whoever brings Stanley Pines to us alive.”
Stan was pretty sure his jaw had just run down the street.
Bill backed up and wagged a finger playfully. “But make sure he’s alive! My friend here is pretty adamant on that. No reward if he’s dead, so keep that in mind!”
Stan stumbled back from the window, even as his eyes were still fixed on the television. He couldn’t believe this. He just couldn’t believe it.
“Ford really hates me that much?” he whispered to himself incredulously.
He couldn’t believe it! His own brother had just put out a bounty on his head?! A huge one too. One that was definitely going to get him marked and make his life even harder. And for what? One mistake that Stan had made a decade ago?!
Stan let out a strangled laugh, hands running through his mullet in nervous agitation. “I can’t believe he’s still holding a grudge over that!” he muttered.
And it looked like Ford wanted the honour of killing Stan himself. Considering he was wanted alive, it seemed Ford wanted to personally be the one to punish his brother for wronging him all those years ago. On one hand, being killed by his twin wouldn’t be the worst thing. Better Ford than anyone else.
On the other hand, Stan really didn’t want to die. It was why he was still alive despite everything he’d gone through. He knew many people would have killed themselves by this point. Hell, he did know people in similar situations to his who had done just that. But Stan had never been able to bring himself to, even when he had really, really wanted to.
There had always been something that kept him going. Even in his darkest moments, and even if he knew it was unlikely and a pipe dream. The possibility of reconciling with his brother one day had made him cling on.
It appeared that Ford had no desire to reconcile with him, though, if this announcement was anything to go by.
This was big. Huge. It changed a lot of things and made Stan feel a lot of ways that he really didn’t want to be feeling right now. He was at a loss for what to do. Though, there really wasn’t much he could do, so he supposed he’d just continue on as he had. At least if he got caught, he’d have the chance to talk to his brother one last time. It probably wouldn’t change anything, but he’d get out what he needed to get out before Ford killed him.
This bounty was going to make his life hell, though. They’d just announced his name to the world. But hey, at least he could go by another name and hide his identity. No one knew what he looked like, so small mercies.
As if Bill Cipher had read Stan’s mind just then, he announced, “Oh, right! Before I forget! Put up the pictures!”
The live feed cut, and two pictures of Stan appeared on the TV screens. One was clearly taken from one of those stupid Stan-CO commercials he’d done years ago, but the other seemed more recent. Some sort of shot taken from a street security camera. It was grainy and black and white, but it showed him as he was currently, dirty red jacket and mullet and all.
Stan groaned aloud in frustration. Chances of survival had just plummeted with that.
Stan had never been the smart one. That had been his brother. He wasn’t intelligent, he was just a rat. But in a rat race, that made him a natural.
It had been about two weeks since the very public announcement that had blasted his face and name across the country, and Stan had yet to be caught. He’d had a few close encounters, but getting away was something he was good at. It had taken a few days, actually, before anyone had even recognized him. Stan had gone about as he normally did (for as normal as the apocalypse could be anyway) without any issue.
Until one man he had encountered had broken off in the middle of their conversation to ask, “hey, are you the guy that—?” and Stan had booked it. Looking back now, he probably should have tried to laugh it off, but Stan had panicked a bit. He wasn’t used to chatting with strangers anymore. Ever since the apocalypse had started, he’d been mostly avoiding people if he could, as many had become unfriendly.
And things had only grown more difficult after that first blunder. Someone had decided to mass produce and plaster posters of his name and face everywhere, with the hefty reward and the “wanted alive” condition displayed in large print at the bottom. People had started recognizing him more easily, and Stan could see the considerate gleam in their eyes, the greed.
He understood, honestly. He couldn’t fault them for being interested in one million dollars. That was an insane amount of money. Hell, it almost made Stan want to try and turn himself in just to see if he could get the reward. Not that he would, of course, since he’d basically be walking right to his death, but still. He’d always desired millions. When he was younger and dumber, he’d thought that amount would be his ticket back into his family.
So he didn’t blame people for wanting it. But it sure did make his life suck a whole lot more. Stan was on constant alert now, unable to trust anyone. It was harder to sleep too, worried as he was that someone would find him while unconscious and vulnerable. He really missed his car. It had been a companion to him and had offered some sense of security.
Finding food was harder now as well. He was more likely to run into other people while trying to get something to eat. And while he did try to mask his face when he went, he’d still had a few close calls. Stan always hated having to drop things and run. If it was just one person, he might fight them over it, but the last thing he needed now was to get injured, and running was less risk.
But he was okay. Stan was doing fine. Sure, he was hungry, he was tired, and he really wished he could take a shower and get a change of clean clothes, but he was alive. He was a rat, and he was still in the race. And at this point, he did acknowledge that things could, in fact, be worse.
The sea breeze rustling his hair and the smell of salt was welcome, but strange.
Stan looked around the deck of the boat he was on in confusion before it hit him. Oh, this was a dream! Realizing that made him excited. He was doing that thing where you knew you were dreaming while dreaming! That was so cool! He rarely got to experience that. Did that mean he could…?
With a bit of concentration, a cup of coffee popped into existence in Stan’s hands. Yep. He could imagine anything he wanted here. That was rad.
Stan sipped on his coffee, enjoying the warmth as he took in the sight of the open ocean and the bright sunny sky. He knew instinctively that he was on a boat called the Stan o’ War. It was his dream, after all. The only thing that would make this better was…
The door to below the deck opened and Ford walked out. He wore a smile and looked calm and relaxed as he came up to Stan.
“Stanley,” he greeted, leaning on the rail of the ship next to Stan.
“Heya, Sixer.” Stan grinned. “You ready for another day of adventuring? What do you think we’ll find today? Treasure? Babes? Some weird, funky creature for your studying delights?”
Ford chuckled quietly. “Whatever you want, Stan.”
Stan stuck his tongue out. “Well, I know what I want, but what do—? Why are you looking at me like that?” he cut himself off to ask, eyeing his brother.
Ford was staring at him with a soft affection, like he was drinking the sight of Stan in. It was entirely too mushy an expression in Stan’s opinion. Ford would never act or look like that towards him in real life.
“I’m just happy to see you. I’ve missed you,” Ford said.
Stan opened his mouth to tease his brother for being a sap, but Ford interrupted him.
“Where are you?”
Stan blinked. “What?”
Ford straightened up, his expression turning stern all of a sudden. “Tell me where you are, Stanley.”
“I’m… right here?”
“Not in the dream. I mean your physical body in the waking world. Where are you?” Ford stepped forward, grabbing Stan’s shoulders and shaking him slightly, voice demanding. “Tell me your location!”
“This is a weird dream,” Stan muttered to himself, coffee cup disappearing as he moved to free himself from his twin’s grip. He kind of wished he had the mushy Ford back now. This one was off-putting.
Ford grit his teeth, brow twitching in annoyance as Stan leaned back against the rail to put distance between them. “I’ve been searching for you for weeks, Stan! Where are you?!”
He lunged forward to grab at Stan again, and Stan, in his unconscious desire to get away, phased right through the rail. He gasped as he tumbled down towards the ocean.
The last thing he saw was the sheer panic on Ford’s face as he hit the freezing water like a sack of bricks, the darkness surrounding him completely…
Stan jolted awake, shuddering from phantom cold. He looked around frantically, heaving a sigh of relief when he realized he was still alone. A bit chilly, yes, huddled up on the rooftop of an abandoned store for the night. But he was slowly making his way southwest to the warmer states. Cold would be one less thing to worry about down there.
That really had been a weird dream, though. Stan rubbed at his tired eyes. Why couldn’t dream Ford have just played along with what Stan wanted? It was supposed to have been his dream, after all. Figures his brother wouldn’t comply even in Stan’s own mind.
But something about the whole thing had felt… unnatural. Stan couldn’t really put his finger on what. Though really, it was probably just his paranoia that was making him feel that way. He’d been on edge ever since the bounty announcement. It would make sense that his anxiety was starting to creep into his dreams too.
But there was no sense trying to fall back asleep now. Stan already knew that wasn’t going to happen. So with a groan he stood, stretching his stiff limbs. He might as well keep moving on. Less likely to be caught that way.
Right before this whole apocalypse business had happened, Stan had actually been on his way back to his home state of New Jersey. His pa had unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack. Stan had found out about it about a week after it had happened, when he’d finally gotten around to calling his ma again. He’d been roaming around Mississippi at the time, not yet banned from that state.
When he’d called from a gas station payphone, Ma had tearfully told him of Pa’s passing, and had expressed how difficult she was finding the transition and handling funeral arrangements. She had asked Stan if he would be willing to come up and help her out, and Stan had agreed. A small, secret part of him blooming with hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to stay. Ma had never agreed with Pa’s decision to kick him out, and with Pa gone… Stan hoped that perhaps he could come home. That Ma would let him be a family with her again.
He also did actually want to help, as well as attend Pa’s funeral. As much as things had ended on bad terms between them, and as harsh as Pa had been with Stan at times during his childhood, there had also been good moments. Fond memories that made it hard to fully hate the man. Stan resented him, yes, but Filbrick had still been his father and he wanted to say his goodbyes.
So Stan had told Ma that he would come as soon as he could—state ban be screwed—and had hit the road that same night, heading for home.
He had been halfway there when the apocalypse had started.
After the initial confusion and terror, Stan remembered driving even faster, disregarding all speed limits and laws in his hurry to reach New Jersey. He remembered the overwhelming need to get there, to make sure his ma was okay, to protect her. But with so many other cars on the road, people fleeing in all directions in panic, it had been more difficult of a journey than he’d expected.
By the time Stan had reached his childhood home, Ma had been gone. The old pawnshop windows had been smashed in, door hanging loose. Their home above it hadn’t been much better; furniture in disarray, various things scattered everywhere, and no sign of his mother.
Stan had been devastated.
He’d spent the days after searching the town, calling for his ma, looking everywhere he thought she might go. But he never found any sign of her. Caryn Pines had not been in Glass Shard Beach. Stan had even expanded his search to the surrounding towns, but his hope had dwindled with each passing day he failed to find her.
Eventually, he accepted that Ma wasn’t there anymore. He had no idea if she was alive or not, but if she was, there was one last place Stan could think of that she might try to go to. His brother Sherman’s home in California. And even if she wasn’t there, maybe… Maybe Shermie would be. Maybe Stan wouldn’t have to be alone in the new mess the world had become. So he’d hopped back in his car and prepared for the long drive to California.
Going to Oregon hadn’t even crossed his mind. (That was a lie, of course it had.) From what Stan had been able to gather from the news in those early days, the apocalypse had originated in Oregon. As such, Oregon had taken the brunt of the initial destruction and chaos, and the whole state had basically become a lost cause.
Stan had mourned for Ford when he’d learned about it. His ma had told him years ago that Ford had moved out there, and knowing his brother, Stan knew that Ford would not have run away like a normal person when the weirdmageddon thing started. Ford would have more likely run right to the weirdmageddon’s source, fascinated as he’d always been with the abnormal.
Stan truly hadn’t thought there was much chance of Ford having survived. He’d mentally marked his twin down as deceased, cried so hard he’d thrown up, then shoved all the sorrow down, burying it deep in order to focus on surviving and on finding his potentially still living family members.
Fueled by desperation, Stan had driven like crazy towards California, stopping only to steal gas or when he was near passing out. He didn’t bother much with eating or sleeping otherwise if he could help it, wanting to get to Shermie’s place as fast as possible. But that had ended up being a mistake—one that had cost him the Stanley-Mobile.
He’d lost his best friend in western Missouri to a giant three-eyed monster. When it had attacked him, Stan had been too exhausted to prevent his car from getting stomped to pieces. The loss of it had certainly slowed his progress, and every night now Stan chewed anxiously at the skin around his fingernails, wondering if Shermie was still alive. If Ma was okay. If he’d ever see them again.
He didn’t know. For all he knew, he could be the only Pines left. The thought made his heart clench, and Stan had bleakly wondered if he should even bother going to California. If maybe not knowing for sure would be better.
But that same stubborn hope that had kept him alive all his years of homelessness wouldn’t go away. It had never died out fully, even when Stan had purposefully tried to snuff it. That small flicker was what kept him going. That protested that maybe he wasn’t the last of his family, and he had to know.
He just hadn’t expected to find out by seeing the twin he had assumed to be dead alive and on the aliens’ side on TV. Talk about a shock to the system. At least he wasn’t the last Pines, but really? Stanford had joined them? Willingly? Was literally the one responsible for the start of the apocalypse? Ugh. He wanted to punch his idiotic genius brother so bad.
But ruminating on all these things wasn’t helping him right now. Stan sighed, ignoring the clenching of his empty stomach as he eyed the front of a grocery store. The place had clearly been looted before, but surely there must be something left, right? It had been a few days since he’d been able to find anything substantial to eat.
Stan hadn’t even realized how easy regular homelessness had been until he was faced with apocalypse homelessness. Sure, before it had still been hard finding food sometimes, but Stan had always been able to shoplift or dumpster dive if he was really desperate. Now with the whole weirdmageddon thing many stores had already been looted, and businesses like cheap fast food places weren’t currently running. It was hard to find “fresh” food in dumpsters, and many people had begun hoarding any supplies they found.
It certainly made things harder for him, but Stan was good at surviving. He was still clinging on out of spite (and a bit of hope) even though he was tired. Lack of regular food and water made a person fatigued, who knew? He’d lost weight since the whole thing had started, and it was harder to cover a good amount of ground each day on foot.
But despite his near constant fatigue, he still didn’t get enough sleep. His paranoia of being found and captured made it hard to relax enough to do so. He really only slept deeply when he was just too exhausted to stay awake any longer, passing out in whatever spot he’d hidden himself away in.
Not that Stan got much reprieve in sleep either. Recently, the times he was able to sleep deeply enough to dream had been… weird. No matter what it was he was dreaming about, at some point Ford would pop up. Sometimes he seemed normal at first, and other times he was aggressive off the bat. But no matter what, it always ended with him demanding Stan’s whereabouts and chasing after him.
Stan often awoke unsettled. He didn’t know why these dreams bothered him so much, but they always lingered with him the rest of the day when he had one. And he certainly didn’t feel rested when he woke up from them. Of course Ford had to ruin his sleep too. Not like he hadn’t already ruined Stan’s life, his future, and, oh yeah, the whole world at this point.
“I might be the family disappointment but at least I’m not the one who set off the apocalypse,” Stan muttered to himself as he slunk inside the grocery store through the broken glass doors.
He continued to mentally curse out his brother as he scanned the shelves, keeping one eye out for danger. Thankfully, there was no one else in the store. But that was probably because there was also no food left. Or at least, nothing good. There was rotting meats and vegetables in freezers and fridges that had long since stopped running.
Unsurprising. Many places lacked power due to weirdmageddon destruction having knocked out power-lines all over the country. It just made preserved and canned food all the more precious. And Stan’s luck was not with him today (then again, when was it ever really with him?) as he couldn’t find any left in the store.
With a disappointed sigh, he snagged a somewhat crushed bag of chips out from under a knocked over shelf, carrying his find out of the store. Any kind of food was better than no food, and crushed chips certainly were not the worst thing Stan had ever eaten. He would find a safe (or safe-ish) place to spend the night, and hopefully try to catch some rest.
Tomorrow was another day.