The Precursor To The Puppet Jail Incident From @aroace-get-out-of-my-face And @babyblankyerror's "science

So there’s this app called Rooms….

Hey so i got brain worms for a bit with this prompt and started working on it....... but unfortunately the worms have left the station and so i have this sorry for it being unfinished :(

hope you like it anyways :D

Pain

A pain that was progressively getting more noticeable and this all encompassing pressure along his neck, mouth, hands, legs and shoulders were the first things Stan notices when he finally becomes aware of himself after being knocked out. The second thing he notices is that it’s starting to feel quite hot…or it's always hot, he doesn’t know; but what he does know is that opening his eyes does jack shit for helping him get his bearings in order. Though after shifting (read: flailing) around a bit Stan comes to the conclusion that he’s in the trunk of either one of Rico’s cars or some random car. Speaking of the fact that Stan left his car in an alleyway in some backwater town before Rico’s men found him. 

You should of just skipped town instead of staying for an extra day you knew Rico was still after you yet you stayed for what, a few hours of sentimental wallowing at the beach thinking about hi–

Stan shifted about some more; rubbing the rope that was around his wrists and ankles a lot in the process, trying to find where the trunk latch was. After a bit more shimmying and trying desperately to control his breathing he found where the latch was. 

The thing was though it was locked and unfortunately kicking it like stan had been doing for however many minutes… or has it been hours or days or wee– had done nothing but make his already ear splitting headache even worse as stan now starts to panic.

brea–

Fuckshitfuck Im fucking stuck in here they fucking locked me in here to die! Theyleftmetodieinhere to die in here either from starvation, dehydration or from boiling alive inthisfuckingcar

Breath–

He’s shifting more wildly now. Trying to yell, scream anything but it’s all muffled behind the cloth wrapped around his mouth digging into his cheeks.

Desperation in every movement as Stan trys and trys and trysandtrysandtrysandtrysan–

Breathe–

I gave them the fucking money i owed and it was stillnotENOUGH

The muscles in Stan’s legs grow more stiff the more he kicks.

I'm going to die here without those millions, i'm going to die proving pa right, that he was right that all i'm good for is ridding off of other people BETTER people’s coattails and bringing them down

BREATHE–

What would ma think? 

BREATHE–

Would she care? 

BREATHE–

What would Ford think?

BREATHE–

Would he be glad to not have the screw-up to think about when he’s DEAD

BREATHE–

Would he even care?

BREA–

THUMP

That’s when he hit something softer than the rest of this godforsaken car. Just behind where Stan hit his head in a blind panic was the backend of the backseat. It might be his only way out Stan thought numbly; his teeth already feeling phantom pain of what was about to come. 

The next however long was spent in a fog of numbness and all encompassing determination as he wraps his teeth around the looser piece of fabric on the backseat and yanks; choking on his gag in the process, but that didn’t stop him as he keeps yanking and yanking. Stan starts to feel copper in his mouth as the fabric rips off. A small victory as Stan continued this rhythm the whole way through the backseat. Find the weak spot. Tear. Find the weak spot. Tear. As Stan goes along, the cloth around his jaw starts to cut more and more into his cheek, digging further and cutting the edges of his mouth. Fortunately wareing down the cloth more as his teeth grind against the fibers of both the cloth and the backseat and allows Stan to be free from the gag. Not that he notices as he keeps going little by little chewing his way through the backseat of the car. The copper taste gets increasingly more potent and the smell of sweat, grime, and flesh make itself more known as Stan continues his onslaught, feeling chunks of something fall with the fabric and cotton he’s tearing out. 

There are no thoughts and no overwhelming feeling as Stan starts seeing more and more light while ripping through the seat. Just a need to keep going. To keep ripping and he’ll be free. 

For now at least.

When the hole to the backseat is bigger than his head; Stan uses his upper body strength to force himself through the newly made hole. Not caring how he got out, just that he did; cramming his shoulder the metal bits inside the seat scraping down his shoulder blades possibly  dislocating his right shoulder in the process, though Stan’s not entirely sure about it as he doesn't feel a thing; the numbness encircling his mind makes it quite hard to think or feel anything. 

Once out, the first thing Stan does is wrap his tied hands to the headrest of the driver’s seat back as flush as he can get before thrusting his body away from the headrest snapping rope around his in a violent manner taking a bit of skin off his wrists with the rope. Next was rope around Stan’s legs, this being a lot easier to get done as his hands were now free from the rope. Once done freeing his legs, Stan climbed over the center console and over to the driver's seat; stumbling as he went, then shoving his entire body weight into the driver’s side door, the door swinging out as if its owner didn’t care whether or not it was open or shut. Unfortunately that meant that Stan went flying out the door onto the hard dry ground. 

“Ah ‘uck” Stan groaned out as his face hit the ground.

Stan layed there for what felt like an eternity but was really only about 5 minutes; just lying there soaking up the feeling of the dirt beneath him. He needed to move, to figure out what was wrong, he needed to get help, there was so much blood he needed to move, but he couldn’t for the life of him get his body to listen. It was as if he was a guest to his own body barely feeling much, just an overwhelming feeling of numbness. Sure he felt that something was off with his body, the lack of teeth when he wrung his tongue against his gums and felt just that; gums, and his –what he’s pretty sure is very much dislocated– arm. He just can’t seem to get his body to operate the way he wants right now. 

Get up dumbass you got this far now just get up and keep moving  it’s not like anyone is going to come help you and if someone does come it definitely will not be anyone who would help you so. Get. Up.

Stan just couldn’t get himself to move even with his thoughts arguing about getting up he can’t seem to move.

Get up if you don’t know Rico’s buddies will most likely come back to see if their job was successful and if they see you out they will just shoot then and there GET. UP.

And by some outward force of will or just the thought of Rico’s men coming back at all seems to be the motivation his body apparently needed to start moving. Slowly, like an ancient mechanical robot Stan slowly got up from the ground, feeling a little–…or a lot Stan didn’t know– light headed he started moving in a direction not caring where he was going just that he was and maybe if he was lucky– like lucks been of his side so far –he would find a phone box to call someone to help him.

What was about and hour of hobbling in one direction, not including the times he took a break to go and spit out a wad of blood out of his mouth; he’s pretty sure he also spat out a few more teeth as well but that was neither his problem nor did he care right then and there. Stan found a small gas station, just a dingy looking thing not that Stan can complain at all given the life he lives or he guesses barely lives Ha.Ha. Anyways the gas station was nothing much just a two way pump spot for two cars use which was situated right next to the road and a corner store just a little ways away from the pump spots. Right next the corner store was the phone box he was looking for.

Huh guess my luck hasn’t run out yet… yippee..

Stan didn't even realize he even moved until he’s already at the phone box and the phone– now in his hand –was ringing.

*Hello this is 911 speaking what’s the emergency* 

Stan takes a breath before he tries to explain that he needed help. It took a couple tries as he was stuttering so much. As he is trying to explain he gets interrupted

*Sorry what was that i couldn’t quite hear you*

Stan blinks at that.

Of course they can’t hear you dumbass, you don’t have any teeth to help you speak properly

So instead of trying to talk again –because trying to talk the first time took a lot out of them just for the person on the other side to not understand was draining him– he tried tapping morse code. It was not one of the many skills he picked up on in his life as a ‘traveling salesman’ but one he picked up back when he was still someone to somebody even if it was just the lesser, dumber, version of them. Back when the better him; his brother even bothered to teach him stuff, though granted when they decided to learn it they mostly used it to cheat on tests, but it was the fun of it that mattered and honestly still helps him to this day like this call… which he should probably be paying attention to what they were saying shouldn’t he.

*Listen sir if you aren’t going to be taking this seriously then i will have to end this call*

Nonononononono was all stan thought as he frantically taped and scraped the mic portion of the phone trying pleading silently that they would know what he was desperately trying to say. He was so absorbed in trying to get this person to hear him, to understand him, to help that he didn’t notice the person on the other side of the phone disconnected until about two minutes later. Stan slumped, feeling ready to fall over at any moment but he had one other person to call. Stan fished into his threadbear hoodie looking to see if there was any change in it that Rico’s guys didn’t grab, to find just enough money left to call one other person.

Should he call ma? no..no he didn’t wanna give her anymore of a reason to think lowly of him or worse get worried….maybe sher–

Why don’t you stop being a pussy and call HIM you know he can help

No he can’t do that to him, besides who’s today he will call this time?

You know that’s a bullshit answer he always answers

Was he really sure of it or was it delirium talking, he has been losing a fair bit of blood

Just call him, what's the worst that can happen? He just confirms all your fears? Just. call.

It seems that Stan just loves making his own life worse as he begins to call a number he’s put in multiple times throughout his time as a grifter. He just hopes this time he’ll have the courage to talk this time.

It was a calm night in Gravity Falls. The sky was clear, the moon was at its fullest allowing moonlight to shine wonderfully down onto the foliage surrounding the sleepy little backwater town. Well mostly sleepy, as the lowly scientist was still sitting at his desk writing in his journal his seventh cup of coffee of the night, sitting getting cold as he absorbed himself in his work. For the past four ish years he’s been working as a field researcher trying to find why Gravity Falls is such a hot spot for the weird and unusual. 

Which is what he was working on, he recently talked to some of the locals about anything that could lead him to the answer that he was looking for. One of the locals said that he was talking about a cave system that may or may not have ancient writings in them. Ford was writing down what they had told him when he got interrupted by his phone ringing. 

He was half attempted to just ignore it.

If it’s important they will have to leave a message

He went back to writing thinking about possibly going to go check the cave out tomorrow if the weather was still nice tomorrow. But his mind kept going back to the phone and about halfway into the third ring Stanford picked up the phone.

“Hello this is Stanford pines.”

….

….

…..

He didn’t hear anything on the other side of the phone, just breathing and the low rustling of the wind in the background.

“Ok i’ve about had enough with your prank calls! If you don’t have anything to say then I firmly demand that you lose this number. I have important work that needs to be done and can’t be here wasting my time on someone who won’t even respond back. Good day or night in this case–”

It was then, when he was about to hang up that he heard it. Tapping. Tapping and scraping in a pattern that felt familiar to him. It’s morse code.

Tap tap tap tap – tap tap scrape – tap scrape tap – scrape

The pattern was heard repeatedly through the phone as Ford scrambles to grab a piece of paper and starts writing down each letter to the corresponding rhythm.

Tap tap tap tap – tap tap scrape – tap scrape tap – scrape

H-U-R-T

Okay okay so the person on the other side of the phone is injured in some way. How much Ford didn’t know, he also didn’t know why they didn’t just call the authorities but that was a question he could ask after he finds out first; where they were hurt, where they were so that he could get a hold of some who could potentially help. Hopefully. 

Ford repositioned his phone so it was more comfortable for him as he wrote the person's answers to his questions.

“Okay, so you say you’re hurt, could you tell me where it hurts?”

….

….

There was a bit of shuffling that was picked up through the phone like the person on the other side was weighing something before an onslaught of tapping and scraping was heard.

Scrape scrape – scrape scrape scrape – tap tap scrape – scrape – tap tap tap tap

M-O-U-T-H

….

Tap tap tap – tap tap tap tap – scrape scrape scrape – tap tap scrape –

S-H-O-U-

A pause, a hum before…

Tap – tap tap tap scrape – tap – tap scrape tap – scrape tap scrape scrape – scrape – tap tap tap tap – tap tap – scrape tap – scrape scrape tap

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G

GO MY PIGEONS, DELIVERY MY IDEAS

GUYS. GUYS. GUYS. OKAY.

What if, and stick with me, WHAT IF

Ford, in one of the many “prank” calls he gets, he hears something this time. Not just anything, tapping.

At first he’s like “bruh” and goes to hang up the phone, but his naturally curious mind stops him. This tapping feels too organized, too put together.

It’s Morse code.

Ford grabs a piece of paper and a pen and stars scribbling out letter after letter.

It’s just the word ‘hurt’ over and over again.

Ford gets a bit freaked out, but he starts talking, asking what happened, WHO this is. The who and what happened doesn’t get answered immediately, he finds out it’s Stanley of course.

This all just takes place after Stan chewed his way out of the trunk of a car and his mouth is fucked up seven ways to Sunday and can’t communicate besides tapping. The police hung up pretty much immediately, Stanford was the only one he knew of that would understand Morse code.

Blah, blah, blah, hurt/comfort for both my blorbos.

we could go back to telegraphs instead of social media. send your mutuals unspeakable strings of morse code at 4:30am

5"5

me finding out my mutual is one inch taller than me

Reblog to let prev know their presence is wanted

Madame Mystery

A while ago some anon asked me to draw stangst, and today I finally deliver with it. My heart breaks into pieces every time I think of those 30 years the Stan twins spent in loneliness ;-;

The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt

Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.

“Ford?”

Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.

“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.

Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.

“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”

Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.

Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.

“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”

Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.

Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.

“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”

Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.

“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”

“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?

“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.

“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”

Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.

And all that was left was static.

Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.

“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”

Trust no one.

But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.

Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?

“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline

Stan had no reason to lie.

Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 

Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.

Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 

The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 

It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.

For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.

The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.

———————

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)

I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really

Stanley Pines is dying.

A good samaritan on the street found his unconscious body and decided to call an ambulance for him. Stan doesn’t remember everything that happened. He just knows that a few days and a multitude of tests later, he was unceremoniously diagnosed with a terminal illness in a random hospital in the middle of Oklahoma. Emphasis on terminal. The doctors tell him that without treatment, he has maybe two weeks to live.

Stan can’t afford treatment, nor the hospital bill he’s sure to be slapped with from his current stay. He sneaks out during the night shift and disappears. It’s one more debt added to the list but it’s not like it’s going to matter once he’s dead anyway. He finds the last place he left his car and spends the rest of the night awake in the backseat, wondering what he should do.

In the end, the conclusion is obvious: he wants to see his family. To say his final goodbyes to them in person. However, this brings a new dilemma. Stan’s family are all in different places. His parents in New Jersey, Shermie in California, and Stanford in Oregon. Stan, currently in Oklahoma, is stuck in the middle and with a decision to make.

He can’t visit them all. As much as he’d like to, Stan has neither the money, the gas, or the time to do so. He’d probably die before he could see all of them. He only has enough energy and resources to make it to one of them; he’ll have to be content with phone calls to the others to say his goodbyes.

When the morning comes, Stan gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine of the car. He sits there for a moment, just breathing deeply. He has to pick a family member to see in person before he dies, and he doesn’t have a lot time, so he has to choose quickly.

It was never really a question.

He chooses Ford.

AKA a terminally ill Stanley makes his way up to Gravity Falls, Oregon to reunite with his brother. He wants to say his goodbyes and apologies in person before he dies. He’s not happy about dying, but he doesn’t think he has much to live for anyway, so he accepts it. He just wants to make things right between himself and Ford before it happens so he can go without regrets.

Stanford is not expecting his estranged twin to randomly show up looking like he’s literally on death’s door. Nor is he approving of Stanley’s plan to seemingly just lay down and die. Good thing Stan came to him. Now he’s given Ford a chance to do something about it.

All current research and projects get shoved aside as Ford focuses everything he has on a new, single task: take care of Stanley and save his life.