goodguygrifter: (mullet anger punch)
goodguygrifter ([personal profile] goodguygrifter) wrote2016-07-12 08:09 pm
Entry tags:

for sixfingerednerd

It's like a kid's book, the inside of his head, straight to the point, simple just like a kid's book is simple. There's a kid's book somewhere, probably, that starts like it, just like this: This is Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.

Except, with him, it goes a little more like this: This is Hal Forrester. This is Steve Pinington. This is Andrew Alcatraz. Yeah, good old 8-ball, he was a fun one. Depending on just how you define the word 'fun'. Andrew had to take his fun where he could get it.

Lots of 'em. He's got a suitcase full of names.

A long time ago, there were people who called him Stanley.

This is Stanley. See Stanley work. Work, Stanley, work.

It's dark in the basement. Lots of the lighting's broken. Stanley doesn't care. It's bright enough to work by, so that's alright. It's cold in the basement, but he forgot about that a long time ago, he even has to stop now and then to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. That's alright, too. He thinks he might be about to make a breakthrough. He thinks this might be the breakthrough that actually, you know, breaks through, this time.

This goes on his head, right, this stupid colander thing. It hooks up to a machine, the one that lines up the portal's coordinates, symbols he's been staring at so long he's been seeing them when he sleeps. When he closes his eyes, at least. 

Okay. Hat on head. Other end of hat hooked up to machine. Think about Ford. Oh man, Ford. Ford trapped in some, god knows what, stuck in some monster's big toothy mouth or, or stuffed in some teeny tiny space by the space alien version of Jorge and his goons, or-

Shit, that's all Stan's got. He's empty, burned up, he can't think. The lights must be going again because the room's going all dark and light and dark again on him, and it's hot in here, his shoulder burns, oh fuck it burns, and Ford, think about Ford and the portal will read all those twin brainwaves or what the fuck ever, and then, then everything will be fine.

The man someone once called Stanley thinks of his brother. He thinks of Ford as he last saw him, older, all stress, all strung out five o' clock shadow and pervert's trenchcoat and stretched out arms, hands, Stanley! Do something! Stanley!

Stanley's big, clumsy fingers move over the dials of the machine. He doesn't have to think about it, which is probably a good thing. He's done it so often now that trying to start the whole thing up ain't tough. He thinks, hard, about Ford. That ain't tough either.

He thinks about Ford. He lets the thoughts burn him up. He does something.

He flips the last switch.

sixfingerednerd: (oh look the gates of hell are opening)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-07-21 12:23 am (UTC)(link)
Most folks, they have a little voice in the back of their head. Usually that voice sounds like their own, and usually that voice is giving them a guilt trip, telling them hey fuckhead, quit that. Now Stanley, he's lived the sort of life that does things to your conscience, makes it go all quiet 'cause making it through the day is a lot easier when that voice shuts the fuck up and lets you do what you've gotta do to keep from getting a bullet between the eyes.

When Stanley flips that switch, he'll hear it, a little voice in the back of his head. It's quiet, hard to make out, but unmistakably there. The words are indistinct, they fade in and out as the inter-dimensional whatever-the-fuck machine tries to find a good signal. The words blur together, the echo of the first bleeding into the beginning of the next as they play over and over in an endless loop.

stayawakestayawakestayawakestayawake--

If he listens close, Stanley will notice something peculiar about the little voice in the back of his head. Namely that it isn't his own.
sixfingerednerd: (FML)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-08-12 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
All at once, the voice goes completely silent. For a long, painfully empty moment, it's almost as if the connection as been completely severed, the signal lost.

Then, without the slightest warning, Stanley's head fills with loud, garbled static - only it's not static, not really, it's the sound of a hundred, maybe a thousand panicked voices speaking over one another in a chaotic symphony of pure unbridled terror.



̫̲͚̼̣̮̍͐̃ͩ
ͩ҉̗͎̬͇̲O̓́̏h̏͑̃̔̌͆͏̟̖̝͓ ̷̭͖̫̪̹̣̼̐͆ͫͬͫ̅G̸̹͍̍o̸̜͋̄͋̚d͙ͯ̍͊ͨͭ
̸͆
̯̰̤̞͛͝H̉ͪo͓̳̜ͧͅw̄̍ͬͩ ̗͕̳͚ͣ͒ͨ͂d̘̲̱̓ͬͤ̋̏͛̏i͎̖͕̼̻͔̚ͅḍ̭̹̙͍͖̪̐̀ͯͮ̄ ̣͗͂h̞̘͓ͥ̑̎̏͞e͓͗̍ͭ͐ ̞͔͉̯͇̎ͯ̌̍̃͛f͈̮͈̥́ͤi͕ͮͪͬ̎̚͡n̤̝͑̒̿̀ͨͭ̅d͉͖̘̙͈̫̩ ̛̦̪̓͌ͧm͓̗̪͉̫̜̣ͫ͊̓͌̎̍e̋͏̙̻̙̟
͕͇ͫ̅͗ͬ̾̇
̳̟̻̰͕̮ͩͯͭ͘P̮̜̮̥̯͋̆̕ͅl͇̗͇̎ͭ͑̈̈̽e̫̗͔̺̦̮̼ͯ̂̓̓̽a͖͍͚͍̹̫̝̅ͩ͆ͣs̘̫͚͍͎̼̼e̮ͭ̉͠ ̧͕̗͙͈̖̒ͣ͑̇ͫ̃͛ǹ͎̖̻̊́̀ò̩̫͙̭͍̰͊̔ͭ̑͐̓ͅt̘̯̹͎̤̅͗̈̚ ̥̲̬͉̜͕͋ͥa̿͆̓ͯ̿ĝa̼͎͌i̤͎̩̹̝̘n͍̙̝͗ ͂͐̽̇͆҉̼͕ͅÏ̶̥̫̯̉ ̈͏c̵͑̏͊̓̽ͪaͤ͏̝̞̗n̢̰̪̭͔͈ͬͨͣͨ͆ͫ'̩̈̅̐̕t̳͛͌ͪ̃͐͞ ̹̉̐ͯ͑̍̐̏dͧͤ͐͛ͮ̊̾҉̦o̷ͦ͐ͮ ̴͉̳̔t̖̬̯̘̦̒̀h͚̰̞ͩ͝i̸̺̟̥͎s͇̆̊̌ͣ̄̈́́͝ ̫͓̠̜̈̉̐͂ͪ̄͢
̢̞̪ͮ͆́̍̾̐̋
̝͖̤͠T͙̣͚͇̦ͬͬ̽ͬ̃ͮ͜h̬̭͖̹͓͉̝ͭ̏͢ī̜̤͖͇̰͕ͪ̓ͬͤ̚s̵̠͖͔̔̉͌ ̴̳̗͎̦͍̼̰̎̔̚į̠̱̜̯̱̖̣͊ͭ́̚š͚̠͔̹̋̊͆̓̐ͅn̺͔̬̥͡'̙̦͉̠̥̩̯̅̑̑̌ͧ͠t̤́͋̓̔ͨ ͈̣̱̏r̭͔̬̱̮͔̃ͯ̾̔͋͐̓e̩͓̣͚͎͋a̩̬̹̮̥ͦ͒́̅ͮ̍̆l͍͉͌̈̓ ̤̜̤͈̬͊ͩͅt̸̞̘͛̔̍ḥ̺̬̠̬ͪ̋̑͒͛̐̆͝i̬̭͓̞͕͍͉ͨ̐͋ͬ͒s̄̃̓̑̈́̚ ͍̞̮͈̼̲ͧ̑ͤ͂ͨ̓ć̢̼̩̙̈́ạ̢̮̫̄̄n̼̖̘͓̰'̱̘̣̯̺͖̂͆͐̐t̖̳͍̹̳͒ͧͣ͌̒̈͑ ̝͚͓͋̊̍͆̌̚b̴͎̦͇͉̺͐̉ͦ̏̌̋̆e̖̿̈́͝ ̜͙̼̐̅̑h̩̼ͤ̈́̑a̙̭̼̬̗̙͑͂̈p̉̉̈̓̃p̧̬̖̣̱ͭͧe̖̼͕̤̥͈̰͒ͤ̿n̺̤i̒n̵̩̼͓͎̘̯̈́ͫ̄͋͐̎gͦͥ̎͏̬̘̹̖ ̢͉̥͖̹̥͕̱ͨ̉̂ͥ͂ͮ͂
͔͖̹͙̲͉̔ͥ
̏͐ͬN̥̈ͯͭ̓ͪo̲w̘̺̻̺ͩ̎ͫ̃̅͋̚h̺̥̮̼̠̹͗ͮe̓̚ŗ͎̲ͯe̼̪͕̘̯̊͛ ̰͕̯̇͑̏ͩ̚î̧̙͇̪̮̠̭̎͒͐͑̌ͅș̳̤͎̼̭͍̅ͣ̅ ̰̺̰͖͍̭͜s͍͙̖͕̓ͬͮ̄a͎̝̹f̉ͣ̊̿͜e̗͓͕͓̎̾͗̽̍̉͡ ͕̯̹͌I̧̹͎̗ͅ ̥̳͒̂̽ͫ̉̅̅c͎̀ͭa͕͕̮̗͑n̵͓̽̒ ̢̜͎͎̎ͣ̎ͬ̓n͔̦̄̾͊͌̍e̬͔v̗͎͋̔͆ͣͥ̀̚ẽ̼̫̱͚ͮ̿̾͐̓̅r̶̩̗̤̩̳ͥ̚ ͇̐̈́̿̐͒ͭe̪̻͇̗ͫͣ̈ͯͬ͒̍s͔̖̰̭͔͉̬͑͐͋̆͢c̙̥̩̯̲̜̕a͍̫͇̬̼͓ͩ̒̐ͦͤ͝p̨͓̰̠ͤ̓ͥ̚̚e͍̰͉̠̭͛̏̚ ̝̖͈̪̆ͅf̱̓͐̽ͫ̉̇r̎̾͋͌̀͋̂o̴̽m̳͍̭̠̻̋ͭͧ̿̓̊ ̶̳̝̭͇́̋̈́ȟ̙̫̲͎̦͢i͍͇̱̱̐̉̑m̛̥̖̪̹̺̙ͯͨͨ͒̆͒ͅ
sixfingerednerd: (FUCK RIGHT OFF)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-08-19 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
He doesn't believe it. He doesn't believe any of it because he knows better, he knows Bill and he knows his tricks and he will never fall prey to him again so help him God.

He lurches to his feet, because he has to go he has to move, but he staggers, his vision turning gray in the corners as a sudden, stabbing head-rush reminds him that he doesn't have enough blood left in him to be standing up so quickly. He reaches out blindly, his hand pawing at air for a moment until it finds something for him to steady himself against. His free hand moves to his right eye, the heel of his palm digging in hard against a sudden phantom pain.

Fuck you, Bill

The thought is a violent one, it tears through his mind like a wildfire and burns everything in its path, overwhelming his panic and distress and cloaking it in a white-hot cloud of fury. How dare he. How fucking dare he use his brother against him like this. He thought it was impossible for Bill to sink any lower, but it looks like there really is no limit to the bastard's cruelty.

It doesn't matter. Ford isn't about to give him the satisfaction of a response. He's going to ignore it, he's going to ignore him, and he is going to keep on surviving until he has what he needs to wipe that psychopathic monster out of existence for good.
Edited 2016-08-19 04:03 (UTC)
sixfingerednerd: (Oh shit my ex just walked in)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-09-02 09:42 am (UTC)(link)
Ford has to wonder -when that semi-truck full of sensations and visions andfuck you slams into him head on -if this is it, if this is the moment he knows with certainty that he's finally lost his mind. He knows he hasn't exactly been stable since everything went to hell, but he thought, you know, maybe he could hold out. Maybe his with time he'd be able to pick himself up by the bootstraps, sew together the frayed edges of his tattered psyche and reclaim the sound mind that had been stolen from him.

But now, he has to wonder. He has to wonder because he knows Bill, he knows his tricks, and this isn't one he's ever seen before. The demon bastard was good at telling people what they wanted to hear, twisting the truth to suit his own purposes, but he isn't a storyteller. He doesn't understand humans, how they think, how they feel. He wouldn't have been able to make up something like this, something like whatever the hell is flooding his head and making him stagger like a drunk.

He stumbles into something, hits it hard. He throws his hands out blindly, trying to catch himself, but he can't see a damn thing - his vision keeps shifting, the world around him has stopped being what it's supposed to be. He sees big concrete hallways, cracked tile floors, walls and walls of iron bars. He falls hard to his knees, head swimming, world tilting, and suddenly the ground is made of sand and the air is filled with sweet, bubbly laughter.

It's funny how dumb you are.

Ford grits his teeth against a sudden wave of nausea, his hand moving to his mouth while the other grips hard at the stone-sand-concrete-grass-mud beneath him. The laughter, sweet and light and familiar twists and distorts and suddenly the ground beneath him isn't sand, there isn't ground beneath him at all. He's surrounded on all sides by the cold darkness of space and there He is, there He is watching him lose his grip on the one thing He hadn't managed to take from him.

It can't be real. It can't be the real Bill. This is all just a fabrication, a product of his dying mind as it finally descends fully into madness. Not that it matters - real or not, in his head or not, Bill is still getting the last laugh.
sixfingerednerd: (Aw jeez)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-10-30 10:01 am (UTC)(link)
There's this poem, this line about bangs and whimpers and the world ending. Ford's head is too shook up to remember how it goes, exactly, which is funny since he feels like he's never truly understood the meaning of it until now. He always thought - he always dreamed, really - that he'd go out with more dignity than this. When he was young, he fancied the idea of dying a hero, defending the earth from some sort of hostile alien takeover, or unimaginable supernatural threat. As he got older, those dreams changed a little, became less grandiose. He never stopped wanting to go out doing something great, but as he matured his definition of greatness changed into something a little less storybook.

He wanted to make a name for himself. He wanted to make a mark on history, to leave behind a legacy that would inspire some other lonely, bookish kid to follow in his footsteps and change the world like he had. Sagan had been that person for him, and Tesla too. He had wanted so badly to be like them, to make an unforgettable impact on the scientific world - and yet here he is, losing his mind on an alien world, having never done a single, worthwhile thing.

All that time, all that effort, and he's not even going to be a footnote.

His fingers dig into the nothingness beneath him, his nails cutting trails through the stardust as his shoulders shake and his eyes strain against heat flooding behind them. He makes a sound, small and raw and wavering, like a laugh with a stutter. So this is it. This is how he goes out - not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with the broken laughter of a man who's just been asked to trust again after losing everything to betrayal.

It's as pathetic as it is hilarious, in that dark, twisted way that Bill loves - the sort of humor that doesn't walk the razors edge between tragedy and comedy so much as equate the two as one and the same. Ford never had an appreciation for this style of humor before, but even he has to admit, it's almost poetic, in a way. Shakespeare himself couldn't come up with a tale of Dramatic Irony as cruel as this.

The best part - or the worst, he hasn't decided which - is that all of this is in his head. The riveting conclusion to this tale of fuckery and woe isn't being penned by Bill's hand, but his own. The memories flashing through his mind's eye, the sound of his brother's voice ringing in his ears, it's all him. It's all some great big fucked-up hallucination his mind's cooked up to cope with the fact that his life is over, that he's going to die on some alien world without ever seeing home again, without ever getting to say goodbye to his family, without ever making things right with the very person who he's looking to for comfort in the midst of his complete mental breakdown.

If he has any regrets, aside from absolutely everything that's lead him to this point, it would be that. It would be never telling Stanley that he was sorry, that he thought about him every day, that he still loved him despite everything and that he never stopped even during those ten years they spent convincing themselves they had ruined each other's lives.

He's not real, the Stanley inside his head. He's telling Ford everything he wants to hear, like a good little hallucination, but it's not really his brother. Stanley wouldn't have been able to find his old project, let alone reverse engineer it in a matter of weeks, no matter how persistent he was. It's a nice thought, it's the sort of thing he might have hoped for if hope was something he could still feel.

Real or not, its comforting – for a given measure of the word. No amount of warm feelings and gold-tinted memories are going to save him from this, from this nightmare that is his reality, but at the very least they make it a little easier to bear.

Pushing himself back onto his knees, Ford drinks in a deep, shaky breath and wills the world around him to change. If this is all inside his head, then maybe he has some modicum of power over how his own madness unfolds. Maybe he can shift the scenery, or at the very least, remove Bill and his hideous, mocking laughter from the equation.

Ford breathes out, and when he opens his eyes he sees – for the briefest of moments – purple, alien soil. Then he blinks, and beneath his bloodied knees he sees fine yellow sand. He breathes in, surprised that it worked, and he he swears he can almost taste the salt-sea air on the back of his tongue.

If this is madness, he'll accept it. If his mind is going to come undone, then let it be like this. He won't fight it. He's not going to waste what few lucid moments he has left trying to fend off the inevitable.

Instead, he's simply going to sit there on the too-familiar beach and watch the tide roll in. Maybe if he's lucky his brother will join him, despite everything.
sixfingerednerd: (Regrets are many)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2016-12-23 08:51 am (UTC)(link)
It was just a passing thought - one he hadn't really put much consideration into - and yet here it is, standing outside of his head in living color. It's pretty damn vivid, too. It's got all the bells and whistles, every little detail he remembered the real thing having right down to the old stain on his ratty, threadbare jacket.

Ford really hopes he's changed out of that by now. Sure, Stan's a little bulkier than him around the middle, but he's got an entire closet full of coats and jackets and other things he'll never wear again - there's bound to be something in there that will fit him.

Looking down at himself, Ford can't help but appreciate how ironic it is that, at this point, most of his clothes back home probably fit Stan better than him, now. He's not sure how much weight he's lost since this whole nightmare started, but evidently its enough to make him drop a few shirt sizes. His overcoat practically hangs on him now, and you'd think that would make him feel small, but for some reason it comes as a small, familiar comfort. It reminds him of when they were kids, him and Stan. Puberty hit them both like a ton of bricks, and they were going through clothes faster than their folks could afford. So, to save cash, they wound up buying them one joint wardrobe they could share and grow into.

It was a thrifty idea, sure, but it failed to take into account the fact that one of the boys wasn't bulking up as quickly as the other. Ford could practically swim in everything they had to wear, except of course for the sweaters which Stanley had "accidentally" shrunk in the wash.

His brother had always been good at that sort of thing, at finding a roundabout way of getting what he wanted. Stanley never applied himself at school, he never had to bother when he could rely on someone else to do it for him, but that didn't mean he was stupid. He was clever in his own way - he was a doer. He made things happen. If he wanted something badly enough he was going to find a way to get it, logic, probability, and morality be damned.

This, though, this image of his brother pretending like he's real, talking to him like he's real - Ford can only suspend his disbelief so much. And that's the damnedest thing, isn't it? That Ford knows he's not real, that he can't be real, and yet the hallucination doesn't go away. It persists, even though he's known from the beginning that it's nothing but a figment of his imagination. Ford supposes he should take that as a sign, proof that he's lost control over his own mind. If he had any sanity left, he'd be able to stop this. He'd be able to pull himself out of his own head and bring himself back into reality, back into the real, alien world he's trapped on.

He's not so sure he would want to do that, though, even if he could. As far as insanity goes, he could think of far worse ways to completely detach from reality.

"At this point, I can't really say. I don't think I can be considered a trustworthy authority on what is or isn't happening anymore."
sixfingerednerd: (Will give you wide eyes)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2017-07-30 07:42 am (UTC)(link)
The look that passes over Ford's face is one Stanley is undoubtedly familiar with. It's a mild expression, his brows only sightly raised, his mouth thinned in an impassive line. It's a look he wore almost exclusively in the classroom, usually when a teacher posed a problem with an answer that was (to him) so simple and obvious he couldn't believe the question even needed to be asked.

He blinks slowly, wondering if maybe he's just so out of touch that he can't tell the difference between a genuine question and a rhetorical one anymore, before deciding it doesn't matter either way.

Nothing does, really. Not anymore.

"This is as close to home as I'll ever be."

His house, his world, the life he lived there - it's all lost to him now. He'll never have any of that back. Home, though, that's something different. Home is a little less concrete, it's more a feeling than a place. It's a sense of warmth and belonging and safety. It's a familiar comfort, a nameless aura that somehow makes existence feel just a little less harrowing.

That house, that little town with all its wonders, it had been a wonderful place to live. It had been everything he had always dreamed of as a boy, everything he had aspired to have as a young man, but it had never really been home.

It's ironic, now that he thinks about it. Or maybe just sad. In all the years he's spent in Gravity Falls, in college, he's never felt quite at home as he does now with the wind at his back, the sun on his face, and his brother at his side - even despite knowing it's all in his mind.


...God, he's glad Stanley isn't actually here to see any of this, or anyone else for that matter. He sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
sixfingerednerd: (Here comes the rain again)

[personal profile] sixfingerednerd 2017-10-19 03:03 pm (UTC)(link)
The tear, the fleeting ripple in reality that follows after the wave of Stan's hand, should be unsettling. It should be fascinating, enthralling, terrifying - any one of an infinite number of feelings, but to Ford it's...just something that's happening. He supposes that says something about him, about the sort of shit he's seen that a physical alteration of reality itself garners the same response as a cute parlor trick - a polite blink but nothing more.

But then, he supposes it says just as much about him, if not more, that the thing that actually gets him to jump a little is the gentle nudge to his elbow. He jolts slightly as though stung by an unexpected static shock, his eyes cutting away from the ocean to look at Stan, as though he only just noticed he was there.

That - he felt that. He felt that.

Recreating a memory in your head, painting a picture and putting in all the right textures and colors, that's one thing. Reaching out to touch the canvas and having something inside it touch you back is another entirely.

God, he really is losing his fucking mind, isn't he? He doesn't know why the thought suddenly scares him now, after he had been so accepting of it a moment ago, but it does. Maybe it just didn't seem- ha - real until now. Like watching a car-crash in real time, you know objectively that you're seeing something horrible, but it's not until after it's over that you begin to process the full brunt of the situation.

Ford takes in a short, steadying breath to curb his unrest, reminding himself that losing his mind is no reason to lose his cool.

Then, he listens. He thinks about what Stan is saying and why, tries to suss out the reason he's here at all, aside from the fact he wants him to be. He's clearly only here to say what he wants him to, and assuming this complex hallucination is going to follow a logical progression, then this is...

Ha.

The corner of Ford's mouth twitches upwards in a show of wry amusement, so quick and fleeting that one could easily mistake it for little more than a muscle spasm. This is all just an elaborate way for him to assuage his guilt before the end, to do in his mind what he never did in reality.

It would be funny, if it weren't so pathetic.

"You never asked." He begins, his voice quiet as ever. "I would have helped if you had, if you had asked me to. But you never did."

He pauses to wet his lips, the dull taste of copper sitting heavy on his tongue. He supposes that's what he gets for biting them all to hell.

"I thought you didn't ask because you didn't need it. I told myself if you wanted me, or my help, you'd ask for it."

He breathes out again, this time not to steady himself but to settle his stomach and the hot, twisting feeling tying it up in knots.

"I never stopped to think that maybe you didn't know you could."