goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Stan grimaces at the explanation. Or, you know, what his brother obviously thinks will pass as one. And the thing is, he's right. Stan isn't gonna' push it. They both know. Neither of them want to, he's sure, but they know. Is it 'unorthodox' to experiment on shit that ain't even there? Is that what all them science nerds with their lab coats and fancy degrees would call it?

Yeah. He guesses it must be.

But he's here anyway. He's here because this is his brother and the idea that Ford always knows best, knows more and better no matter what the rest of the world thinks, Stan wants that to be true. That's what he remembers being true back when he was a kid, back when things were good.

And even if it ain't, well. This is his brother, and the least he owes him is a chance.

Even if that means he's about to get his eyes sprayed by super special toxic acid, or whatever. He glances around the room, frowning, and the frown only gets bigger and deeper once he steps in. He's okay, though, he's cool. It's his brother leading him in here, okay, so it's fine to close the door behind him, he only hesitates a couple seconds before doing it and nevermind how stiff his whole posture gets when he hears the thing hiss shut.

"Couple minutes, huh?" he asks, shutting his eyes so the chemical whatever don't get in. And maybe, a little bit, because that feels like it ought to help. "You couldn't cut that wait down a little?"

Luckily for Stan, the room is pitch dark once the door shuts so Ford doesn't see the way he tenses up so much he goes as rigid as a post. He knows his brother is afraid of heights, but this strange discomfort in enclosed spaces is new, and something he'd question if he had noticed it.

It's probably better for them both that he doesn't.

"Nope!" He replies, ever-so-flatly, before reaching up to pull the switch without another word of warning.

The spray hits them immediately, first from the sides then from above. Ford hisses as the chemical mixture hits the back of is head, because holy hell the skin back there is tender, then swiftly moves his hand to shield it from further agitation. All the while, he silently curses himself for not thinking to do that before he pulled the switch.

The smell of a strong chemical solvent fills the room, and their sinuses, but soon enough it's rinsed away, leaving them both damp yet probably the cleanest either of them have been in a while.

Then the door hisses open, light pools in, and Ford takes in a deep breath. Alright. Alright, here they go.

"Well, here we are." How's that for a grand introductory speech?

He turns to slip around Ford as soon as the door opens, taking a slow breath and, incidentally, a big whiff of the place. And the two of them.

"Sheesh, I smell like a hospital now," he says, turning in a slow circle, taking the whole thing in, and trying to figure out what to make of it all. "You really need whatever's in here to stay that clean?"

"Hey, uh," Stan interrupts his own griping to nod at one of those freaky tubes. At the glass, really, the way it's all shattered. "Your 'unorthodox experiments' usually, um. Break out?"

Out, he says, because whatever did that did it from the inside. There's glass all over the metal platform leading up to it, none in the big tube. It coulda' been chemical shit that did that, sure. It coulda' been.

Did he think earlier that this was like being in a movie? Yeah. The problem with that, after a while, you start to figure out how the people in movies feel.

Ford doesn't need Stan to tell him that the cryo-pod has broken. He sees it the moment they step out of the decontamination room, and the sight stops him dead in his tracks. For a moment, his heart stops. All his thoughts come to a screeching halt. He doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe, he just stares.

Then stiffly, he reaches for his brother. He reaches for him with a shaky hand, grips tight to his sleeve like their very lives depended on it.

"Stan." His voice is hushed, as if he can hardly force out the word. "Stan we need to turn back. We need to turn back now."

He's already pulling at his brother's sleeve as he says this, taking a step backwards towards the door. He doesn't take his eyes off the shattered tube. He can't seem to look away from it.

"Okay," Stan says, and he knows he sounds worried but he tries to sound reassuring, too. "Okay, we'll go. We'll skip that chemical stuff too, huh?"

He walks with Ford, not fighting the grip on his sleeve and putting a hand on Ford's back, not quite pushing him but not quite not, either. "You got a way around that security room of yours? Somethin' quicker?"

Ford opens his mouth to respond, but before he can utter a single word, the lights abruptly cut out and they're plunged into complete and total darkness.

His grip on his brother's sleeve tightens, his knuckles turning white.

"Stanley, I am so sorry."

Beyond the quiet thrum of machinery, beyond the occasional drip drip drip of a leaky pipe, a skittering sound can be heard. It seems to come from the far wall, or maybe the ceiling.

"I never should have brought you here, I never should have--"

He never finishes the sentence. Something descends upon them before he can, dropping down upon them from above and knocking them apart despite the iron-grip Ford has--had--on his brother's sleeve.

And then the lights are back. Just like that, like nothing happened. Except for one itty bitty little detail. One little thing that leaves the room still, and silent, and empty. One screaming absence that Stanley is going to remember for a very long time, that he's going to dream about. When he does, he isn't going to be even a little bit surprised. A single room, perfectly still, perfectly peaceful, and no one but but Stanley in it.

"Ford! Ford! This isn't... funny..." But Ford never was a joker. Stanley knows that. He turns in a circle, like his brother's just gonna' be waiting somewhere behind him, and runs a hand over his hair. "Ford! Oh fuck, oh, oh jeez, I-"

Okay. Okay. There's not one single thing in this room that he could use as a weapon, just fucking equipment, stupid science bullshit, and he'd give his fucking left arm to be holding a baseball bat right about now and that might be kinda redundant, okay, but just never you fucking mind. There's a tunnel over there, okay. This room ain't just a dead end. So he don't think things like he was right, your brother was right and you didn't believe him, look what you drove him to, now he's dead and it's your-

"Fuck you!" His voice echoes through the room and good, fucking good, he hopes it does, he hopes everything in here fucking hears it because he's not thinking that shit, he's just going in this goddamn tunnel to rescue his goddamn brother. "Fuck you, you hear me, you shitty Exorcist reject! I'm going in here after you and you better not make me wait! You better be right there waiting for me!"

And in he goes. The only other way out of this room, other than that puzzle-blocks-of-doom bullshit, and the only way in. If Ford is any way he's that way, so that way Stan Pines goes.

Stan isn't met with silence for long - in fact, he doesn't get very far at all before a disembodied voice echoes out from God knows where.

"So this is what you look like all grown up."

The statement is followed by a sharp, rickety chuckle that is anything but kind.

"If you ask me, you look better in the photo."

Something skitters across the ceiling, moving rapidly from shadow to shadow, safe from view beneath a curtain of darkness.

"He still has that old thing, by the way. Or, well, had."

Something drops from the ceiling, flutters apart as it tumbles through the air before landing at Stan's feet. It's the photo - or rather, the pieces of it that are left. It has been mangled beyond repair; no amount of tape is going to fix something that looks like it was set upon by claws.

Edited 2016-01-17 04:01 (UTC)

Stan steps back, looking around with wide eyes and gritted teeth, and when whatever this is drops in front of him he actually raises a fist before realizing - hey. There's one thing about all this freaky bullshit that he knows, because Stan Pines knows a psych-out when it echoes in his ears and makes him jump back like his feet are on fire.

"Yeah, well, if I'd have known I got a secret admirer I'd a' prettied myself up a little." Stan's eyes dart back and forth over what he can see, and when he makes out the picture the pieces used to be he bares his teeth. He doesn't bend to pick the pieces up, though. He ain't that stupid. He looks up instead, trying to see over the ceiling, but there's nothing there. Or, at least, nothing he can see.

"You too scared to come down here and show your face like a man? Or, hey, you afraid your secret admirer will think you're ugly? That it? Come on, sweetheart, I'll just close my eyes and give that mug of yours a big old smooch."

There it is again, that ugly, unkind laughter.

"Well, if you insist!"

The lights go off for a second time, plunging the entire laboratory into darkness. It's hard to tell where the skittering sound is coming from - the noise seems to reverberate from every wall, each echo more distorted than the last. But then another sound pierces through the darkness, one far less difficult to pinpoint - there, a a dozen or so yards ahead of him, Stan will be able to hear the tell-tale signs of a struggle.

Something clatters to the ground, something hard and metal. It skids across the ground towards Stan, before skidding to a stop a few feet away.

Then, as soon as they shut off, the lights come back on with blinding force. A short ways away from Stan's feet, he'll see a handgun. Further than that, at six or so yards, he'll find something even more alarming -

His brother, two of him, both wearing matching expressions of distress.

"Stanley, I--"

"Stan, don't listen to it, that's not me!"

Just when he was starting to get his feet under him with a few good taunts, he gets a damn right hook. Should he be expecting that with Ford now? Is that Ford's thing these days? Throwing people for a loop every five fucking minutes?

He gapes. Then he stares at the gun and, okay, no one could blame him for takin' a while to just stare at all this, right? Right. Fuckin' nuts, is what it is. And if he thinks about that, how weird and unfairly out of the blue it is, he won't be thinking about the way his heart's pounding, or how weak with relief he feels at the fact that Ford is alive, Stanley hasn't gotten him killed - yet, that is, hasn't gotten him killed yet, got to keep that in mind. It ain't time for a freakout yet, Stan. It ain't time.

Okay. Stan steps in front of the gun, hears it skitter a little bit back as he does, but doesn't pick it up. "What am I supposed to do, fuckin' shoot you? Jeez, is this what you been workin' on all these years? Fuckin'- cloning, or that kinda' freaky sci-fi shit? What the hell, Ford?"

What do you do in a situation like this? Shit, what do you even do? Can't punch, sure as shit won't shoot, so what's left? Stan does what he does best. He talks. Talk enough, get someone, one of them, both maybe, talkin', and if lady luck is on his side that'll clear this up. Come on, lady, Stan thinks. I could really use a break. I know you don't always like me, but shit, if you owe anyone anything, you owe my brother. Let him get lucky here. Give me this.

Edited 2016-01-18 03:08 (UTC)

The Fords - or rather, Ford and his doppelganger (though which is which is impossible to tell by sight alone), both rush to respond. They wind up speaking over one another, their voices eerily identical. Their expressions, even their gestures and body-language, are similarly impossible to tell apart.

"I know, I know, I should have told you before we came down here, I--"

"--He's a shapeshifter. I told you, Stan, there are things in this world that don't belong here, and he's one of them!"

"Stanley, don't listen to it, that isn't--"

"Don't you recognize your own brother? He's the fake, not me - go on, ask me something only I would know!"

The Ford on the left looks from Stan to his double, who just spoke, then back again. He looks visibly distressed, no more or less so than the other Ford, but unlike his duplicate he looks thoughtful too. Something seems to be stirring in his mind, and before the other Ford can interrupt him again he looks back to Stan.

He looks Stan dead in the eye, raises his left hand, and speaks with calm, quiet confidence.

"Hey, Stanley. High-six?"

Stan's eyes widen, his mouth opens a little- Then he stops, paints a look of suspicion over his face, like maybe he's having doubts. His eyes move from Ford to the other one and he steps closer slowly, closer, head tilted, trying to look at both of 'em the same, because he's got to be careful here. He's got to be really careful, and he bets the only thing makin' it so that clone-thing lets him put his hands in his pockets is the fact that the gun's way over there behind him, further with every careful little step. He don't mind guns, ain't one of those guys who thinks he's makin' some stupid statement by avoiding them, but sometimes they're more trouble than they're worth. Like now.

Because now, you see, now one hand's got a palmfull of splinters and shards of glass both great and small, and his fingers curl around it and this is the moment, this here-

He throws all of it directly at the Ford-thing's eyes and grabs at the hand Ford held up and pulls, makes to run them both over toward where that gun slid away to because you know how sometimes guns are more trouble than they're worth? Yeah. Now's the time they ain't. If Stan bought them enough time with that little stunt, if they can just get to it, if he can even aim the thing - because Stan knows how far off a shot can go, they make it look real easy in the movies but he's never met a bullet that wants to go where he tries to put it - If, if, if. That's okay. Him and if are buddies. He's okay with if.

Edited (last edit here promise) 2016-01-18 05:38 (UTC)

If Stan had any doubts that he made the right decision, they should be swiftly eliminated by the ungodly shrieking that the not-Ford bellows out when that glass hits its mark. The sound it makes - it's not human. That's not a noise that could ever come out of a person (even a person with glass cutting into their retinas.)

Which means that the hand Stan grabs does, in fact, belong to his brother. Who, by the way, feels a tidal wave of relief wash over him that's so all-encompassing he thinks he might just pass out again. He doesn't, because this is quite possibly the worst time for an impromptu nap, but damn if he doesn't wobble a little as Stan drags him along as fast as they both can go.

Behind them, the long shadow of the shapeshifter grows, its body morphing into something too hideous and monstrous to proper describe without ample usage of the most vulgar swear words known to man.

"That won't slow it down for long--" He means both the glass and the gun, assuming they can manage to pump a few bullets into it, but there's no time to elaborate. "--We need to force it back into one of the cryo-tubes."

"Really? When you do somethin' you really do it don't you, shit, okay." He grabs for the gun and eyes the shadow of the thing on the ground, his jaw tensing, steeling himself for it. He doesn't want to see what's making that shadow, he really doesn't, but if the alternative is being dead then okay, okay, he turns and fires off a shot he's almost sure don't hit anything, partly because his eyes keep sliding off whatever the hell it is that's in front of him, doin' it all kinda' on their own just to protect him from lookin' at it straight enough that he'll remember what it looks like later.

"Go turn it on, turn 'em all on! Come on!" He pushes Ford a little, turning every now and then to fire a shot off that might, if they're lucky, will make the thing at least stop a second to try and avoid getting hit. And he runs. He don't stop running, means to keep running in circles all around the damn lab room if they need to, just so long as it keeps them away from that- that thing, god, that thing, long enough to fucking kill it.

Their shoes pound heavily against the floor while behind them, growing ever closer, the shapeshifter follows on heavy, misshapen limbs. It lets out a harsh, garbled noise that somehow sounds gravely and wet both at once, like somebody decided to gargle coffee grounds then amplify that sound by a hundred percent.

It lashes out at them with too-long limbs, but it thankfully Stan's assault seems to be slowing it down - those shots he hastily fires over his shoulder, though they miss their mark, waylay the shapeshifter enough to keep it from breathing down their necks as they race towards the cryo-pods.

Ford is quick on his feet, adrenaline running hot in his veins as he slams his fist down on the side of the nearest pod, pressing the activation button harder than is strictly necessary to actually get the machine up and running. The pod's glass door opens with a hiss of hydraulics, a flood of mist spilling out onto the floor and chilling the air around them near instantly.

He moves to the next pod, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder towards Stan.

"We'll need to force it in somehow, wound it enough that it can't fight back!"

That means they're going to have to actually hit it with one of those bullets - whether Stan can bring himself to look at the thing or not.

Stan knows that, too. He knows, too, that he ain't gonna' magically get good at this thing in the next five seconds. "I hope to hell this is yours," he says, and tosses the gun at Ford. "Get behind all this shit, and keep shootin'."

Then he runs. Or jogs, anyway. It's not like he's got to go far.

"Heya', ugly," he says, standing in front of the pods, feet spread, chin up, facing the horror his brother kept down here - maybe even made down here - without flinching. "Ya' know, I'm just now remembering somethin' - I never did get to give you that kiss."

Ford thanks the Powers That Be that he's got good reflexes - he catches that gun rather than dropping it, or worse, fumbling and accidentally blowing his foot off. He's quick to turn around and level the gun on the monster chasing them down. He doesn't flinch at the sight of it, doesn't get that very human chill down his spine upon looking at something that just Should Not Be.

He's seen worse, far worse. The shapeshifter doesn't have a form in its repertoire that can scare him as bad as the things that have been floating around inside his head every night ever since he dismantled the portal.

Ford holds his breath, takes aim, and fires.

Green fluid sprays out the back of the creatures head, its body thrashing in agony as it shifts erratically, gaining and losing limbs and size without rhyme or reason. It staggers, lashing out wildly in the hopes of hitting something. A long, clawed hand swipes out at Stan, and a thick, lashing tail damn near takes Ford's head off before he ducks out of its way at the last minute.

"Now, Stanley, now! Before it regenerates!"

The claws rip at his clothes but he thinks he's okay, knows he won't know for sure until he lives long enough to check but it looks like he dodged back just fine, which is good, because if there were as many big holes in Stan's stomach as that thing woulda' left he'd just be left here with both hands buried deep in, jeez, what even is this, the goo that makes up the thing. It's tough and slimy under his fingers and he grips, pulls, and flings whatever he can toward the open doors behind him, has to let go to stumble back from another few claws but gets right back to it, doing this weird little dance where he needs to get close enough to the edge of this little pod to tuck and shove all these gross slimy edges in but not so close it pulls him in with it, which looks like the thing's new plan.

When it grabs hold of one wrist he yells, loud and scared, and hits at the... the thing that's grabbing him, because it sure ain't a hand, it's something he don't want to think too hard about. "Close the doors! Do it quick!"

For something that's just got the one grip on him it's strong and Stan's being dragged closer, his shoes leaving trails of rubber against the floor as he tries to fight it, leaning back and pulling at whatever's got him with his other hand, pulling back with everything he's got. Now Stan ain't in the best shape but he knows he ain't no joke when it comes to brawn - and he does loosen that grip, with all that strength of his, but not enough. Whatever it's got on his wrist is sucking at his skin, and it ain't letting go. The inside of that pod is cold, too, he can feel it, more now and more as he gets closer, sending goosebumps all over him. He leans back, watches his hand, his arm, his shoes, get closer and closer to that fucker's prison, watches while the hair on the back of his hand and the hair on the backs of his fingers, as that part of him passes some invisible boundary, all of a sudden all freeze solid. "Jesus! Jesus, Ford!"

It's a cry, that last name, more a wail than a word, and if he's gotta' have a last word he's glad it's gonna' be that one but shit, oh shit-

Ford's had nightmares like this.

Not of this exact situation, no, but the feeling - god the feeling is the same. That nameless sort of terror that comes when Death itself runs an ice-cold skeletal finger down your spine and tells you, with certainty, that you are going to die.

Only, in this moment it isn't death that he's afraid of. It's a kind of death, maybe not a permanent one but its a kind of death none the less, and it's threatening his brother. His brother who never asked to get dragged into this mess, who would have been safe from all of this if he had never brought him here, if he had never left him that damn message, if he had only--

There's a lot of things Ford could have done. Should have done. Funny how he realizes that only now, now that shit has hit the fan and his brother is being pulled into a goddamn cryogenic chamber designed to contain an alien lifeform, not a human being. Ford has no idea what it will do to a person, what it will do to his brother if he gets pulled in, and he doesn't want to find out.

He refuses to find out.

Closing the pod door and trapping the shifter inside should be his top priority, he knows that. He knows, even as he flips on the safety of his gun, that he's being foolish, selfish. He doesn't care. There are times when the smart decision and the right decision aren't one and the same, and for once in his life Ford doesn't give a damn that he's about to do something completely idiotic.

He runs, as fast as he can, faster maybe than he's ever run in his life and throws the gun hard at the cryo-pod, praying it hits its mark. He doesn't stop to see if it does - he doesn't think he could take his eyes off Stan if he tried, because right now the most important thing in the world is getting those fucking claws off his brother.

Ford runs, he prays to whatever diety that's listening that this plan works - not for his sake but his brother's, his brother who doesn't deserve any of this, who shouldn't even be here, and then he makes his move.

He puts everything he has into the tackle, using the full force of his body weight to shove Stan to the ground as hard as he's physically able. He shuts his eyes, feels the ground rush up to meet them as they land hard on the stone floor. He doesn't open his eyes to look behind them, too see if his plan worked. Instead he keeps them shut, he keeps them shut and he holds tight to his brother and refuses to let go because if this is how they're going to die--

It hasn't held true in over ten years, but Ford's never forgotten the promise they made when they were boys. If there was ever a time for him to make good on that promise, it's now.

Wherever they go, they go together.

Stan squeezes his eyes shut too but just for the impact, just instinctively, and when he opens them the first thing he sees is his brother's face. He breathes for a second, just breathes, staring at Ford with what might look like amazement, if anyone were looking to see it. Carefully, a little dazed, Stan reaches up and slowly pushes Ford's glasses back up his nose, makin' 'em straight again.

"Hey," he says, hushed, because the whole room's so quiet, it feels like if he talks too loud some kinda' bubble around them will break and the shitstorm will start its happy little rain back up again. "You can look now. We're alive. I think."

Well, sure, Stan hasn't exactly looked around to check. That feels like speaking too loud, like looking around and figuring out just what all's there is pushing it. And, well, that wasn't the first time he said a word that sounded maybe a little like the name of a certain four-eyed nerd, thinkin' it might be the last one he ever said. It is the first time he went to that place in his head and then opened his eyes and saw the face that matches it right here in front of him, the face of a guy who came, the face of a guy who saved him. "You came."

So excuse that awed expression he's still got, pardon the fuck out of him if he's gotta' maybe, you know, maybe take a couple minutes.

For a long moment, the whole world is quiet. Ford's not sure if that's a good or bad thing, but he's too scared of what the answer might be to open his eyes, so he keeps them closed.

But then he feels his glasses being pushed back up the bridge of his nose, hears his brother's voice filling up the silence with quiet, breathless wonder and he just has to look. He has to.

He takes a breath, opens his eyes, and the world doesn't end.

He looks down at Stan, sees that he's alive and whole and himself, and his vision starts to blur. He blinks against the tears welling up in his eyes, tries to find words, but he can't make anything out around the sudden tightness in his throat.

He lets out a huff of air instead, an incredulous laugh that makes him grin big and stupid and forget, for a moment, that the past ten years have ever happened.

"We made it." He sounds as relieved as he does disbelieving. "We - did you see that, we actually made it."

He can't help but laugh again, his eyes shutting as his shoulders shake and tears race each other down his face. Oh, thank God, thank God--

A laugh spills out of Stan's mouth too and the careful silence doesn't break so much as shifts into something hyped up and happy and relieved, and he doesn't even notice.

"We made it," he says, and leans forward until their foreheads are touching, wiggling around on the floor until he can bring both hands up to ruffle up the hair at Ford's temples. "You saved me, you and your big old brain. And your tackle. Jeez, where'd you learn to tackle like that? You could play for the big leagues, I swear, a guy as skinny as you are should not pack that big a punch."

He draws back a little, still grinning, but grinning a little quieter now. That giddy, 'I'm not dead, someone else might be but not me, not me' feeling ain't gone, but he's realizing he'll have to look up and around and check shit out in a second. He wants to stay here, here on the floor for a second, grinning at his brother. glad to be alive.

As always, Reality just has to come in and spoil things before they can fully appreciate the moment. Ford shifts, pulling away just enough so he can get a good look over his shoulder at the cryo-tube behind them and make sure - you know, make sure the Shapeshifter is actually in it, and not actually just looming somewhere just out of view, waiting to swoop in and disembowel them right in the middle of their kodak moment.

It's there alright, an expression of pure fury frozen on its face as its immobile limbs claw against the glass in vain. Ford can't help but let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it, before turning to look back at his brother and favor him with a small, lopsided smile.

"It wasn't all me, big buy." He makes a fist, reaches out and cuffs Stan's shoulder hard enough to make a sound, but not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.

"There's not many people out there who can stare death in the face and punch it."

Stanley smiles at the floor and shrugs with the shoulder that's not pressed against the ground. "Hey, it's what I do."

"You know," he starts, thoughtful, and moves to sit up so he can turn a little, follow Ford's gaze to that thing in the tube. "You know, if that thing's real, then- that-that means, all them other things you-"

He stares at it, and thinks about the calls he made to those shrinks, all that time he spent thinking about that. He thinks of the search he'd done of Ford's house when he first got there. He thinks of the book, all those crazy drawings and the crazier writing all around them. He thinks of all that time lying in bed beside his brother, staring at the ceiling and smelling dried blood. The moment Ford woke up, looked at him, and didn't have a single goddamn clue who the hell he was looking at. He thinks of the image of Ford stoned out of his mind, face all empty, the endless grind of that all day every day, keeping his brother's mind empty so his mind would be safe.

All a sudden he's sobbing, staring at the twisted angry thing trapped in that glass tube and sobbing, covering his mouth and breathing in big, panting gulps. He's not facing Ford now but if he were, his face might be unreadable. Not blank, it's just that he don't know what he's feeling. He ain't sure, right at this very moment, and it shows.

Edited 2016-01-20 07:02 (UTC)