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Aug 20, 2024

The Costs of Our Hubris; Chapter 3 "Bones and Skin" Out Now!

Shoutout to @trangenderstan, my co-visionist and who I owe this entire thing too, really. This AU wouldn't be the way it is today if it weren't for him.

Read it on AO3 here

Or read it below the cut!

Skittering up buildings and slinking through the shadows of alleyways, an intense gaze peered through every gap and crack of old sturdy walls. He was stalking for another one in a derelict market, a cesspool, a melting pot of neighboring planets all outpouring resources to sell for the highest bidder.

The place reeked of alien meats and vegetables and cheap jewelry, he could smell it all through the large gap between his closed jaws. The closest Stan would ever get to closing his mouth for his teeth were in the way.

All for naught, Stan was beginning to realize, as he couldn’t see nor taste any filth in the surrounding area. There was no stench of guilt or pen ink, nor any wild brown hair or large cloaked humans. He’d been at this for months, yet he’d only snuffed out a few dozen of those six-fingered bastards. They’re getting smarter.

Scoffing in disgust at the wasted time, he turned his direction forward from his hiding. He made his form known to the crowds, a curled and twisted figure standing taller among most as he approached the wall of living beings, watching them all part and scramble in fear the moment his clawed and deformed feet disturbed the chaotic river they’d amassed.

Glaring at them all with disinterest and disgust he paid no mind to their frantic chattering in hushed cowering tones, the shining sigil of Cipher on his clothes reminding them to stay away should they have a single coherent thought.

Stopping at a rarities stall, his neck snapped to the cowering shopkeep, the many-eyed man low and away from his table. Sneering at him, he turned and slammed his hands on the rickety old wood, claws tearing deep marks in the grain as he leaned in close.

“I want that.” He growled, pointing to a golden 8 Ball. Gulping down the heart in his throat, the man tore his eyes away from Stan to glance at it, though it wasn’t any longer than a split second, that’s usually all it took.

“F-Fifty, for that.” He stuttered, slowly holding his many hands up to try and calm him. Growling, he reached out to grasp his clothes, dragging him up and through the gap in the table to slam him against the post. Stan got close to his face as the shopkeep yelled in his panic, every inch of him trembling. “Yer payment is your life. Fairtrade?” He grins, and the man nods as he laughs airlessly, gasping and choking on his breath as Stan drops him.

Expression fading to a sneer he watched him scramble back into his hut of a pop-up to grab the ball, setting it down and thanking him profusely. Taking them Stan quickly moved on, stopping to shake it and watch the liquid slosh around, chuckling at the simple Maybe?’ it gave in response. Surely he’d like another one, especially one as shiny as this.

Stuffing it in his bag as he continued forward, ripping into and scavenging every shop of interest until he had about ten or twelve little trinkets of varying shapes sizes, and origins.

Without any other needs, he lumbered to an open rift and crawled through it, leaving a ravaged and panicked market behind him.

It took him a small while of random rift portals to reach where he wanted to pray.

This world was a cold and empty one that he knew well, a scrapyard for abandoned aircraft on a planet doomed to rot uninhabited thanks to the radiation. He liked to stay here often, his own home away from home. Digging his claws in titanium hulls to drag himself up and through the refuse, he stood on top of the hulking carrier to scan the skyline to find his spot.

The rotting and rusting materials underneath his marred and mangled feet groaned and cracked under his weight. He was gone by the time it would’ve caved, jumping and lurching from crash to crash steadily ascending a monstrous mountain, one of the last remnants of the actual ground beneath the refuse, sometimes weaving his way through openings and through ship to ship in a practiced rat crawl to reach his favorite piece of garbage to rest in.

Feet digging into the flesh of the ship that peeked over a cliffside, he swung back and forth to build his momentum before letting go and grabbing at the edge of a spacecraft so high up and embedded in the mountainside he was in line with the mint green clouds. Sighing in contentment as he pushed himself up into his ‘house’, he walked in and smoothed a blackened hand over the cold walls, humming happily.

He meandered his way through, passing by old and desecrated corpses of all manner of beings. Bounty hunters, mostly. People that would come here to try and find him, and the unlucky bastards that did would never leave this derelict planet. All of his most enjoyable chases happened here, times where he’d bob and weave on the ceilings and walls snatching them from above when they’d least expect it, mimicking the sounds of their comrades when all was quiet and dark to watch them get closer before finally realizing something was off, always far too late. His favorite chase was a unique circumstance, one had gotten away. It was the one he wanted the most.

He knows for a fact that six-digited rat will never forget him, even if he did squeak away by the skin of his teeth. He had him by the neck, to the wall, he could feel his heartbeat in the pads of his fingers as he squeezed. If only the rest of his crew were dead, he would’ve gotten everything he wanted out of that rush.

Turning a corner he walked ever deeper into the ship, the further any natural rays of light became the more the walls began to glow, Stan had long since coated the place in bioluminescent plant matter. Be it sap from the planet's weird and warped trees or the various other plant life still surviving on a planet so irradiated. He could see in the dark, but lighting it up made it feel more.. homely, in a way.

Eventually, the metal walls gave way into rock-hard dirt, Stan having hollowed out a cave for praying in. Setting his bag down on a pile of bones, he began to carve new symbols to join the countless others that littered the walls and ceiling, whispering an incantation he knew better than English at this point. The sound echoed and warbled around the room, he didn’t stop etching symbols until he ran out of room, collapsing in the center on a carving of his God as his chanting grew in intensity.

His eyes rolled into the back of his skull as he belted what sounded like gibberish to anyone who didn’t understand. His body contorted as his limbs stretched out, yelling love and devotion for his creator as the bones shook and tremored, begging to come home, pleading for his aid in ode Stan's words garbling through coughs as he hacked up a black, viscous liquid, pooling and squirming and bubbling as the bones raised gently in the air.

Spiraling into a circle on the wall, the liquid burning a trail upwards to stretch and fill the void within, a spark of light bursting from the middle as orange light cracked the black tar and spider webbed outward, shards falling to reveal a portal of bleeding intense colors, the orange and red hues of his true home basking him in its light as Stan finally slowed to a silence, sitting there to sunbathe in the impossible dry warmth emanating from the rift.

Getting his fill, he rose to stand and lumbered over to the bag, grabbing it with a trembling hand as he turned to walk inside, the rift fizzling and shorting out soon after.

The room fell back into its desolation, the bones falling to the floor with hollow thumps, some dry enough to crack and shatter.

They had lost yet another one.

A horrible crime scene awaited the small party of five that descended from the ship to do a welfare check on one of their researchers, a Ford tasked with collecting sap samples for adhesives in their projects.

Standing there in the quiet one-man research station, the red smears along the clawed-up walls and floors and ceilings growing thicker around the site of the body made a chill run down his spine.

The scene was quiet, and anything but serene. Walking through it was a tense dread he would never get used to. The lights along the walls buzzed and flickered, still dull and dim from within. It was a stark contrast to the frantic, clawed-open hole in the side of the building. The odd and colorful forest outside is a stark contrast to the grim murder within. Purple trees have grown into woven patterns and spiraled upwards topped with teal and cerulean leaves, samples this Ford had dedicated his past year to studying. Turning to look down the hall at the lumps of torn-up human meat sprawled on the floor, lifeless and red, he couldn’t help but call that year a wasted effort.

The place was haunting. The conical dome shape of the main room was left marginally untouched by the carnage. There was no struggle, Origin would call it vandalism more than anything else. Destroying books and carving symbols and runes into the walls - incantations that needed further research. Raising the camera with limp hands he took photos, the others doing the same in the other rooms. The only footprints - if he could call them that, the claw markings looked more like hands or a bird’s talons than anything else - were ones leading outside. So either this thing cleaned up and returned to ruin the place, or it had done it before killing him. It's unlikely, given it was clear this one hadn’t even taken his gun out.

It was a growing addition to this creature's Modus Operandi. Rarely, if ever, does the victim get a chance to react past realizing what’s happening to him. Staring despondently at the footprints, he leaned his nose against the dull red fabric wrapped around his neck, eyes narrowing.

“It came in from up there.” One of the members of the small five-person crime scene analysis group piped up, a Stan, one of the very few they have on deck that likes to get more involved. Turning to face him and up at the open AC vent, he hums in acknowledgment.

“Didn’t notice that before. Good eye.” He walked closer to the center of the dome, looking up to peer through as much of the vent as was visible. Dents and claw marks are vaguely highlighted by the small lights dotting the ceiling. It seemed big enough for a person to fit through if they were fine with confined spaces and didn’t have too much mass.

Judging by how the insides looked twisted and bent outwards, he’d guess one of those things wasn’t quite the case.

The Stan, Jellyfish they call him - a comedic nickname that didn’t fit the tall imposing figure, face set hard. “I think we should cut our losses and get out, just in case it comes back anytime soon.” The man wanted to get out of here just as much as Origin did, and he couldn’t blame the want.

Walking along the destruction, nothing was done for a strict purpose. The crunching of glass under his boots and the breeze against his back from the open hole were sensations he could do without. Looking up again at the vent, paranoid more than anything else, he noticed the steady red flashing of the base’s security system. “We could try the cameras?” He turned to look at Jelly and the others he’d been talking to.

Glancing at Origin, he hummed. “They’re always corrupted. So says R, at least.” He turned his gaze to them now, eyes staring squinting in scrutiny at the idea. “Unless these have audio, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

Cursing under his breath, he shook his head. “Go grab the feed.” He demands with some air of leadership or power, digging his hands in his pockets. “I have a feeling about this. If it’s a wasted effort we’ll call this one inconclusive just like all the others, and never come back. How is that?”

He could hear Jelly scoff and walk away without another word, but Origin wasn’t looking at him, instead analyzing the disfigured handprint on the wall. The outline of something that was once human, if the shape was anything to go by.

It burned a pit in his stomach, gulping uneasily. His face stayed hardened and expressionless, but he couldn’t stop the uneasy sensation in his gut, the broiling and rolling feeling of discomfort that clawed its way up his throat and made a home in his skull. These scenes made him feel nostalgic, in ways he could never place and didn’t want to think about.

Instead, he turned heel and walked towards the body, arms wrenched tight to his back as he looked down at the mangled figure of himself. The smell was pungent, and the first thing to hit him, but beyond that was the damage done. Torn open and vivisected violently, face torn up and disfigured, the hands were missing. All of these deaths were so personal, so angry, and targeted.

He had a horrible feeling for what or who this could be, and what its intentions would be.

“We have the footage,” he could hear Jelly say somewhere beyond the hall, “we should be going. The people from the medical wing said they would bury the body. Come on boss.” Origin's face tightened at the nickname. He wasn’t his boss, not traditionally at least. He held domain over the prison cells and nothing more.

“I’m not your employer. Don’t call me that.” He leaves the body behind, his navy trenchcoat stained purplish at the ends thanks to the still-drying puddle surrounding the body.

Leaving three of them down on the planet for burial left a foul taste in Origin's mouth, they still didn’t know for certain whether or not this monster was gone. Though if it was still lurking, he had high doubts it would’ve let them romp around inside taking samples and photos and analysis of the crimes.

They sat in silence, waiting for the pod to dock in place and once it had, they gave each other a stiff nod and headed for the hull, their voices chattering in various conversations. It took a while to get used to being surrounded by himself, even if none of these cosmic clones were exactly like him.

Staring up at the large, wide robotic figure standing in the center of the steering column, he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I hope you’re done spending quality time with the ship, I require your assistance if you don't mind.”

At first, there was no response. But he knew damn well R heard him. He heard everything in this ship, he WAS this ship… at least in part, when he was docked and controlling it. A synthesized sigh left the robot, relaxing from his stiffened ram rod pose to turn and face him, the only indication that he was looking at him was two LED orbs flashed up on the panel of his face.

“Yes?” his tone was bored, the deep mechanical imitation of a man's voice as he descended the steps and stood opposite him, staring down at him in a cold foreboding manner.

“I need you to watch this footage and tell us what you find.” Origin showed off the small drive, and while R gave no verbal response, he stretched out a metal six-digit hand in emphasis for him to hand it over. “If this is another disappointment, I will refuse to watch anything else you give me.”

“I assure you, this one has promise.” Huffing, the metal man pushed aside synthetic hair to plug it into an empty slot at the base of his neck, staring down at the floor. “Fine. Then you will watch it with me.”

The cameras behind his LED screen, the closest one could compare to eyes, lit up and cast a projection on the metal floor of the ship. Standing up straighter, he tinkered with the opacity and volume, before allowing it to play. Keeping his distance from R, he watched as the researcher, a Ford that hadn’t chosen a unique nickname for himself - most that opt to research off ship didn’t bother - sat there writing down his report for the day.

He remembered that being their first tip something was wrong. They always reported something every day, even if it was just a personal status report. A confirmation they were still alive.

It was normal, for the day-to-day of a research base, and R fast-forwarded until something changed. Stopping at the small squeak of the vent grate opening, Origin was surprised it did have sound.

He leaned in to try and look at what emerged, but it was the same thing it always was. A distorted and fizzling, popping black shape. Stray particulates fade away and ooze off the footage itself.

They weren't quite sure why it was this mass of particles, like a burning singe in an old reel, creating negative space. But they knew it wasn't normal. R had equated it to radiation particles, and seeing it in motion Origin was inclined to agree.

It watched him, whatever it was, and waited for him to get up and walk out. Now alone the thing chuckled to itself, a low and distorted gruff sound that was hauntingly human. It sounded almost familiar, which served to unnerve all the more.

Watching further, it skittered down the wall like a spider, waiting over the doorway for him before finally choosing to strike, jumping him and goring him in the hallway. The sounds of his screams and this things distorted laughter were loud, loud enough for Origin to cringe and press his face into the old fabric of his scarf, closing his eyes. R was kind enough to pause it immediately, rewinding to play the laugh again.

“Something familiar, in that laugh.” He mumbles and stops sharing to play around with it, distorting it further until he plays it again.

Through the static and distortion, the altered and squealing of his screaming and the contorted squishing and ripping, the noise made the baby hairs at the nape of Origin's neck stand on end, there was a sound objectively scarier.

It was once warm and inviting, a comforting hug in verbal form. A sound of nostalgia and sleepless nights together as children. A familiar and frequent sound among the ship's walls. Though it was mangled and bastardized, wrong and distorted, it was unmistakable. It's that gruff, loud bark of a laugh.

Stanley.

#revised evil stan au #gravity falls au #unearthlywritings #the costs of our hubris #stanley pines #gravity falls #stanford pines #cosmic clones #many aus in one

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