Summary: After finding a tree from an old dream, Stanley is thrown into an adventure that may play more into everyone's fates than his own.
(AKA: that one AU where Stan is sort of Axolotl's Knight)
Meeting Shmebulock (pt 2/2)
Pt 1 here
The next morning (or at least he assumed was the next morning), Stanley woke up to the smell of food.
Still unsure and weirded out by his circumstances but happy with a dreamless sleep, Stan padded out of the room with the dagger in the waistband of his boxers hidden by his shirt.
Following the faint noise and smell, he found the little man setting up a table with cooked mushrooms and other greenery. The man looked up, little mustache wiggling with his nose before he spoke–
“Shmebulock” he gestured to the open seat, taking one himself.
“Thank you” Stan nodded and sat down, eyeing the food. Was he vegetarian? There were only mushrooms, fruits, nuts and eggs.
With some struggle, the man poured himself and Stan a cup of tea, it smelled flowery and sweet. Carefully, he took the mug in hand, taking a deep breath of the scent and muttering that word again–
“Shmebulock”
“Is Uh…is schmebulock all you can say?” Stan finally asked, deciding he'd risk getting poisoned rather than starve. The guy is small, he could handle him. Probably.
“Shmebulock…” the small man sighed dejectedly
“Oh” Stan munched, forking the sunny-side-up egg whole into his mouth and licking the yolk that dribbled down his chin. The little man didn't seem disgusted, simply taking almonds and stabbing them in some dry fruit.
“So…is shmebulock like…your name?”
“Shmebulock.”
“Huh. Okay… are you like…a dwarf or..?”
“Shmebulock!”
“Woah!” Stan jumped back when Shmebulock slapped the table, glaring at him. Okay, not a dwarf and also it's offensive to whatever he is.
“calm down- sorry er… so you are a very tiny human?” He tried again but Shmebulock was doing this thing with his face that made Stan think that he was really far from the right answer.
“Okay so…you have a little red hat…almost like a garden gnome…” Stan tried again, thinking aloud and watching the other nod along in encouragement “are you? A garden gnome?”
This time he got whacked in the head. Okay- so he was close?
“Ow” he hissed, glaring at Shmebulock “rude…”
“Shmebulock”
“Yeah yeah” Stan waved him off, taking a few almonds and stabbing it in the dry fig just as Shmebulock had done earlier.
“Do all your species only say their own names? Makes introductions easier, huh?” He joked but judging by the silence from the other, it didn't land right.
Still shovelling food into his mouth (better do it now before he's kicked out), Stan watched the little guy eat his food in silence.
“So, it's not normal- how come you can only say your name? You cursed or something?”
Shmebulock froze, body tense for a few short moments before he sighed through his nose and swallowed down the food. Brushing his beard with his hands, Shmebulock leaned back in his chair–
“Shmebulock”
Welp. He didn't really pay for the night, he ought to pay somehow.
–
Turns out the gnome(?) was cursed after all. Stanley didn't really know how or why but here he was, standing in front of a little cave in the woods with the gnome by his side.
What a trip, Stan thought.
“Shmebulock” said Shmebulock to which Stan nodded even though he didn't have a clue what the guy said.
Without further ado, both men entered the cave, their slow, careful footsteps echoing all around them. Flames burst to life in torches the deeper they went and Stan found himself having to pause at the absurdity of it all.
“It's like some weird fairytale” he muttered to himself just as he made it to a wider space of the cave.
The place was… creepy. Creepy in the sense someone tried to go for a certain design and failed terribly.
There were bookcases all around the uneven walls and candles set far too close to them, there was a stink of something foreign that couldn't be hidden by the sweet scent of what smelled like honey, a big chair sat just on the opposite wall and a few holes in shapes of doors led further down into the cave.
“Who goes there?” Roared a deep voice from the shadows, setting both intruders in guard.
Suddenly, Stan questioned whether this was a good idea after all. It wasn't his fault the gnome let him stay! It was free! He didn't have to pay for shit if it was offered to him!
Not to mention, he didn't bring any weapons!
“Shmebulock!” Cried Shmebulock, sounding awfully manly for his size. Little shit, now he has backup and wants to act brave?
“You!!” Wind swirled all around them and in a burst of flames a man sat upon the tacky chair in front of them. The geezer had a grey beard and was still in his nightshirt, little sleeping hat and all.
“I should've known you'd come back eventually, Shmebulock” the geezer said, tapping his pale fingers on the arm rest with a look of distaste “though, I must say… I did not expect you to bring a human with you. Tsk. How sad…”
“Is he right in the head?” Stan asked Shmebulock, just in case.
“Shmebulock”
“Thought so” Stan nodded.
Something told Stan that this man was either the cause of the curse or the one who could break it, best play it into his good graces for now.
“So uh, first of all, nice pyjamas. Second, my friend here was cursed, not sure you know, and we were kind of hoping you could break said curse” Stan began, putting on his usual business charm “I'm here for translation”
“HAH!” the old man laughed, standing up on his toothpick legs “why would I break the curse I cast on him?”
Ah. So it was him… well, Stan has made deals with the ones he's been hurt by before, nothing new here.
“Shmebulock…” growled the gnome.
“What my friend is saying is, maybe we can come into some…understanding” Stan smiled “why did you curse him in the first place? Maybe I can help!”
Intrigued, the old man stepped closer, a smirk on his face as he looked over both men. He brushed his beard for a few unnecessary moments, weighing his thoughts before finally answering–
“My beard was greyer”
“Yes?”
“Shmebulock and I had a fight over whose beard was greyer. Since we were unable to come into an understanding, said understanding being mine was clearly the superior one, I cursed him”
Wow.
“Wow” Stan blinked, glancing down at Shmebulock who looked a bit too red in the face and angry. He then glanced at the old man again.
“No offense, dude…but your beard is…like…white”
—
Things hadn't exactly been going well for him. He got stood up by a fairy, by a few gnomes, then stood up by a squirrel (his standards were dropping rather quickly).
Shmebulock wasn't one to live with the other gnomes much, mainly because they were so unnecessarily rude for something completely out of his control. He would spend his days with his pack but instead of sleeping in their mushroom colony, he'd head up to his old home…
Gone were the days where everygnome respected him. The days were many would rush for his advice and few were brave enough to be his disciples. Now Jeff is in charge, that kid. The guy doesn't even know HALF of the gnome history, he was born yesterday. Okay, two days ago.
Gnomes were slowly but surely forgetting about him but Shmebulock never forgot about his purpose, his legacy.
Sitting here, alone before the fire, Shmebulock couldn't help but long for those days… the days in which the stars guided him and he could hear the Axolotl's purpose loud and clear.
Now, unable to speak, the Axolotl sure had gone quiet. Shmebulock would curse It if he could.
Life has a way of being unexpected though, one moment you are king of the world and the next you are opening the door to a stranger who is definitely not your date. A kid, really, a human in his twenties probably. A baby.
Something told him to let him in and it was not his sympathy.
Standing here in this cave of his old nemesis, Wizard….uh…he forgot his name– Shmebulock is filled with old memories of battles that lasted weeks and celebrations in secrecy. Wizard Guy, his old friend and nemesis, was dead to him now…
One thing was a feud between whose beard was better, another was shutting him off from the world completely.
Filled with years of ridicule and rage, Shmebulodk stepped forward, ready to give a piece of his mind–
“Listen here, you may have taken my speech but you have not taken my tongue! The only reason you have silenced me is because you knew I was–”
But all that came out was his name. All that ever came out was his name.
Embarrassed, he felt his face flaming, the room growing hotter as Wizard Guy began to laugh. Whatever, he was used to it by now–
“I think what my friend is trying to say is: Fuck you” the kid suddenly said, cutting off the laughter.
Fool! Does he wish to die?!
“Shmebulock!” He tried to warn him, poor kid had no idea what he was getting himself into!
“Oh- actually, he's saying Fuck you times 2- no, four”
Shmebulock watched in disbelief as the dumb kid barely batted an eye at the reddening face of the Wizard and simply smiled at Shmebulock, giving him a thumbs up.
“You! You will regret your words!” Declared Shmebulock's old nemesis before muttering a magic incantation.
The room began to shake, the breeze turning against them as Wizard Guy lifted his arms high. The man's eyes grew bright like the surrounding flames of the torches and–
TWACK
“Augh-Ghggh”
With a swift move, the kid smacked the man on the throat, taking a step back and looking spooked. He watched the wizard crumble and wheeze for a moment before saying–
“Holy shit that scared me!”
And then, as though nothing of the situation had bothered him much, the kid turned to him and asked–
“So, want to shave his beard off?”
Satisfaction is an odd thing. It can make years of suffering almost worth it.
Listening to the wizard cry and beg not to burn his beard off was something but seeing the awful facial hair the kid and him left for the Wizard was something else.
“You come for my buddy and I'll shave your eyebrows next” the kid's grin was like a little devil's, he seemed to be taking too much joy in terrorising the wizard.
Well, Shmebulock couldn't blame him, so was Shmebulock.
Giving in, Shmebulock left the cave ready to face the sun again. A new day was coming to an end but the warmth of the sun's rays showered over his face as he breathed in deeply the magic of the forest.
Besides him, the kid still laughed, joyful and burden free.
“I must ask you something” there was something satisfying in forming words, in feeling his tongue roll in ways that felt so foreign and yet familiar.
“Shoot”
“Why did you help me?” Shmebulock turned, watching the sun rays cast light upon the kid's features, their hazelnut hair shining in the light autumn breeze.
“Hm? Oh hah” the kid chuckled, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He took a moment to inhale the toxicity into his lungs before finally answering.
“Needed to pay you, right? Plus… I was bored”
Shmebulock blinked, waiting for the kid to go on.
When nothing else came, the gnome burst into laughter, loud and joyous and old. He held his stomach and coughed at the toxic smoke before grinning to the clueless young boy.
“Listen, you ever need help with anything, call on me” Shmebulock put his hands on his hip and said “I owe you one, kiddo”
“Owe– I thought I was paying you back! And it's not kiddo- it's Stan” Stan laughed.
“You got nothing to pay me back for, it is an adult's job to take care of the young” Shmebulock pulled out his own cigar, blowing bubbles into the sky.
“Yeah right” Stan watched the bubbled float up with the smoke, a look of longing hidden deeply in his eyes.
Shmebulock thought about asking about it, he had assumed such a child had nothing to worry about but humans lifespans were much different than his own. Perhaps, the boy wasn't as unburned as he had first thought…
“You know what?” Began Stan all of the sudden “you should pretend your curse isn't broken and suddenly start speaking when you next have a date”
“But you gotta pretend you're shocked by the fact you can speak again. Then– hehe– then, you turn to your date and tell them only true love could've broken the curse”
Once again, Shmebulock burst into laughter, so loud it could scare away any animal his size nearby. He laughed with the young man and decidedly did not ask about his deepest secrets…
Nor did he mention his attitude reminded him of a certain all-knowing being he used to know.
Summary: After finding a tree from an old dream, Stanley is thrown into an adventure that may play more into everyone's fates than his own.
(AKA: that one AU where Stan is sort of Axolotl's Knight)
Meeting Shmebulock (pt 1/2)
Pt 2 here
It happened somewhere in Dead End, New Mexico. Stanley had just gotten to his room, the wood keychain with the number ‘5’ drawn in ugly handwriting hung by the door, and had finally allowed himself to lay down on a bed after a comfortable (admittedly paranoid) shower when he fell into deep slumber faster than he'd like.
He dreamed in black and white as far as he could remember. You'd think he'd dream with bright colors as a child but his dreams lacked color even then, like a black and white movie on TV where he was the lead.
This time, however, his dreams felt… different.
He was in his car, everything still black and white physically but his brain filling in the colors. When he glances back, he sees endless doors and car windows as though he is driving some limo of Marsellus’, this guy he used to know.
The car seemed endless but Stan thought he could hear the sea at the very end. He made no attempt to go see, instead, he just kept driving.
Some part of him knew his car could keep driving without him but some other part of him, some dormant one, had a feeling he needed to stay behind the wheel. He needed to see the finish line.
Outside the windshield, he watched blurred shapes vaguely turn into recognisable city-like buildings until those were gone too and all that was left was the emptiness of the road and a build up of greens. Trees flashed by and Stan found himself driving past a sign he couldn't quite read but could still see vividly in his mind.
Then, the car pulled over in the middle of nowhere. It was deathly quiet despite being the middle of a forest but when the door to his home and car opened by itself, Stanley found himself not afraid.
He didn't step out, however. Instead he just sat there, taking a certain tree in. Its shape was vaguely odd to him, like it was the only real tree in this forest, the only solid one… for some odd reason it caught his attention. It was almost like he could hear something calling him.
After that, he kept having similar dreams. Stanley would be sat in his car but never drove to the same place ever again. The car only had pulled over once during it all and that had been to the middle of the forest near that tree.
Still, in other dreams he found himself exploring more. He'd trust himself to let go of the wheel and venture to the endless back of his car, revisiting memories and sensations.
At some point, his dreams became more creative. The back of the car stretched into a house with items he'd sometimes clean with a flick of a hand.
At certain points, his dreams became an escape. The car would be driving, the motor alive but the outside pitch black as the pain of his latest fight or tussle would follow him to slumber… Stan often found himself hurt in dreams, easily patching himself up, but there were times certain items or things were broken, meaning he'd have to fix it.
Usually he wakes up numb after no sign of the pain from a gunshot wound or an inexplicable lack of reaction when he listens to mother's voice through a phone call.
One day, Stanley finds himself stepping on the brakes, thankfully no cars behind him on this road. Something told him not many people came by here.
Staring at the empty road ahead, Stan blinks a few times, telling himself he was imagining things… but when he reverses, he sees it as clear as day, the sign that he had driven past in his dream despite never having driven past these parts. Finally, he was able to read it. ‘Welcome to Gravity Falls’.
“Huh. Well that's weird”
What was weirder was getting lost in the woods when looking for a place to sleep, Stan wasn't even sure if the place had any motels, and ending up in the middle of the woods.
Even worse was when he stepped out for a smoke, stressed and pulled the loose hair at the ends of his mullet, most likely falling from stress and just like that everything stopped.
Nothing was weird about it. Nothing was different in comparison to others, nothing stood out about it. No, the only thing that really caught his attention was the fact that he was sure, certain even, this was the same tree from his dream.
Although he had seen it only once, he knew… this was that tree. He remembered every groove and the shape of its leaves, he remembered the awkwardly broken off branch and the swirl on its bark.
Stepping closer, Stanley reached for the tree, needing to check if it was real. He gave the wood a few knocks, really registering that this was not a dream.
“What the actual living f–”
The tree rumbled and with a yelp he stumbled back, eyes wide as the floor began to open up, revealing a grand stairway descending into the ground and a tiny little man hopping up with a big bow tie on his neck.
“Shmebulock” the tiny man announced, eyebrows wagging as he fixed his tie and looked up at Stan.
Then he looked around.
“Shmebulock?”
“Uh–” honestly, what was he supposed to do here?
“Shmebulock” the guy deflated, sadly stepping down the stairs once again. Did he live here? Was he expecting someone else? Did Stan get drugged again without his knowledge?
Far too curious and stupid for his own good, Stanley curiously followed the little fellow down the stairs, eyeing up the walls of dirt that turned into solid walls and gasping at the tall shelves of books that overtook the moment he stepped onto the solid underground.
There was a fire started up in the fireplace, a bowl of grapes on a little coffee table in front of it, paired with a lounge chair. Nearby, a table was set for two with a stuffed squirrel in the middle made to hold a flower, it was decorated with two candles and there was a heavy smell of cheap perfume.
Was…this guy waiting on a date?
“Uh…excuse me?” Stan awkwardly called, watching the poor guy check his pocket watch (he likes it, maybe he shouldn't steal it). Ok, so maybe he got stood up by his date.
“I was wondering if there is a uh…motel nearby? I'm kind of lost?” Stan asked nicely, looking around the odd place “Clearly???”
“Shmebulock” the short man sighed and, in a very old man fashion, grunted as he stood up from his chair. He ate one grape sadly, taking a robe and wrapping it around himself as he walked towards the end of a bookshelf.
Then, he looked back at Stan and lifted a brow.
“Oh!” Unsure on what to do, Stanley followed.
Growing up, his ma taught him better than to stare but he's pretty sure people with dwarfism weren't supposed to be this little. Still, Stanley Pines had been in plenty of weird situations and he long learned to question them in silence after being beat up a few too many times by teachers, adults and, now, gangs.
Thankfully, it all paid off as the little dwarf guy led him into a door. Double checking if he was meant to open, Stanley glanced down at the little man before turning the knob and opening a door to reveal a room.
“Shmebulock” said the short man as Stanley took in the room.
It was small and simple but cozy in the way fairytale book paintings may be. A bed was pushed to a corner, a little desk pushed to the other with a small wooden stool that already made his back hurt. A small shelf was mounted on the wall just above the desk with moss cushioning the bottom of it and small voodoo-like items and a little ‘Guest Book’. A small bedside table held a long candle with a candlestick holder with a box of matches neatly placed besides it.
On the floor, a nice rectangular patterned carpet decorated the floor, the ends braided and its color faded either due to age or the dirt. Overall, this place was miles better than any motel Stanley had ever been in in his entire life.
Huh.
Hearing small footsteps fading away, Stan was finally pulled away from his thoughts and glanced out of the room to watch the small guy pad away.
“Thank you?” He called to him, uncertain. This room was certainly much nicer than what he could afford but… given the weird circumstances, Stan isn't entirely sure they accept cash here.
Carefully, Stan closed the door to the room, far too weirded out to ask where the bathroom was. He could just splash himself with water in the morning, figure something out, for now… all he wanted to do was sleep.
Dropping his bag by the door, Stan ignored the uncomfortable feeling of there being no windows and only one exit. He decided to keep his bag close, right under the bed with its strap peeking out for easy access, and he left a dagger of his under his pillow considering it'd be risky to use his gun in such close quarters.
He realised now there was a faint light coming from the ceiling, little rocks brightening the place like the moon may try to do in a dark night. It was enough to see in the dark in case of an emergency which eased his anxiety somewhat.
Sighing, Stan pulled out his little notebook from school days, his name still written on its cover awfully along with ‘English : Creative Writyng’ spelled incorrectly. Both front cover and back had doodles, over the years it has gained a few stains and recently indents of numbers being written over it on a napkin… all his brother's different phone numbers have been etched into it by now.
Running his hand over the grooves of these phone numbers, Stanley lit up the candle by the bedside and carried over to the desk, proceeding to open the notebook to the latest empty page.
Back in school, he didn't use it much so there had only been a page or two filled out during this assignment. Although English and art had been his favorite classes, the English teacher would often criticise his work due to him not taking it ‘seriously enough’ (letters being turned to the wrong side) and due to his constant misspellings. Needless to say, Stanley much preferred telling Stanford, his twin, the stories he had planned to write rather than actually writing them down.
Stanford actually liked his stories and, after writing down his first one, Stanley got bad grades when he had felt as though he had done a good job… It hurts much more than usual.
It had been weird, seeing as Stanford's stories back then hadn't been creative, the boy his twin was then used to taking lots of inspiration and ideas out of his own stories, and yet… Stanford always got the better grade. He wrote correctly…
Stanley learned then that it wasn't the adventures a story could take a reader to, but the homework behind it that counted as a story.
So he gave up. He remembers clear as day, he had been given an assignment to write a poem, finished it and got ready to present to the class… Presenting in class usually got him a better grade considering the teacher didn't see his mistakes until later but on that day Stanley remembers freezing up. He remembers each and every eye on him and how he heard whispers and then every comment and comparison people had ever made between him and his brother. He remembers proceeding to make fart noises instead, the class erupting into laughter and his twin's excited expression turning into confusion. Maybe disappointment.
So he gave up.
Now, by the candle light, he flies through the pages, flashes of poems and sketches, little diary entries and scribbles pass by until he is faced with the daunting of a blank page.
Picking up a pen, Stanley sketches the tiny man and begins to write again.
In a au where Stan somehow becomes so me sort of patron or deity or something, probably due to death or a deal with the Axolotl, but he should become the patron of the Unwanted. Just think, his entire life he was considered unwanted fresh out the womb. Always the Spare parts, the extra twin. So unwanted that his own PARENtS, his TWIN didn’t want him. He died unwanted, so he’ll live for the unwanted. He’ll protect them and care for them, guide them even(he tries anyways) he becomes known across lost children and worn down mothers, lost travelers, and all those ‘broken’ ones, as their protector. As long as The Protecter is there, you can rest well
STAN: i needed to get you back so for 30 years I used your name in order to establish a business which finally played to my own strengths while also allowing me (and you) to keep this property and also fund the repair of your dangerous project which I have accidentally trapped you in. Everything I own is basically yours, including all the bank accounts, and admittedly some crimes which i have already posted bail for.
FORD: Okay, so in the next 2 weeks, I want you to upend your entire life including your home and business. This is because I do not agree with all your life choices and everything you ever did is an insult and disrespect to me. I'm sure you understand where I am coming from. I know you. You'll be fine. I'm sure you've got a lot of money stuck somewhere else and can survive anywhere after you took advantage of my life's work while simultaneously causing the end of the world just to save me when I obviously didn't need to be saved as I clearly said on the invisible ink warnings in my instructions which only took you last month to complete. It's a fair price.
STAN: So you're never going to thank me?
FORD: There is no reason to thank you for saving me out of your guilt. You've never apoogized to me for everything wrong you did anyway.
STAN: Fine. I agree to everything. Just stay away from the kids because I don't want you putting them in danger. At least give me this because they're the only family I have left.
FORD: wdym we aren't family anymore? That's unfair, here enjoy my little bids for connection and don't be so dramatic. I appreciate you letting me hang out with the children. I still can't trust you with anything important to me though! You must understand because it's entirely your fault the apocalypse is gonna happen despite me working so hard to prevent it. I can't believe you're holding the entire town hostage because of your feelings. You're so selfish and egotistical.
STAN: The kids are now going to die because I am selfish and egotistical. It's all my fault.
FORD: No, it's mine. I'm the one who made the deal with that demon first. You would have seen him for the liar he was. I'ĺl just give him what he wants, which is myself. Maybe he'll spare the kids.
STAN: I've literally been taken advantaged off by women and some men but go off, I guess. Look, just let the demon get me in your place bro. Pretending to be you has been my entire business model for the past 30 years. Everything is my fault anyway, so let me save the children in this manner. At least I won't screw up for once.
FORD: No!! that's not what I meant. Everything is my fault actually! I can't kill my brother!
STAN: huh. At least I'm dying in a place I recognize as home. This is fine actually. I am good for something after all.
There's really something extremely nuts about Ford going "yeah i'm expecting you to shut down this successful business permanently" after being told by Stan that said business was what enabled Ford to keep the property in his name for 30 frkng years.
Like dude, maybe before you talk, sleep on it first? Holy shit.
Was working on chapter 20 but hated how it was an info dump of irrelevant info lol so it lives here now. Wasted 3 hours of my life :,)
The neon sign outside room fourteen didn’t buzz; it hissed.
A low, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh that sounded exactly like the Pacific fog pressing against the windowpane. Inside, the only light came from the small plastic lamp on the desk, casting a sharp, triangular wedge of yellow across the tattered manila folder.
Ford sat in the vinyl armchair, his six-fingered hand pressed firmly against his ribs. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the grease-stained boot that had nearly cracked his sternum. Across the room, Shermie was dead to the world, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a heavy, concussed sleep, his split lip already turning a dark, swollen purple. On the other bed lay Stanley. He looked small beneath the scratchy floral blanket, his thick, white-bandaged hands resting over his chest like a broken pair of wings.
Ford looked down at his own hands, then at the folder.
His mind, denied the frantic distraction of the road, was beginning to reset. The researcher was waking up. For years, Ford had lived by a single, unyielding rule: every anomaly has a formula. Every mystery can be broken down into data points, mapped, and solved. And right now, the greatest anomaly in his life was the man sleeping three feet away. Who was "Andrew"? How had the boy who played on the Stan-O-War turned into a shadow that could command the terror of a nationwide syndicate?
Ford reached out, his fingers catching the worn edge of the folder, and pulled it into the light.
The top tab was scrawled with a single name in heavy, black grease pencil: ANDREW ALCATRAZ (PINES?). Beneath it, a secondary note was jotted in a tighter, more vindictive cursive—Jorge's handwriting: The math never checked out.
Ford opened the brass brads. The documents inside hadn’t been tossed together; they were filed with a chilling, predatory precision. Jorge hadn't just been an enforcer; he had been an archivist of suspicion, a hunter who spent years collecting every stray scrap, every medical record, and every piece of collateral his target left behind.
January 1972 — The Bogota Cell
A faded, purple-ink carbon copy of a Colombian prison ledger. The names RICARDO ALVAREZ and JORGE DÍAZ were officially logged. Beneath them, added in a messy, unofficial hand, was a third entry: “El Americano” (No papers. Identity unverified).
A grainy, black-and-white surveillance photo was paper-clipped to the corner. It was Stan, but a version Ford had never seen. He was eighteen years old, his hair hacked off with a knife, his face covered in coal dust and a defiant, terrifying smirk. He was standing between Rico and Jorge, his arms slung over their shoulders as if they owned the courtyard.
Jorge’s notes at the bottom were sharp:
The kid claims he’s been on the road, but his accent is all wrong for the stories he tells, it’s jagged, tight, and purely Northern. Not a Southern drawl in his throat. He gave the guards a fake name on intake 'Andrew Alcatraz' like the damn prison. He lies with every breath, but Alvarez is charmed by the American's nerve. They forged a brotherhood.
Ford’s chest tightened as he did the math. January 1972. It was barely eight months after their father had thrown Stanley out of the house. While Ford had been tucked away in his university dorms, Stanley had somehow tumbled down the map into a South American hellhole.
February 1973 — The Toy Soldier
A note clipped to a requisition form.
I caught him in the yard clutching a battered little green toy soldier. Took it for a closer look while he was sleeping. Faded letters on the base: 'STANLEY.' He’s been carrying that stupid thing like a talisman. He’s lying about his identity, but that little plastic scrap tells me he’s holding onto something back home.
Ford leaned back, the vinyl chair creaking. He remembered that toy. A cheap prize they’d fought over for three days straight. Seeing it cataloged by an enforcer made the bitterness a physical ache. Stanley hadn't been a criminal; he’d been a boy, alone among wolves, clinging to a scrap of home that had thrown him away.
August 1974 — The Plate Registry
A report from a DMV clerk in Florida.
Tracked him to a red El Diablo parked near the docks. Plates read: 'STNLYMBL.' He’s so arrogant, he kept his own name on the plates, just scrambled. He thinks he’s invisible as 'Alcatraz,' but he’s leaving a breadcrumb trail right out in the open.
Ford tapped his chin, his mouth forming a thin, hard line. STNLYMBL. Stanley Mobile. The incompetence of it was almost tragic. Stanley couldn't let go of who he was, even when his life depended on it. He wanted to scream at the man sleeping on the bed but the anger died in his throat. It wasn't arrogance. It was a cry for help that no one had been listening for.
August 1975 — The Miami Manifest
A series of typed shipping manifests from the Port of Miami. Highlighted in yellow was a single night-shift supervisor listed as Andrew Alcatraz.
Beneath the manifest was a scrap of notebook paper with Jorge’s handwritten notes:
“Alcatraz” claims he grew up in the Keys. Tells a story about a charter boat called the 'Silver Dollar.' Checked the registry, no such boat exists. Alvarez believes him because the boy has the silver tongue. I do not. He handles the ledger too fast for a boy from the docks. He has a northern clip to some of his consonants when he gets angry. He’s hiding a past.
Ford’s jaw set. The 'Silver Dollar' boat, the Keys, the fake stories, it was all a patchwork of the dreams they’d once whispered about under their bedsheets. Stanley hadn't been building a criminal empire; he had been building a graveyard of the life they were supposed to have together.
November 1976 — The Pawned Heirloom
A grainy, high-contrast photocopy of a pawn ticket from a shop in Denver, Colorado. The item traded was an old, silver-plated pocket watch with the initials F.P. scratched into the casing.
Jorge’s notes:
Alcatraz was short on cash while moving through the Rockies. Left this behind to cover a bad hand in a backroom poker game. The initials don't belong to any 'Andrew.' The fence told me the kid stared at the watch for five full minutes before handing it over, like he was parting with his own skin. He's bleeding pieces of his real self across the Midwest. I bought the watch. I'm keeping it until the timing is right.
Ford’s fingers flew to his own pocket, checking for his own watch. His breath hitched. Filbrick’s watch. Stanley had pawned their father's legacy to stay alive. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in Ford's mouth. The father who had discarded Stanley was the same man whose watch had kept Stanley breathing for another week in the Rockies. Ford felt a cold, hollow ache
October 1977 — The Vegas Divergence
A high-contrast photocopy of a mugshot from the Clark County Sheriff's Department. The name on the placard read Andrew Alcatraz, arrested for operating an illegal three-card monte game on the strip.
Jorge had drawn a heavy red circle around the fingers of the right hand in the photo. A note in the margin read:
The signature on the bail bond matches the Miami manifests perfectly. The handwriting is identical. He insists on using this absurd 'Alcatraz' alias with us, but the local police reports describe a man changing small street names every twelve months. He isn't running from the law; he is running from a name. Why is Alvarez letting him run the Western routes when he can't even keep his history straight?
Ford stared at the mugshot, his eyes tracing the hollows of Stanley’s cheeks. The man in the photo looked exhausted, a jagged wreck. Ford realized with a sickening jolt that Stanley was running from the expectation that he would never be enough. He was running from a name that had become a burden
March 1978 — The Tijuana Ledger
A collection of stained receipts from the Hotel El Dorado and a copy of a wire transfer from a bank in San Diego. The transfer was signed by Andrew Pines.
Jorge's margin note was written with a vindictive slant:
He slipped. After the warehouse fire, he was rattled. For the first time, he dropped the Alcatraz act. He used the name 'Pines' on a telegraph to a legal firm in New Jersey checking on an old estate. Why New Jersey? Why does a boy from the South have a local interest in the rust belt? I went to the town. I found the truth.
Ford’s blood ran cold. The warehouse fire. He had heard rumors of a criminal syndicate being dismantled, but he never dreamed Stanley was at the center of the flame. He had been checking on the shop, on the family. Stanley hadn't been trying to destroy them; he had been reaching back, trembling, through the smoke. Ford felt his control slipping. All those years, he’d thought he was the one doing the hard work, the one sacrificing for the sake of science, while Stanley was the one doing the real, agonizing work of holding from a distance.
May 1978 — The Texas Motel Setup
A Polaroid of a squalid motel room. A dark pool of blood stained the carpet, trailing toward the bathroom.
The Bulldog and the Blade caught him at a payphone near Marfa. Rico wanted a leash; he had them pull his kidney out while he was paralyzed but wide awake. They left him a cheap sewing kit to let the infection bloom so Rico could 'save' him later.
I went back the next morning to confirm and the place was a slaughterhouse. Crimson smear leading to the bathroom, the sewing kit empty on the sink, thread coated in blood. He had stitched his own flesh shut while his nervous system was still reeling from the shock. He fled into the heat with a butchered side and a raging infection. He’s crazy. The kind of crazy that doesn't know it’s already dead. I don't need to chase him; he’s bleeding out.
Ford slammed the folder shut, his hands shaking so violently the papers rattled. He had to stand up, to pace, but his ribs screamed in protest. He choked back a sob, his vision blurring.
The sound of the folder hitting the floor was like a gunshot in the cramped room.
The movement was too sharp. On the bed opposite him, Shermie jerked, a low grunt escaping his throat before he settled back into a ragged, uneven rhythm. Ford froze, his heart hammering against his cracked ribs, terrified he had woken the dead.
Stanley didn't wake, but his bandaged, trembling hand twitched against the blanket. A low, ragged wheeze broke the quiet—a sound of pain so deeply embedded it seemed to be part of the man’s very marrow.
Was working on chapter 20 but hated how it was an info dump of irrelevant info lol so it lives here now. Wasted 3 hours of my life :,)
The neon sign outside room fourteen didn’t buzz; it hissed.
A low, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh that sounded exactly like the Pacific fog pressing against the windowpane. Inside, the only light came from the small plastic lamp on the desk, casting a sharp, triangular wedge of yellow across the tattered manila folder.
Ford sat in the vinyl armchair, his six-fingered hand pressed firmly against his ribs. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the grease-stained boot that had nearly cracked his sternum. Across the room, Shermie was dead to the world, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a heavy, concussed sleep, his split lip already turning a dark, swollen purple. On the other bed lay Stanley. He looked small beneath the scratchy floral blanket, his thick, white-bandaged hands resting over his chest like a broken pair of wings.
Ford looked down at his own hands, then at the folder.
His mind, denied the frantic distraction of the road, was beginning to reset. The researcher was waking up. For years, Ford had lived by a single, unyielding rule: every anomaly has a formula. Every mystery can be broken down into data points, mapped, and solved. And right now, the greatest anomaly in his life was the man sleeping three feet away. Who was "Andrew"? How had the boy who played on the Stan-O-War turned into a shadow that could command the terror of a nationwide syndicate?
Ford reached out, his fingers catching the worn edge of the folder, and pulled it into the light.
The top tab was scrawled with a single name in heavy, black grease pencil: ANDREW ALCATRAZ (PINES?). Beneath it, a secondary note was jotted in a tighter, more vindictive cursive—Jorge's handwriting: The math never checked out.
Ford opened the brass brads. The documents inside hadn’t been tossed together; they were filed with a chilling, predatory precision. Jorge hadn't just been an enforcer; he had been an archivist of suspicion, a hunter who spent years collecting every stray scrap, every medical record, and every piece of collateral his target left behind.
January 1972 — The Bogota Cell
A faded, purple-ink carbon copy of a Colombian prison ledger. The names RICARDO ALVAREZ and JORGE DÍAZ were officially logged. Beneath them, added in a messy, unofficial hand, was a third entry: “El Americano” (No papers. Identity unverified).
A grainy, black-and-white surveillance photo was paper-clipped to the corner. It was Stan, but a version Ford had never seen. He was eighteen years old, his hair hacked off with a knife, his face covered in coal dust and a defiant, terrifying smirk. He was standing between Rico and Jorge, his arms slung over their shoulders as if they owned the courtyard.
Jorge’s notes at the bottom were sharp:
The kid claims he’s been on the road, but his accent is all wrong for the stories he tells, it’s jagged, tight, and purely Northern. Not a Southern drawl in his throat. He gave the guards a fake name on intake 'Andrew Alcatraz' like the damn prison. He lies with every breath, but Alvarez is charmed by the American's nerve. They forged a brotherhood.
Ford’s chest tightened as he did the math. January 1972. It was barely eight months after their father had thrown Stanley out of the house. While Ford had been tucked away in his university dorms, Stanley had somehow tumbled down the map into a South American hellhole.
February 1973 — The Toy Soldier
A note clipped to a requisition form.
I caught him in the yard clutching a battered little green toy soldier. Took it for a closer look while he was sleeping. Faded letters on the base: 'STANLEY.' He’s been carrying that stupid thing like a talisman. He’s lying about his identity, but that little plastic scrap tells me he’s holding onto something back home.
Ford leaned back, the vinyl chair creaking. He remembered that toy. A cheap prize they’d fought over for three days straight. Seeing it cataloged by an enforcer made the bitterness a physical ache. Stanley hadn't been a criminal; he’d been a boy, alone among wolves, clinging to a scrap of home that had thrown him away.
August 1974 — The Plate Registry
A report from a DMV clerk in Florida.
Tracked him to a red El Diablo parked near the docks. Plates read: 'STNLYMBL.' He’s so arrogant, he kept his own name on the plates, just scrambled. He thinks he’s invisible as 'Alcatraz,' but he’s leaving a breadcrumb trail right out in the open.
Ford tapped his chin, his mouth forming a thin, hard line. STNLYMBL. Stanley Mobile. The incompetence of it was almost tragic. Stanley couldn't let go of who he was, even when his life depended on it. He wanted to scream at the man sleeping on the bed but the anger died in his throat. It wasn't arrogance. It was a cry for help that no one had been listening for.
August 1975 — The Miami Manifest
A series of typed shipping manifests from the Port of Miami. Highlighted in yellow was a single night-shift supervisor listed as Andrew Alcatraz.
Beneath the manifest was a scrap of notebook paper with Jorge’s handwritten notes:
“Alcatraz” claims he grew up in the Keys. Tells a story about a charter boat called the 'Silver Dollar.' Checked the registry, no such boat exists. Alvarez believes him because the boy has the silver tongue. I do not. He handles the ledger too fast for a boy from the docks. He has a northern clip to some of his consonants when he gets angry. He’s hiding a past.
Ford’s jaw set. The 'Silver Dollar' boat, the Keys, the fake stories, it was all a patchwork of the dreams they’d once whispered about under their bedsheets. Stanley hadn't been building a criminal empire; he had been building a graveyard of the life they were supposed to have together.
November 1976 — The Pawned Heirloom
A grainy, high-contrast photocopy of a pawn ticket from a shop in Denver, Colorado. The item traded was an old, silver-plated pocket watch with the initials F.P. scratched into the casing.
Jorge’s notes:
Alcatraz was short on cash while moving through the Rockies. Left this behind to cover a bad hand in a backroom poker game. The initials don't belong to any 'Andrew.' The fence told me the kid stared at the watch for five full minutes before handing it over, like he was parting with his own skin. He's bleeding pieces of his real self across the Midwest. I bought the watch. I'm keeping it until the timing is right.
Ford’s fingers flew to his own pocket, checking for his own watch. His breath hitched. Filbrick’s watch. Stanley had pawned their father's legacy to stay alive. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in Ford's mouth. The father who had discarded Stanley was the same man whose watch had kept Stanley breathing for another week in the Rockies. Ford felt a cold, hollow ache
October 1977 — The Vegas Divergence
A high-contrast photocopy of a mugshot from the Clark County Sheriff's Department. The name on the placard read Andrew Alcatraz, arrested for operating an illegal three-card monte game on the strip.
Jorge had drawn a heavy red circle around the fingers of the right hand in the photo. A note in the margin read:
The signature on the bail bond matches the Miami manifests perfectly. The handwriting is identical. He insists on using this absurd 'Alcatraz' alias with us, but the local police reports describe a man changing small street names every twelve months. He isn't running from the law; he is running from a name. Why is Alvarez letting him run the Western routes when he can't even keep his history straight?
Ford stared at the mugshot, his eyes tracing the hollows of Stanley’s cheeks. The man in the photo looked exhausted, a jagged wreck. Ford realized with a sickening jolt that Stanley was running from the expectation that he would never be enough. He was running from a name that had become a burden
March 1978 — The Tijuana Ledger
A collection of stained receipts from the Hotel El Dorado and a copy of a wire transfer from a bank in San Diego. The transfer was signed by Andrew Pines.
Jorge's margin note was written with a vindictive slant:
He slipped. After the warehouse fire, he was rattled. For the first time, he dropped the Alcatraz act. He used the name 'Pines' on a telegraph to a legal firm in New Jersey checking on an old estate. Why New Jersey? Why does a boy from the South have a local interest in the rust belt? I went to the town. I found the truth.
Ford’s blood ran cold. The warehouse fire. He had heard rumors of a criminal syndicate being dismantled, but he never dreamed Stanley was at the center of the flame. He had been checking on the shop, on the family. Stanley hadn't been trying to destroy them; he had been reaching back, trembling, through the smoke. Ford felt his control slipping. All those years, he’d thought he was the one doing the hard work, the one sacrificing for the sake of science, while Stanley was the one doing the real, agonizing work of holding from a distance.
May 1978 — The Texas Motel Setup
A Polaroid of a squalid motel room. A dark pool of blood stained the carpet, trailing toward the bathroom.
The Bulldog and the Blade caught him at a payphone near Marfa. Rico wanted a leash; he had them pull his kidney out while he was paralyzed but wide awake. They left him a cheap sewing kit to let the infection bloom so Rico could 'save' him later.
I went back the next morning to confirm and the place was a slaughterhouse. Crimson smear leading to the bathroom, the sewing kit empty on the sink, thread coated in blood. He had stitched his own flesh shut while his nervous system was still reeling from the shock. He fled into the heat with a butchered side and a raging infection. He’s crazy. The kind of crazy that doesn't know it’s already dead. I don't need to chase him; he’s bleeding out.
Ford slammed the folder shut, his hands shaking so violently the papers rattled. He had to stand up, to pace, but his ribs screamed in protest. He choked back a sob, his vision blurring.
The sound of the folder hitting the floor was like a gunshot in the cramped room.
The movement was too sharp. On the bed opposite him, Shermie jerked, a low grunt escaping his throat before he settled back into a ragged, uneven rhythm. Ford froze, his heart hammering against his cracked ribs, terrified he had woken the dead.
Stanley didn't wake, but his bandaged, trembling hand twitched against the blanket. A low, ragged wheeze broke the quiet—a sound of pain so deeply embedded it seemed to be part of the man’s very marrow.
Everyone talks about Stan having some kind of power, usually somewhat psychic.
Well, what if Stan’s powers are luck that comes across as misfortune?
Him getting stuffed in that trunk under a blazing sun and having to chew his way out? Lucky! In reality, the car burst a tire and they were gonna shoot him in the desert after they made him dig his own grave, so they just left him in there instead.
All those failed prison riots he tried to start? Too many guards on duty, he would’ve been shot, so it only worked the second he would survive.
Ford falling in the portal?
If he hadn’t, Stan would still be homeless, he’d be alone on the streets or dead. Ford falling was Stan’s luck.
Of course, it’d prove helpful sometimes and not as devastating. He dropped his last fifty cents to call his mom? Suddenly he’s finding a $100 bill in a parking lot.
Shit like that. Okay I’m gonna go watch backrooms now, bye :)
sickeningly beautiful @tulpadog - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
