Chapter Text
“Hey, brother, it’s Sixer. I’m going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back, so if you don’t hear from me, I just want you to know that it’s because I never loved you. BUH-BYEEEEE!”
Stan can’t think while his body scrambles around seemingly on it’s own. He hears a clatter– did he drop the phone? He hears a door slam, a seatbelt buckle. An engine sputter and cough, then roar.
Hey, don't worry, bro. Wherever we go, we go together.
His gut churns. Ford wouldn’t– he wouldn’t–
Would he?
Stan drives faster.
It’s not until he’s hours into his drive that he realizes he never even spoke into the receiver.
He stands on a roof. It feels semi-familiar, somehow. But it’s a distant recognition at best. He hurts. That much he knows. His head, primarily. It’s pounding, dizzying, and he can barely see. The snow is blurry, and he can feel it heaving his eyelashes. He knows he should be cold. He should be freezing. He doesn’t feel anything on his body except a thin top layer, and– pants, he supposes. Something. Something.
There’s something just out of reach, something distant from his mind. He can see, he can feel yellow. Glowing. It hurts his chest. He’s uncomfortable. He can’t tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all.
Slowly, he raises his hands in front of his eyes. He has six fingers. This seems both right and wrong. His fingers are blue. But they don’t shiver. Not a single tremor. This should concern him. Maybe he is concerned. He can’t tell. He turns his hands over and over. There’s a deep, circular scar in one of his palms. It makes him nauseous. He turns his hands again. They remain blue. Are those his knuckles? Why are they so scarred? Why are they bleeding? Something should be wrong to him, but the red is almost soothing against the white and blue and gray of the world.
He–
What is his name?
His head tilts slightly at the question. It sends shockwaves of pain through him, but he can’t focus on it. What is his name?
Another question strikes his mind.
Who is he?
This question sends shooting pain through his head and down his neck. He doesn’t have the energy to wince. But he’s suddenly aware that his nose is running down onto his lips. He sniffles and rubs his sleeve over his mouth. There’s blood on his sleeves. He’s not sure why.
DON'T YOU REMEMBER, SIXER?
Who–
A shiver runs through him. His head whips around to search for the source of the voice. The voice is familiar– so familiar. And it’s wrong, he doesn’t know why, but he knows it’s so very wrong. But he can’t hold onto it. He can’t hold onto anything. Everything is slipping quickly through his fingers and he just can’t reach out and grab it.
But he remembers remembering. He knows, at some point, maybe even recently, he knew his name. His past. Maybe he has friends, family. Maybe he doesn’t. He feels his chest tighten. Why can’t he remember? What did he do? Why is he– who is he–
Nausea twists in his gut. It’s painful and powerful, and suddenly he’s keeling over and vomit and memories and life spill out of him. His feet slip, and his body tips over, hands sliding into the sick to hold on. Strange– he doesn’t actually feel he’d care if he teetered over the edge of the roof. His body seems to.
Something flashes before his eyes.
Spiders. He can feel them in his throat.
COMIN’ BACK TO YOU NOW, IQ?
He can’t breathe. He claws at the air, at his throat, but he can’t– he can’t–
YOU REMEMBER MY NAME, DON’T YOU? OR DID I WIPE OUT TOO MUCH THIS TIME?
Bill.
He doesn’t know his own name, but he knows that name. Somehow. And it gets harder to breathe, to see, to think. He should be able to think. He should be able to. It’s the only thing he’s ever been good for. His brain. How does he know that?
YOU’RE CATCHIN’ UP NOW, AREN’T YOU?
He is. He’s catching up. He tries to think, but everything is shutting down. It all hurts. Is he bleeding from–
He looks down at his shirt. There’s a long, vertical patch of blood along his arm, and he yelps. It rattles in his throat and he coughs harshly. More spots of blood appear in the snow. His stomach turns and he vomits again. The green-brown covers up the red. He gasps, heaving, on the snow-covered roof. He’s still curled up, and he doesn’t think he could stand if he tried. His feet feel like they’re on fire– he looks down. He doesn’t have shoes on. His toes are reddish. Slightly swelling.
REMEMBER, SIXER–
I don’t remember, his mind replies, stop TELLING ME TO!
I OWN YOU.
His heart stops. He knows– he knows. He can’t win, he can’t even think properly, can’t even see properly. Is he supposed to have glasses? Where did he leave those? Or perhaps he never had them in the first place.
A tiny little giggle crawls its way up his throat. He looks again at his sleeve, and the laughter grows. It’s funny. Novel, in a way. Fascinating–
No, no it’s not funny. That isn’t his thought. That thought belongs to–
He’s still laughing, and he can’t stop. Hysterical, boisterous laughter that makes his whole frame shake feverishly. It’s hot and it’s cold and he just can’t stop laughing and it hurts his chest and his stomach is clenching up and it hurts hurts hurt–
“FORD?!?”
Is that his name? It sounds… close. But that can’t be all of it. A nickname, perhaps? He feels like there’s something else. Another half. A missing piece.
“FORD!!”
Is someone…
He turns. Blinks. It’s not the same voice as earlier. This one is different, this one is… safer. Maybe. No. Not safe. But not dangerous?
He stands, searching, bits of laughter still leaking through his lips. Everything is still blurry, dotted with black and white. No, no, that’s– that’s not right. It should only be white, shouldn’t it? Snow isn’t black. Is it? His head spins.
He spots a figure. Blurry and hard to make out. He squints. There’s a bit of brown, a bit of red. It seems so small from here. He tries to lean in, and his feet slip. He reaches back down and steadies himself against the scaffolding, still trying to lean further.
“FUCK– JUST STAY THERE, ALRIGHT? DON’T MOVE, I-I-I’LL GET YOU DOWN!”
Down…
He’s not sure if he wants to come down yet. He’s come to like it up here. He tries to speak, to communicate this, but his throat locks up. No matter. He tries to gesture, but finds his movements sluggish, limbs heavy. Hm.
He keeps trying, pushing through the haze.
“STANFORD, STOP! STAY STILL!”
Stanford.
Stanford Pines, Stanford Filbrick Pines.
That is his name. Stanford Stanford Stanford. And he’s– he’s smart, yes? Yes, he’s smart. Very smart. He’s a scientist. A doctor? His mind throbs.
“GOOD, GOOD, GIMME TWO SECONDS, OKAY?”
So who is that, then? The voice is similar to his, or at least, it sounds like it was at some point. It’s heavy, gravely, now. It used to be… something else. Something lighter. Unburdened. It’s so close.
He just needs to be closer to know, he decides. Proximity is what will help. He continues to push through the confusion.
He’s dimly aware of the feeling of his feet slipping, and suddenly he’s trying to grab at something, anything, anything to stay still, to get closer to the voice, because he knows it, he knows he does, but–
“FORD, WAIT- JUST DON'T–”
Ford steps forward. He knows that voice. He knows, he knows, he knows.
YOU'RE MAKING THE WRONG CHOICE, FORDSY!
He’s a puppet. He feels like a puppet, he feels the strings stabbing out of him like needles, and suddenly he doesn’t want to leave the roof, he can’t leave the roof, it’s dangerous, and the voice below isn’t safe, it isn’t safe at all. It’s him. It’s all him, it’s him, it’s him–
There’s nowhere left for him to step. He teeters forward, a scream tearing out of him. At least he thinks it’s him screaming. He’s not sure if he opened his mouth. Maybe he did it for him.
He feels, for a moment, like he’s flying down. Then something outside hits, something inside snaps, and–
Everything crackles.