Chapter Text
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“What d’ya think, pals? Another five hundred volts?”
Bill and his cronies laughed in a manaiacal craze, delighted to see the thorn in their side suffer. Ford squeezed his eyes shut, preparing himself for yet another blow. But before Bill could move a muscle, a resounding thud shook the fortress.
“Hey, do you hear that?” he muttered to himself, just before the large head of a tyrannosaurus rex burst through the front entryway of the pyramid. After letting out an earth-shaking roar, the dinosaur moved back to reveal…a gigantic, robotic Mystery Shack, now fitted with legs and arms (one of which being the head of the T. rex).
“What? I just fixed that door!” Bill shouted in a mixture of shock and anger.
Ford, though his vision was blurred, grinned at the sight. His family had come through after all- in a way he never could have expected (Although, to be fair, he wasn't entirely sure what he did expect).
As the mechanical Shack stomped closer, flashing its wide array of weapons of weirdness, Bill’s one-eyed face turned from rage to smugness.
“So the mortals are trying to fight back, huh?” he sneered, leaning back on his throne built out of the stone bodies of the mortals who weren't so lucky.
8 Ball, one of his henchmen, or henchmaniacs, as Bill liked to call them, turned and grinned.
“Want us to take care of ‘em?”
Bill contemplated for a moment, then cackled.
“Nah. I’ve been waiting to do this for a while.”
In a fit of maniacal laughter, the bloodthirsty demon crawled out of his fortress to fight the Shacktron, putting an end to the rest of the Pines once and for all.
Ford, still watching from his chained-up position, tried to let out a protest, but no words could escape his mouth.
Bill’s henchmen, eager to join their leader in battle, followed their leader out in a frenzy, leaving Ford alone in the pyramid fortress. A few moments of silence, aside from the ruckus of the fight outside, passed with grueling tediousness. Until, that is, a high-pitched war cry came from above.
Ford looked up to see none other than Mabel, Dipper, his brother Stanley, and their friends descending from an upper window in crudely fashioned parachutes seemingly made of sweaters.
After landing on the ground, Dipper gathered the group around him in a huddle.
“Alright,” he announced, formulating a plan in his head. “We gotta do this quick before Bill gets back. Stan, you go find Ford. Mabel and I will look for a way to free the people trapped in Bill’s throne. The rest of you, start barricading the entry. We need to buy as much time as we can.” The crowd all nodded, except for Stan.
Dipper turned to Mabel as the rest of the team ran looking for bricks and rubble to make a barricade, but before he could say anything, she gasped, pointing upward at the throne.
“It's Grunkle Ford!” she shouted, grabbing her brother’s arm as she pointed at the battered old man, held in chains a few feet above the armrest of the chair.
Once again, before Dipper got the chance to say anything, he was shoved out of the way by Stan.
“Mabel. Grappling hook. Now.” he demanded, and Mabel obliged.
Stan, determined, shot the grappling hook up to the armrest, while Dipper and Mabel ran towards the base to dismantle the chair of human agony.
At last, Stan reached the ledge, and pulled himself up with a groan.
“Damn muscles ain’t what they used to be,” he muttered as he got up, brushing the dust off of his now-torn dress pants. Without a moment to spare, he rushed over to his brother to aid in his escape.
Approaching Ford, he had to choke back a gasp of terror. Bill must have tortured him after his capture, and it showed- Ford appeared to be burnt, his jacket and bits of hair fried to a crisp.
“Sixer! How ya hanging, buddy?” Stan said, trying to stay cool as he grabbed out his trusty baseball bat from behind him and began to swing at the glowing blue chains holding Ford up by his arms.
Ford laughed softly. “Surviving, I suppose,” he mumbled as a stream of blood continued to trickle from his nose. After several blows with the bat, the first chain broke, shattering into blue shards. With a little effort, Stan broke the second chain, and his brother fell to the ground. Stan, falling to his knees, caught the injured man, who slumped into his twin’s arms like a hug.
Letting out a small cough, he smiled.
“Thanks, Mr. Mystery.”
Stan, though he couldn't see his brother’s face, was taken aback. Thanks. It was all he wanted from his brother. A thank you. And though it came casually, it meant much more than that.
“Wow. Heh. Never thought you'd say that, Sixer,” he muttered, half to Ford and half to himself.
But only silence followed.
“Sixer?”
Stan blinked, but his brother still remained silent.
Letting go of the hug, Stan pushed Ford away from him, holding him by the shoulders.
Stanley’s eyes widened.
Ford’s were shut.
“Hey. Poindexter. Wake up.”
Nothing.
Growing panicked, Stan lifted his right hand from Ford’s shoulder and slapped him across the cheek.
Then again. And again.
He looked down at his hand, going lightheaded as he noticed his brother’s own blood on his palms. It was running down Ford’s face now, puddling in his half-open mouth.
His heart began to beat faster, ears ringing, the whole world fading into the background as panic fell upon him.
“No. Come on, Stanford. Listen to me. Hey.”
Tears started to well up in Stan’s eyes.
“Hey! You listen to me when I’m talking to you, motherfucker. You can't die on me. Come on. I spent thirty years of my life trying to save you, you’re not giving up now.”
Stan wiped his tears with shaky hands, accidentally smearing blood across his cheek.
He fumbled with his words, tears running steady down his dirtied and tired face. No. He’d come this far to save his brother, and this is how it turned out?
He leaned over, resting his good ear on Ford’s chest. Looking for a sign of life. Something. Anything.
Come on. Come on. Please.
There was only silence.