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Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights of the school cafeteria hummed, casting a stark glow on the lone figure of Stan Pines. He wasn't supposed to be there; cleanup duty had ended hours ago, but he'd snuck back in for a forgotten textbook. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the impressive, gleaming contraption standing on a reserved table near the windows: Ford's perpetual motion machine. His twin's masterpiece, set for the big science fair tomorrow.

A knot of frustration tightened in Stan's chest. Ford was always excelling, always moving ahead, leaving Stan feeling perpetually stuck in his shadow. A wave of rage and fear of his brother leaving him behind washed over him. In a sudden, impulsive burst of emotion, he slammed his fist on the table beside Ford's project. The impact sent a jolt through the structure, and with a soft clink, a small, “decorative” grate popped off the side of the machine.

Stan's heart lurched. He quickly picked up the grate and, figuring it was just a loose piece, carefully pressed it back into place. He watched the intricate mechanisms for a moment. To his immense relief, the machine was still moving, its tiny gears whirring, its magnetic fields still pulling. "Whew," he mumbled, convinced it was fine. No harm done. He slipped out of the cafeteria, leaving the machine, subtly compromised, and, unbeknownst to him, an empty bag of Toffee Peanuts by a nearby trash can.

The next day, the cafeteria buzzed with the nervous energy of the science fair. Ford Pines, meticulous and brilliant, stood proudly beside his perpetual motion machine, adjusting his tie as two college scouts from West Coast Tech approached. This was his moment, his ticket to a prestigious university. He greeted them confidently, pulled the sheet away to reveal his impossible creation. The gears whirred, the magnets hummed… then, with a hesitant sputter, the delicate balance faltered. The machine ground to a halt, a magnificent failure. Ford’s face crumpled, humiliation burning hot as the scouts exchanged disappointed glances and moved on. His dreams evaporated in an instant.

He returned to his project after the fair, replaying the moments leading up to the disaster. He examined the machine, noting the barely re-attached grate. Then, his gaze fell upon the discarded Toffee Peanuts bag by the trash can – a brand only Stan ever ate. The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying clarity.
Ford found Stan at home later that evening. "You!" Ford spat, the word laced with venom. "You were in the cafeteria last night, weren't you? You broke my machine!"
Stan flinched, caught off guard. "I... I just bumped it! I put the grate back! It was still working!"

Their father, Filbrick, drawn by Ford's raised voice, appeared in the doorway. He listened, his face slowly turning a dangerous shade of red. The failure at the science fair, the wasted opportunity, the undeniable evidence. "Stanley!" Filbrick roared, his voice shaking with furious furious disappointment. "What have you done?! This was Ford's ticket! You're nothing but trouble!" He lunged forward, grabbing Stan by the collar of his shirt, dragging him towards the front door. "Get out! Get out of my sight, and don't you dare come back until you earn the millions you cost this family!" Filbrick then shoved a familiar duffel bag into Stan's hands, a bag Stan hadn't realized was already packed, unbeknownst to him, by his father. Filbrick stuffed the incriminating, empty Toffee Peanuts bag into his hand before throwing the whole thing out onto the porch after him.

Stan didn't argue. He just walked out into the cool night air, the door slamming shut behind him. He knew his father’s temper, figured it was just for the night, maybe a few days. He'd cool off, and Stan would be back home. He expected to return within a week, but that night, Stan Pines vanished from Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey.

Ten years later, the silence in the Pines household was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Ford, now a brilliant, if reclusive, inventor, carried a deep-seated bitterness. He'd never forgiven Stan for ruining his chance, for what he believed was Stan's deliberate abandonment. Ford had built a fortress of resentment around his heart, convinced Stan had chosen a life of irresponsibility over his family. Filbrick, his features hardened by time and unacknowledged guilt, harbored a similar, festering anger. He'd clung to the idea that Stan was out there, living large, heedless of the pain he'd caused and the millions he owed.

Only Caryn, their mother, and Shermie, their older brother, refused to let go of hope. Caryn kept Stan’s half of the room exactly as he’d left it, a silent vigil for a son who never returned. Shermie, ever the pragmatist, found himself compulsively scanning news articles about unidentified persons, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach with each passing year.

The call came on a Friday night, cutting through the stagnant air of the Pines' living room in. It was Detective Harding. He spoke in a measured, almost apologetic tone, about a cold case—an unidentified male found deceased, a John Doe, from a decade ago. Recent advancements in forensic technology, specifically dental records, had allowed for a breakthrough.

Filbrick, half-listening, was about to dismiss it as another dead end, another false alarm. But then he heard the detective say, "We have a match, sir. To a Stanley Pines, born June 15th… 1954."

The words hung in the air, cold and stark, shattering the carefully constructed narratives the family had built around Stan's disappearance. A John Doe. Deceased. Ten years ago. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. He hadn't run away. He hadn't chosen to abandon them. He had died the very night he was cast out.
The silence that followed was different now. It was no longer the silence of resentment or worry, but the hollow, echoing silence of profound grief, too raw to be articulated. Filbrick stared at the phone, his face drained of all color, the cruel irony of his angry words echoing in his ears. Ford, hearing the news from his mother's tearful explanation, felt the bitter resentment he'd clung to crumble into dust, replaced by an agonizing guilt. Caryn's long vigil ended not in a reunion, but in tears that flowed freely after a decade of restraint. Shermie, for the first time, understood the true weight of the news articles he'd scanned for so long.
Stan Pines, the reckless, lovable, frustrating seventeen-year-old, had been gone for ten years. But it was only now, as a nameless John Doe finally received his name, that his family truly began to mourn.

Chapter Text

The phone slipped from Filbrick’s trembling fingers, clattering against the polished wood of the end table. The dial tone, a monotonous hum, seemed to mock the deafening silence that had descended upon the living room. Stanley Pines. Born June 15th, 1954. Deceased. The words from Detective Harding’s mouth ricocheted around his skull, each syllable a hammer blow against the fortress of certainty he’d built over the past decade.

He sank onto the sofa, the plush cushions offering no comfort against the sudden, crushing weight that settled upon him. Ten years. Ten long years, he had clung to the bitter narrative of a wayward son, a careless disappointment who had chosen freedom over family, irresponsibility over duty. He’d told himself Stan was out there, living some wild, aimless life, laughing at the consequences. It had been easier that way. Easier than the gnawing worry that had plagued Caryn, easier than the quiet, practical dread that had settled in Shermie’s eyes. Easier than confronting the raw, undeniable truth of his own part in that night.

The memory of it, sharp and clear, cut through the haze of shock. The furious red of his face, the burning shame in Ford’s eyes as the scouts walked away from the ruined perpetual motion machine. And then, Stan’s clumsy confession, his weak excuses. "I just bumped it! I put the grate back! It was still working!" He remembered the raw, visceral rage that had consumed him, the sight of that empty Toffee Peanuts bag, undeniable proof of Stan’s presence, his undeniable culpability.

"Get out! Get out of my sight, and don't you dare come back until you earn the millions you cost this family!" The words, so casually cruel then, now echoed back, hollow and monstrous. Millions. What were millions compared to a son? A seventeen-year-old boy, tossed out into the cold, clutching a duffel bag he had packed, a silent prophecy of a life on the run. He’d packed it himself, hadn't he? Always prepared for Stanley to mess up, to need to be sent away. He’d even thrown the bag of peanuts, a final, spiteful gesture. He’d wanted to hurt Stan, to make him understand the gravity of his failures. But he hadn’t meant… not this.

The belief that Stan had simply run off, building a new life, had been a necessary lie. It allowed for resentment, for the self-righteous anger that masked a deeper, unacknowledged guilt. He’d fostered Ford’s bitterness, seeing it as validation of his own judgment, a shared burden of disappointment. But Stan hadn’t run. He had died. That night. Alone.

Filbrick’s breath hitched, a dry, rasping sound in his throat. All those unspoken words. All the chances to call, to search harder, to soften his stance. Gone. Forever. The boy he had physically dragged from the house, the son whose collar he’d gripped in his anger, had taken his last breath that very night. He hadn't been an irresponsible wanderer, but a lost boy, perhaps bewildered, perhaps afraid, meeting an unknown end hours after his father’s final, damning words.
The millions. The potential millions that Ford’s broken machine represented. They were nothing. Less than nothing. They were a bitter joke, a cruel epitaph for a child whose life had been extinguished the moment he walked out of their door. The silence in the house was no longer about a missing son, but about a dead one. And for Filbrick, it was a silence filled with the thunder of regret, a sound he knew would echo in his ears for the rest of his days.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the detective's call blurred into a suffocating haze for Filbrick. The news hadn't just shattered a porcelain plate; it had shattered the very foundation of his reality. He’d always prided himself on being a man of order, of consequences. He’d taught his sons discipline, expected them to rise to challenges, to be responsible. Stanley, in his eyes, had always been the antithesis of that, a chaotic force threatening to unravel the carefully woven fabric of their lives.
He remembered countless arguments, not just the final, explosive one. The time Stan had accidentally set off the fire alarm trying to toast marshmallows in his room, or the botched attempt to fix the leaky faucet that ended in a minor flood. Each incident, a fresh tally mark in Filbrick’s mental ledger of Stan’s failures. He’d always seen it as tough love, a necessary firmness to steer his wayward son onto the right path. He’d convinced himself that Stan needed a hard lesson, that he’d eventually come crawling back, humbled and ready to conform.

Now, the memory of those moments twisted into grotesque caricatures of his own making. The "lessons" he’d delivered, the punishments he’d meted out, the constant comparisons to Ford’s brilliance – they weren’t acts of guidance, but rather blows that chipped away at Stan's spirit. And that final night… the image of Stan, his face pale and eyes wide with a fear Filbrick had dismissed as mere defiance, being dragged by the collar, the duffel bag thrown after him like refuse. He’d wanted to teach him a lesson, but instead, he had delivered a death sentence.

The narrative he’d clung to for a decade – that Stan was a free spirit, an irresponsible wanderer living a carefree life – now felt like a grotesque lie he’d told himself to avoid the truth. It had allowed him to nurture the resentment, to share in Ford’s bitterness, creating a twisted bond over their shared sense of betrayal. But Stan hadn't betrayed them. He had been betrayed. By his own father’s unyielding anger.

He watched Caryn now, her face etched with a grief that had finally been given a name. Her tears flowed freely, a decade of suppressed sorrow finally unleashed. He saw the quiet, knowing sadness in Shermie’s eyes, a vindication of his brother’s persistent worry. They had known, in their hearts, that something was terribly wrong. He, Filbrick, the man who demanded facts and evidence, had chosen to believe a convenient fiction.

The house, once filled with the tension of unspoken resentments, was now heavy with the silence of irreversible loss. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against the window, seemed to whisper Stan’s name, a constant, agonizing reminder of the boy he had cast out. He thought of the millions, the potential fortune that had fueled his final, furious words. It was a joke, a cruel, cosmic jest. What was wealth compared to the warmth of a son, the chance for forgiveness, the simple, ordinary presence of a boy who just wanted to belong?

Filbrick sat alone, the weight of his regret a physical ache in his chest. The slammed door echoed in his mind, not as a symbol of defiance, but as the final, irrevocable sound of a life extinguished, a bond severed by his own hand. He had wanted Stan to learn responsibility. Instead, he had learned the bitter, crushing weight of a father’s unforgivable mistake.

Chapter Text

The house was unnaturally quiet. Too quiet. Filbrick sat in his worn armchair, a half-empty bottle of amber liquid clutched in his hand. Through the window, he’d watched them leave: Caryn, her face a mask of dignified sorrow, Shermie, his shoulders slumped, and even Ford, a somber, unreadable expression on his usually sharp features. They were going to the funeral. Stan’s funeral.

He couldn't go. He simply couldn't. The thought of standing there, before a coffin holding the remains of the boy he’d cast out, was a torture he couldn't bear. What would he say? What right did he have to mourn publicly, when his last words to his son had been a furious dismissal? The shame, the guilt, it would consume him, right there, in front of everyone. So he stayed, a coward in his own home, while the rest of his family paid their respects.

He lifted the bottle, the liquid burning a path down his throat, a futile attempt to numb the relentless ache in his chest. His mind, however, refused to be silenced, replaying a reel of memories, not just of Stan alone, but of the inseparable pair the twins once were.

He remembered the phone call from the hospital, the frantic voice telling him Caryn had gone into labor early. Stan. So tiny, so fragile, a little premature bundle wrapped in blankets, his tiny fists no bigger than walnuts. And just fifteen minutes earlier, Ford arrived, already sturdy, already looking like he knew where he was going. Two of them. A matched set.

Then came the toddler years. Stan, the loud, chaotic one, leaving a trail of sticky fingerprints and boundless energy. And Ford, usually observing, sometimes mimicking, sometimes exasperated by his brother's antics, but always, always by his side. They’d built towers together, even if Stan always knocked them down. They’d whispered secrets under blankets, two heads bent close, sharing a world only twins could truly understand. He’d seen the bond, how Stan looked up to Ford, even as he chafed under his perfection.

The rambunctious children. Stan always getting into scrapes, Ford always trying to rationalize or explain. The time Stan convinced Ford to climb the old oak tree, only for both to get stuck. Ford, logical even then, figuring out a way down, while Stan just laughed. Filbrick had tried to mold Stan, to make him more like Ford, mistaking Stan’s vivacity for defiance. He’d fostered the rivalry, fueled the subtle competition, never truly appreciating the unique balance they provided for each other. Ford had always been the golden child, and Stan, the one who challenged everything. He had, in his own misguided attempts to "fix" Stan, widened the very gap that was meant to hold them together.

And then, the defiant teenager. The eye-rolls, the muttered retorts, the simmering resentment that mirrored his own. The growing chasm between them had swallowed Ford too. Ford, left with a broken perpetual motion machine and a vanished twin. Filbrick had nourished Ford's bitterness, seen it as a shared validation of Stan’s failures. But now, it was a raw, agonizing wound. He hadn't just lost Stan; he had, by his own hand, ripped Ford's other half away. Ford, the brilliant, isolated son, now truly alone, forever deprived of the twin who, despite all their differences, was fundamentally his. The very person who understood his unique mind, his peculiar obsessions, his quiet brilliance, was gone. Because of him.

He poured another glass, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim. The sun began to set, casting long, mournful shadows across the room. He was alone. Truly alone. Caryn, Ford, Shermie – they had each other, their shared grief a painful but unifying force. He had only this empty house, the echoing silence, and the crushing weight of what he had done.

The John Doe. His son. Lost and nameless for ten years, while Filbrick nurtured his anger, his pride, his self-serving narrative. He had demanded millions, when all Stan had ever truly wanted, he now realized with agonizing clarity, was a father’s acceptance. And Ford… Ford had lost a piece of himself that could never be replaced, a piece Filbrick himself had violently torn away.

The bottle was empty. The glass, heavy in his hand, felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid apologies, a lifetime of missed chances. Outside, the last sliver of daylight faded, plunging the world into darkness. Filbrick sat there, tears finally, slowly, silently tracing paths down his weathered cheeks, a man drowning not in alcohol, but in the boundless, suffocating ocean of his own regret. The door had slammed shut ten years ago, and with it, the last flicker of hope for a future he had unwittingly destroyed, leaving Ford, too, permanently fractured.