Chapter Text
Stanley Pines blinked blearily, sitting up from the couch suddenly. At first, he didn’t recognize where he was, until the blistering pain in his shoulder forced him back into reality. He put his head in his hands as he remembered everything: the crazed look in Ford’s eyes, the searing iron of the control panel, and Ford, his own brother, yelling at him to get as far away from him as possible. A deep, unsettling panic sunk in as he remembered shoving Ford, his feet lifting off the ground as he drifted upwards. He had screamed at his brother for help, but Stanley had just stood there, utterly powerless. He remembered the look of terror Ford showed as he was sucked into the portal, his face pale and stiff with shock and fear. Now, his brother was gone from this world, and all he had left of him was a stupid book and some bad memories.
Stan stood up and picked the journal up off the floor, along with Ford’s glasses. They probably fell from his hands while he slept. He tucked the lenses into his torn jacket, staring at the peeling leather cover of the book. He placed his own hand on the gold, six-fingered one. This was the cause of everything, the reason his twin was probably dead. Ford had said to protect it or whatever, but if it was that dangerous, then why keep it? Stan suspected that it had something to do with his brother’s ego, about not wanting to let go of some failed project. He had called it his “life’s work,” but Ford didn’t even take the time to explain, so why bother keeping it for him?
Grabbing the lighter and a cigarette from his pocket, Stan flicked the metal open and held the book to the flame. For a second, sparks flew, but then they quickly died out. He wondered if the paper might be flame-resistant, but when he tried with his smoke, the same thing happened. He weighed the lighter in his hand, snapping it closed and then back open again. The fire it produced was a weak, dying light, refusing to fully catch. Just as he had figured, it was out of fuel. He angrily shoved the lighter back into his pocket, swearing under his breath. Instinctively, he put the cigarette to his lips, cursing again when he caught his own mistake. Why did everything always go wrong for him? He decided to run to the local store before he drove himself insane, tucking the book safely into his jacket and resting it against Ford’s glasses.
Stan started his car, and after a short drive, was soon coasting through Gravity Falls. It was early, still dark outside even, but the streetlamps lit up the quaint little town. He sat back in his seat and drove around, looking for the convenience store that he had passed on the way to Ford’s shack.
He had just passed the park when he saw a shadow dart in front of his car, disappearing under the hood. He slammed on the brakes, his heart pounding in his chest as he glanced this way and that. He didn’t think that he had hit an animal. The brief glimpse that he had gotten of the creature told him that. Stan rubbed his eyes, thinking it all over. It was early, around 5:00 or 6:00, and still dark outside. He also didn’t get great sleep the night before because of everything that had happened, so he was probably just seeing things. Deciding to go out and check, Stan was relieved to find that when he crouched down to look, there was no mysterious beast plastered on the road in front of his tires.
He would have shrugged off the incident, but as he straightened back up, he heard a rustle in the trees. He turned fast, staring into the woods. He tucked his hands into his pockets, fitting his fingers into the gold set of brass knuckles that he carried. He slowly stepped towards the bushes, swinging a punch when he got close enough. Immediately, his fist connected with something, something that was alive. He heard a yelp, and then he saw it: a small, bearded man with a red pointed hat running away, deeper into the forest. He was carrying something round and shiny, like a silver plate, and Stan had to squint to recognize it.
“HEY!” He yelled, chasing the creature through the trees. “GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE - ” He leaned over and snatched the gnome up, shaking it roughly. “Shmebulock,” it pleaded, but Stan plucked the hubcap from its hands. “Get lost,” he grunted, dropping him on the ground and watching the small man scamper off. He huffed, irritated yet surprised, ducking under limbs and sticks as he made his way back to the road.
He hadn’t made it far when he heard a twig break behind him. He swore as he turned, expecting to see another creature, but was instead met with the sight of several figures gathered in a circle around him. They were all wearing red cloaks with some sort of crossed-out eye symbol on the hood, walking slowly towards him. The leader stood in front of Stan, and he could see his glasses glinting in the first rays of sunlight.
“We are the… Society,” he started. He had a thick southern accent. “The Society of the…” He seemed to have forgotten the rest of what he was saying, because his words stuttered out, leading to a stiff silence. Someone in the gathering sighed, offering the rest of the sentence. “Blind Eye?”
“Yes! The Society of the Blind Eye.” The man shook his head as if he was shaking off the confusion that was evident before. “And now,” he chanted, “it is unseen.” He took a contraption of sorts out of his cloak, one with a lightbulb fixed to the end. Stan barely had enough time to register the fact that it had a trigger before it was pointed directly at him, close to touching his chest. Acting on instinct, he grabbed the gun and pulled the man forward, twisting it out of his hand. The man crashed into him, his hood falling to his shoulders. Stan was stunned to see that he looked his age, but somehow in a far worse condition. He was skinny and shaking, with thinning blonde hair that was turning white in some places. His eyes were unfocused, wild, and desperate, and he tackled Stan to the ground, trying to wrestle the weapon from his hand.
“Gimme it,” he growled, digging his nails into Stan’s arm. For someone who looked so weak, he was shockingly strong. Stan surveyed the rest of the Society. They had their eyes locked onto the gun as well, and no one seemed too concerned about him hurting their leader in the struggle. Stan raised his clenched fist, his hand connecting with the side of the other man’s jaw. He didn’t flinch as he was hit, he just took the blow and stumbled back to his feet, bruises already forming on his cheek. When the man attacked Stan this time, he sunk his teeth into his arm, hard enough to draw blood.
In pain, he dropped the contraption to the ground, and the other man hurried to get to it. His fingers were inches away from snatching it up when he froze, staring at Stan’s huddled form as if he had seen a ghost. “You… you look…” he tried to find the words, but they didn’t seem to be there. His face dropped as he realized, his eyes torn between Stan’s face and the gun. “Stanford?” He whispered shakily, features contorted in horror. “Is…is that… is that you?”
Stan didn’t respond, instead taking advantage of the disarray. By now he thought that fighting the man was like trying to fight a dog with rabies: he didn’t need to win, he needed to escape, to get away before their leader had lost whatever sense of control had just come over him. He grabbed the weapon, and rather than running with it, he threw it as far over everyone’s heads as he could. The whole Society gasped in disbelief, with every member launching themselves into the brush to retrieve it.
Stan took his chance and ran, as fast as he could, breaking through the branches of the forest. Reaching his car, he fell into the seat, cranked it up, and slammed his foot on the gas. As his tires screeched off the road, he sped through town, blending in with the traffic that had emerged as everyone was going to work. He glanced over his shoulder constantly, trying to ensure that he wasn’t being followed. Forgetting about both his hubcap and the idea of getting groceries, he turned toward the shack, questions of all sorts racing through his mind.
What was it with this town? What was the Society of the Blind Eye? Who was the man in the woods? Why did he recognize Standford? And, above all, how was Poindexter, his nerdy, socially inept twin brother, mixed up in the chaos of Gravity Falls?