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The Mystery and The Isosceles

Ch 6: Aboard the Isosceles

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Mabel and Dipper sat in the small room aboard the Mystery that they'd been given as their own. Dipper was pretty sure only officers were supposed to get their own, but Stan hadn't cared. There were four small cabins other than the captain's, two of each side of a small dining room. One was Soos' and one Wendy's, and now, the third was Mabel and Dipper's. It was much nicer than anywhere they'd stayed since grandpa died, the small space fitting a bunk bed on one end and a shelf and chest on the other. A small blue-tinged window showed the sea through it's lattice, and swafts of fabric hung from the ceiling.

It was nice, but Dipper was still not sure it was right to stay. Great uncle Stan—or grunkle as Mabel had taken to calling him—had told them he'd take care of them for as long as they needed it. They were all that was left of their family. They needed to stick together.

But they were still pirates.

"Yeah, well maybe a pirate's life is for me!" Mabel said, kicking him lightly from where she laid on her back beside him in the lower bunk. A proper mattress definitely beat the hammock.

Dipper sighed, flipping through the journal.

"I wish grandpa had had time to teach me more latin." He changed the subject. "I'm dying to know what this says beyond the bits here and there I understand."

"Maybe Stan speaks it?" Mabel suggested. "Wasn't great grandpa a merchant? If he could afford to have someone teach one of his kids maybe he did it for all of them."

Well, speak of the devil.

Stan showed up in the doorway, looking the room over before leaning against the opening.

"So. You kids settling in okay?"

Mabel looked pointedly at Dipper. He hesitated, before nodding.

"Alright. Well, hey grunkle Stan? Me and Mabel were talking and…" He closed the book and held it up for the old man to see the golden yellow six-fingered hand on the cover. "Well, do you know latin?"

Stan froze in the doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open the slightest bit, as if he'd been punched out of nowhere. On unsteady legs he walked into the room and collapsed sitting onto the mattress beside them.

"Where did you get this?" He asked dimly.

"I found it on that island they left me on, it was buried on the beach."

Stan opened the book gingerly, looking through the first few pages of neat sketches and text until he reached the part where the text became sloppy and scribbled. His hand shook on the pages.

"I think it's research notes. Can you read it?"

"Kid…" Stan breathed. "This was Ford's."

"What?"

Stan took a deep breath to steel himself, as he looked at the first truly sloppily written page—so different from Ford's usually meticulous work—and began translating for his eager audience.

A part of him was overjoyed to have another remnant of his brother. Another part dreaded what he would read.

Ford stared at the man in yellow and felt the air catch in his throat.

"We're researchers for God's sake, not merchants!" The captain of his own ship pleaded emphatically. "We don't have money, we have- we have books, and paper! You can take it if you want but that's all we have!"

Mismatched gold and blue eyes surveyed the frightened faces on deck with marked disinterest. Behind their captain—Bill Cipher, Ford had heard someone call him—his crew waited hungrily for him to make a call. They reminded Ford of a pack of wolves, pacing impatiently.

"Tie them to the mast and burn the ship."

Bill laid down their death sentence with all the emotion of someone deciding what to have for lunch. He turned, waved them off, and began to walk back towards his own ship. Clearly finding no desire to stick around.

"Wait!" The words were out of Ford's mouth before he could stop them. Before he could even think them through.

Bill paused, turning on a heel to see who'd spoken. He landed on Ford, regarding him like he was something caught under the sole of his shoe; insignificant and distasteful, but just the slightest bit curious. Then, it was as if the skies themselves darkened behind him. Bill's golden false eye seemed to flicker alive with a yellow glow. He grinned broadly, displaying wide rows of sharpened metal teeth to match the eye prothesis.

"What?" He asked. In two long strides, he was in front of Ford taking the young researcher's chin in his hand with mock gentleness. "You want to beg?"

Ford flinched, but made himself stand his ground. Like Pa had drilled into him as a child facing bullies, he made a show of squaring his shoulders and blustering. He grabbed Bill's wrist forcefully and pried the hand away from his face.

He bristled outwardly, if only to disguise the tremor that went through him. When his show of defiance didn't get him shot dead on the spot, he pressed on.

"Bargain."

"Interesting!" Bill's voice lilted with impish delight. "And what do you think you have that I'd be interested in bargaining for?"

Shit, he hadn't thought that far. What did he have that he could possibly hold over the head of a ruthless pirate? Everything he had brought with him was already theirs for the picking, not that they'd shown much interest in the cargo the second they learnt none of it was shiny.

Shiny.

The large ship was covered in gold, the captain's garishly yellow coat was lined with gold thread, Ford's eyes kept being drawn to the artificial gold details on his face. The sheer degree of flaunting was staggering.

"There's… There's an island." Ford began hesitatingly.

All his life, he'd been surrounded by scammers. Stanley and Ma and Pa all knew how to spin a convincing lie. He was half convinced any one of them would be able to sweet talk the devil himself into selling them his soul. But Ford didn't have the savvy. He couldn't make something up on the spot, not with everyone's eyes on him and everything at stake.

So, he drew on the first thing that came to mind which happened to be the children's stories his Ma had told him and his twin when they were little.

It was all he had to barter with: His own life, and a fairytale.

"Far from here, tucked away on the open ocean, there's a place teeming with treasure and magic." Ford regurgitated the opening to the bedtime stories practically word for word as he remembered Ma's comforting voice telling them. He tried to imagine she was there, reading them to him. Tried to let that thought block out the fear. "An island, called Port Cascada."

The second Ford said the name, Bill's face shifted from grinning lazily to suddenly alertness.

"The zoological research is a facade. What we're really looking for is that island." Ford lied. He risked a glance at the rest of the crew on his ship, but none of them challenged him.

Fiddleford stared at him with wordless terror. He was silent and still, but the thin man shook through his entire body. He had a wife and child who needed him to return home safely. Ford didn't have anyone waiting for him. Not since Stan-

"If I come with you, guide you to it-" Ford turned back to face the pirates. His voice trembled as he did so. "-you let the rest of the crew leave unharmed."

Silence fell. Even the rushing waves and creaking ship all seemed muted. The members of Bill's crew who'd already begun their approach at his earlier command had paused again, waiting breathlessly as he closed his eyes and thought. Bill drew a deep breath, he'd had no emotion in the earlier decision, but this time Ford swore he could see him actively fighting to compose himself and tap something back down. He succeeded, and when his eyes opened again they were cold and calculating. He scrutinized every part of Ford's face, before nodding once.

"Deal." He extended an open hand towards Ford.

Everything was spinning wildly around Ford's head. He felt ill, like he was about to heave over the side of the ship. His heart was drumming painfully against his ribcage like it was trying to break out, and his skin crawled along his arms. Desperately, he wanted some way out. He wanted to wake up from the nightmare, go back to earlier that very morning when everything had been perfect and the wide open sea had been exhilarating rather than terrifying. He didn't want to shake Bill's hand. Every fibre of his being screamed for him not to.

But if he didn't take the deal, they'd all die. If he did take the deal, only he would die. The answer was obvious, the dilemma trivial. It was one life against fifty.

Ford swallowed hard, and took the outstretched hand. It didn't feel real.

Bill tugged hard, and suddenly Ford's jaw hit the deck. Reality came back to him very abruptly with the pain shooting through him, and he scrambled to turn. There was the taste of metal in his mouth, and one of his teeth felt loose. Ford breathed heavily, his vision swimming behind cracked glasses.

Bill towered over him. Behind him were a sea of shoes and legs. The fact dawned on him that he was trapped with his back up against Bill's men.

"Bind him." Bill ordered firmly. Someone grabbed Ford's arms and pulled him back into a standing position. He wanted to fight, protest the manhandling, but instead he rooted his feet to the floor as best he could and made himself stand still. While someone unseen held firm around his shoulders, a tall broad man circled around to his front and roughly pulled his hands together. The efficiency with which Ford's hands were tied together with coarse rope suggested it wasn't the first time the man did it. The fibers dug into his wrists, scraping and burning against the skin. He breathed shakily through his nose, very pointedly looking at neither man. Despite the instinctive desire to make himself small, he kept his head high. Dignified. Like they were tying the rope around his neck at the gallows. After all, they practically were.

Bill growled and barked orders in the background. It was white noise. Barely even audible through the frantic screaming bouncing off the walls inside Ford's skull.

He searched through the chaos, finding Fiddleford's face again. The man wavered on his feet, like he wanted to do something but had no idea what. There wasn't anything he could do, Ford had chosen his own fate.

He forced the corners of his mouth to quirk upwards. It was a poor imitation of a smile, he was sure. But it was all he could do. He didn't want his friend's last memory of him to be a sheet-pale coward about to fall apart. He smiled, like it wasn't goodbye. He smiled, like a quiet assurance that it was alright.

He'd never see his ship again. Never see his home again. Never see his brother again.

It wasn't alright.

His eyes stung.

At the prompt of a call he couldn't discern, the crowd of pirates began moving back in the direction of their ship. They grumbled amongst themselves with frustration and dissatisfaction, but nobody dared to make their protests loud enough for their captain to hear. He was pushed sharply, the only indication that this was when his feet were supposed to start working again. Ford shuffled along with the crowd.

None of them acknowledged him. The owner of the painfully tight hand at his shoulder never addressed him. They acted like he was nothing more than cargo.

The last glimpse of friendly faces he got before he was forced into the belly of the ship was the vacant expression that decorated Fiddleford's wet face.

Then, the journal Ford had absentmindedly left in his coat pocket was all he had left of normalcy.

Nearly a week passed with Ford keeping up the pretense. He wasn't sure how long he could keep stalling, telling Bill he was calculating coordinates and charting a course would only hold for so long. Though in reality, he wasn't sure why he bothered. In the end, it'd be the same anyways. Bill would find out, and when he did, Ford would die. What was he holding out for? Rescue? Not likely. He might as well just forgo the anxious wait and cut right to it.

But survival was a stubborn thing, and it kept him making excuses and dodging questions. But it wasn't sustainable. Bill would find out. And eventually, he did.

Bill screeched and swore and threw things at the walls. Ford stood in front of him, face down and refusing to speak. The enraged man paced aimlessly, ranting in a voice that barely sounded human. His face, usually stained yellow with icterus, was instead flushed with blood.

The bars of his cell in the brig kept the two men separated, and Ford was acutely aware that was probably the only reason he'd not been physically assaulted yet. Of course, Bill could always just go retrieve the key. It was his ship. But he seemed so incoherent with rage the thought didn't strike him. Instead he just paced near the bars like an agitated animal at a menagerie.

Bill slammed his fist against the door hard enough to make the entire thing rattle and Ford nearly jumped out of his skin at the jarring noise. Bill pressed his face between the metal and snarled.

"What were you thinking?"

Ford clenched his fists at his sides and met the man's eyes. His pipil was tiny and his nostrils flared as he breathed erratically. The clothes he wore were still the same expensive, flashy yellow coat and black vest, but they were rumpled. The light brown hair on his head was sticking out every which way from him running his hands through it, and his gold teeth were grinding against each other. A deep scar across his throat commanded Ford's attention, like someone had tried and failed to slit it. All of him looked unhinged.

"What did you expect was going to happen to you when you pulled that stunt? Did you really think I wouldn't catch on?"

Ford remained rebelliously silent, only infuriating Bill further. He wavered for a moment, stewing in anger, before his hand frantically began searching through his coat. From within the folds of thick expensive fabric, he procured a pistol. Stepping back, he trained the barrel on Ford.

"Alright." Bill said somewhat frantically. "Alright! Fine! So you're useless then! Give me one good reason I shouldn't paint the wall with that useless brain of yours!"

He'd known rescue wasn't coming. He'd known this would be the end result. But Ford trembled anyway and his breathing grew dangerously shallow.

Still. Being shot in the head was a far quicker end than he could have hoped for.

"Go ahead." Ford choked out, hoping his voice came out with the dignified defiance he'd intended, rather than the genuine terror he felt. He stared down the opening of the pistol, expecting a loud bang any second. The same survival instinct that had made him keep up the facade for so long begged him to move; to protect his vitals and take cover behind the scarce furnishings. But he refused. He wouldn't cower. Wouldn't give Bill the satisfaction.

"At this point, my death gains you nothing. My friends are alive—that was all I was after." Ford continued with as much composure as he could manage. "So, do it. I won anyway."

Bill's finger trembled at the trigger. Then, he made another intelligible angry noise and stormed off, leaving Ford alone and—miraculously—unharmed.

Ford had known that wouldn't be the end of it. But another full week passed without a word from Bill. Ford never once saw him again in that time. Other crew members would silently show up to toss him a loaf of bread and something to drink, so apparently Bill still intended to keep him alive. But to what end, he hadn't the faintest idea. The tense unknowingness ate him alive.

Then, at the end of a week and a half, something finally happened.

Ford scrambled to shut the journal he'd been scribbling in and hide it under the plain wooden bench as two men entered the brig. It didn't seem like anyone had caught on that he had the book. If they had, Bill would have almost certainly torn the pages out and burned them in front of him just out of spite. But they hadn't. So as it stood, the journal was his only friend and confidant. Writing about his ordeal at least gave him some empty feeling of control over it. He still missed the comforting weight of the first two, though.

"Get up."

Ford stood without a fight. The cell was unlocked, and both men entered. They looked at him like they were expecting to be met with opposition, but what would be the point in that? Even if he could somehow overpower them both—which, considering his track record when facing bullies, seemed vanishingly unlikely—he had nowhere to go. There was nothing around for miles except the unforgiving ocean.

Heavy iron manacles were clasped around his wrists behind his back as he stood unmoved. Thick fabric was tied over his eyes. One of the men pushed him hard, and with a yelp he stumbled over the threshold. They grabbed one arm each and dragged him. At that, Ford resisted.

"I can walk." He hissed, writhing until they dropped him hard.

"Then walk."

Ford struggled to get back on his feet without the use of his arms, but he'd be damned if he let them drag him like something subhuman. He assumed the reason for the restraints and the blindfold was that they were going to finally execute him, and if that was the case, at least he wanted to face it with dignity.

He was marched out of the brig and through the ship. He heard people standing about, whispering to each other and buzzing with excitement. He tripped and nearly fell at the staircase.

It was night and still dark up on deck, he couldn't even see shadows through the fabric. But the sudden fresh air that hit his face was welcome. He wasn't sure he'd ever feel wind on his skin again. At least he got it one last time.

The men leading him stopped, and he heard knocking and a door creaking open before being made to go blindly inside.

"Ah, would you look at that! The man of the hour!" Bill's grating voice assaulted his ears and made him flinch. He heard footsteps on planks approaching. "Thanks guys."

At that, the hand on his back left and a new one grabbed his upper arm and pulled him close. Before he could even think about resisting, Ford was spun around and slammed hard against the wall by deceptively slight hands.

Ford's face was forced up against cold glass by rough fingers caught in his flyaway curls. The other hand had a firm hold on his cuffed wrists behind his back, keeping him uncomfortably pressed against the hard surface. A door slammed shut somewhere, blocking out the smell of torches and salt, and he was left alone with the captain.

"I figured you might be feeling a little homesick. So I've got a treat for you." Bill cooed into his ear, before the blindfold was torn from his eyes and Ford was finally privy to the view outside the window his cheek was pressed against.

He recognized the port, of course he did. How could he not? It was his home. Tinged by pinkish glass, Gravity Falls slept quietly outside the window.

The first cannonball that ripped through the still night air felt as if it blew a hole through his heart.

Ford screamed.

It was an ugly, guttural, wordless noise of anguish that left him almost against his will.

Bill grinned like a madman, Ford could make out the reflection in the window. His own face stared back in horror, overlaid with the blood red glow of his burning port. The fire danced in Bill's eye, frenzied and hungry. It was difficult to hear anything from outside through the thick wooden walls and the glass, but muffled wailing and howling reached his ears.

The hands on his back and in his hair held him firmly in place even as he thrashed and kicked and tried to break loose. Bill just kept grinning, slamming Ford's face back against the glass every time he managed to squirm loose even an inch.

After that, everything sort of got fuzzy.

What Ford did know was that Bill hadn't killed him, because when he came to the next morning back down in the brig he was bruised and bedraggled but still alive. But that was about the extent of what he could say for sure. He didn't know what had happened, all he knew was that he was still alive and-

And so many people he'd known weren't. Gravity Falls was gone.

"You killed them." He hissed at Bill, stating the obvious.

"We did." Bill insisted. "If it wasn't for you, I would have been perfectly content with only one ship. You did this. You brought the devil to their doorstep."

Ford wished it wasn't true.

But Bill wasn't done—wasn't satisfied.

Ford had mostly been left alone his first two weeks onboard, but now Bill appeared almost daily. Always with some new torture. He'd made it explicitly clear that he still meant to kill Ford, but not until he was bored of him. He'd cheated Bill out of a deal, but he wouldn't walk away empty handed. Even if all he could get was sadistic entertainment. Gradually, the threat of Bill killing him started to feel more like a promise.

Say whatever you would about Bill, but he was creative. More than half of that creativity seemed catered towards causing people pain for his own amusement. In the weeks that came, Ford saw him lash out and attack his own men with reckless abandon for the smallest slights. But a dead crew couldn't work, and so he reined it in. He could see it visibly agonizing him to be forced to use restraint, and so, hurting Ford became the outlet. He was ruthless. If anything, the day he attacked Ford's old ship Bill had been merciful.

Sometimes he heard them attack more people, more places. But at least Bill never again bothered to drag him out of his cell to watch. He hoped that meant none of the casualties were people he knew.

He was so tired of all of it. The scraps of his pride he'd clung onto earlier had been all but beaten out of him. He didn't speak. He barely ate, even when they felt inclined to actually give him food. When they took him from the brig, he let them drag him like a limp corpse.

When he and Stan had been little and running around the harbour, Ford had overheard an old superstition: Seeing an albatross was good luck—seabirds carried the souls of dead sailors back home.

He watched the gulls circling above like vultures waiting for him to die, and wondered if he knew their names.

Sometimes he'd hear gunfire, and a bird would fall to be swallowed up by the sea and the sharks that seemed to always follow the Isosceles. Bill used them as target practice, when the crew protested him taking potshots at them.

"Shooting the bids is bad luck." Ford coughed through a bone dry throat. He looked at the sky, the sun blazing down on him relentlessly. He'd pleaded for water, Bill made him drink seawater.

"What?" Bill asked conversationally. "Would you rather I shoot you?"

"Yes."

Bill grumbled, and called him a downer, before walking off again leaving Ford to bake.

The only break from his monotonous, painful, routine came in the unexpected form of one of said seagulls: A small female, that squeezed its way in through a poorly patched hole in the hull leftover from battle. Admittedly, Ford didn't know much about birds. Yes, he'd been on a zoological research mission, but he'd always hoped to find something yet unknown. Something supernatural. Gulls had been nothing more than loud, mundane, nuisances that woke the crew up early and kept snatching their pencils. But this one was the first non-hostile being Ford had encountered in a month. That alone was enough for him to take a liking to her.

As for how he knew it was a female, on the night he first saw her, she made a nest behind the barrels just outside his cell. Not too long after, that nest housed three eggs. He sketched the bird in his journal, and fed her scraps of his own scarce meals. It didn't matter much if it left him with less. He was all but dead anyways. His beating heart was a formality. Better the one of them with a shot at life get the best possible chance.

Eventually, she even let him touch her, gently running his fingers down her smooth feathers as she sat on her eggs for hours on end. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

But then, the worst happened. Bill saw her.

He shot the bird and stomped on her nest, grinning as Ford begged him not to.

"I thought you'd learn by now. You caring for someone is signing their death warrant."

He laughed, and walked away, and Ford fell to pieces all over again. It was silly. It was irrational. It was just a dumb bird. But it was all he had. He stared emptily at the wet straw and egg yolk that had used to hold the promise of life, feeling tears drip down his cheeks.

Something rolled with the swaying of the ship out from between the barrels. A single egg, having been pushed aside instead of crushed under the boot.

Ford reached between the bars and took it gently, like it was a priceless treasure. It was smaller than the others had been. A single surviving egg out of three. He held it in-between his palms, close to his chest, and cried for it.

He tore pieces from his already ruined clothes and hid it with his journal. The egg grew as the days slogged on through Ford's haze of hurt and loneliness.

When a tiny bird eventually hatched, he childishly named it Stan.

His memories got fuzzy again after that brief window of clarity. Ford had lost count of how long he'd been captive on the ship, but it had to have been months. It was a week before Bill found out he'd lied about that useless fairytale, then one more before Gravity Falls burned. Then everything was a muddle of pain. It had taken the egg a few weeks to hatch, and bird Stan was now old enough to fly. Ford had tried to get him to leave through the same gap his mom had gotten in through once that had happened, but he refused. He stuck by Ford like he was his mother bird. It was all Ford could do to keep him quiet and pray Bill would never find him.

But the gull could fly.

Ford's arms burned. It felt like they'd be pulled their sockets any second and let his mangled body plunge into the stormy sea below. The ship rocked hard every which way with the waves that reached the highest gundeck. Ford hung limp from the golden figurehead at the prow, exposed to the rain and the biting cold.

It had been Bill's idea, as all the worst tortures were.

"I was getting sick of the old figurehead anyway."

Those were his exact words, and without hesitation his crew had complied. Ford had been hoisted over the prow of the ship and tied to the frontward facing mast by coarse ropes around his arms at the elbow where the joint would bend. They'd left him there as the storm rolled in.

The cold winds gnawed on his face like nails being driven into his cheeks. His clothes were soaked and his wet hair dripped into his eyes. Every now and again, a wave would reach high enough to dunk his legs entirely. He was sure it was just a matter of time before something took his feet off when they plunged into the water. Maybe something already had, he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel his hands either for that matter. What he did feel was the rope digging into his arms as it supported his entire body. Yes, he was underfed and weak, but it was still too much weight. The ropeburns were deep enough to bleed. The only faint warmth he felt was the blood trickling down onto his back. He couldn't turn far enough to see, but he imagined that with a few more hours of this the bone would be exposed.

Something landed on his head, skidding clumsily on the wet hair before finding a grip. Its small claws scraped very lightly against his scalp. Ford mustered enough strength to weakly move his head, trying to shake it off before the bird would start pecking at him.

"'M not dead yet…" He groaned.

A pair of white and black wings unfolded over his head, like a tiny umbrella. The seagull cooed worriedly in a familiarly scratchy voice and raked its beak through his hair comfortingly.

"Stan?"

He heard another soft croak in what he assumed was an affirmative.

Really, the bird shouldn't be out there in a storm. He had barely even lost his baby fluff yet. He should be hiding in his makeshift nest inside the ship, where at the very least it was dry. But he wasn't. He was out there with Ford, trying to make it better. Trying to keep the rain out.

That was such an absurdly Stan-like thing to do.

Ford couldn't quite smile, it hurt too bad to move his face. But he closed his eyes just a bit more at peace.

And then a shot rang out.

"No!"

The bird squawked loudly—crying out in shock and pain—and fell from his head despite desperately flapping his wings as he spiraled downwards into the dark water.

Bill howled with laughter, the noise was high-pitched and deranged. Ford wanted to scream and curse Bill out. But he had no energy to do anything of the sort. All that was left in him was pain and hopelessness. He watched the white speck bobbing up and down on the waves and gradually disappearing out of view. Everything was blurry. Why? He'd managed to keep his glasses on.

He should have known better than to let someone in. He should have known better than to care. Bill was right.

Ford destroyed everything he touched.

He stopped thinking after that. Stopped caring. Ford tried his absolute hardest to just resign himself to what was happening. He thought he'd already accepted his fate, but on some level, he'd naively held onto the idea of getting out alive. Completely alone again, he finally let go.

They'd left him hanging from the prow throughout the night. He was cold, wet, and exhausted when he was finally thrown back onto the thin layer of hay on the hard ground in the brig. Considering all of it, along with the lack of anything even resembling proper food, it was perhaps no big shock that Ford grew ill in the aftermath.

His skin was hot and clammy, breathing hurt as his lungs rattled and protested. Occasionally, he was offered water and food by someone he couldn't quite distinguish through the incoherent fogginess of the fever. It was real food, and real water. But he couldn't eat. His body fought viciously against everything except sleep. His heart beat rapidly, as if he was frightened, but he didn't feel scared. He just felt exhausted. Every now and again, the galloping pulse would flutter and skip a beat. It felt like his heart was contemplating stopping.

He tried to write when he felt conscious enough. But the pages all turned out smudged and illegible. What was legible was nearly all of it a ramble of laughably insignificant childhood memories and fantasies of what could have been. It wasn't useful, but it was a distraction.

Bill's crew had never once objected to the torture. But what they did object to, was keeping a sick man with them. There was murmuring amongst the men. Concerns about disease on board floated around.

In the end, that more than anything was what finally made Bill agree to get rid of him.

Ford was carried up to Bill's cabin, just like he had been the night they'd attacked his port. The captain circled him like a shark, and finally gave an ultimatum to settle the debt.

"How about this: You hang in there for one more night, and as soon as the first rays of sunlight break the horizon, I'll let you go." Bill descended on him, taking his jaw in his hands and whispering. "I'll let you die. But I get to do whatever I want with you for the short remainder of your worthless life."

Ford's head was released and dropped slack back against the floor. A gloved hand was extended in his direction as Ford struggled to comprehend. Sluggishly, he moved a hand out from under him. His entire arm trembled, the rope burns were horrifically infected, and he barely managed to lift the hand the few centimetres off if the floor Bill required. He didn't so much shake Bill's hand as briefly brush it with his limp fingers. But it was enough. It was agreement.

He couldn't quite tell if the feeling that washed over him was relief or dread.

After the fact, Ford would say that he couldn't remember those last few hours. It was partially true, so much of it was just a blur. But even the parts he did remember, he didn't want to think about. Had he been given the option, he would have gladly erased everything about those months on the ship, and slipped away blissfully ignorant.

He remembered pain and fear. And then, he remembered morning light. He remembered the promise of respite it gave him.

Ford was hauled up on deck and thrown off on a beach. Sand clung to his hair and cheek as he lay on the shore unable to even lift his face. Bill threw him a pistol, patronisingly congratulating him for keeping his end of the bargain this time, and left him there.

A part of him was surprised Bill didn't want the pleasure of killing him, but the other knew that making Ford choose between doing it himself or slowly succumbing to exposure would be far more distressing. He watched the ship slowly sail away, leaving him with nowhere to go and no way to escape. The birds that seemed to always flock the masts of the Isosceles stayed with him. Some of them hopped close while others watched from trees and rocks. Even more sailed around and around above. Uncharacteristically, all of them were silent as they watched him. It was probably just the fever speaking, but the birds seemed almost solemn.

It was nice of them, waiting until he actually expired before scavenging the body.

The metal of the gun glinted invitingly with early morning sunshine. Gathering the last of his strength, Ford reached for the handle. He wanted it to end.

From within the folds of the quiet congregation of seabirds, a gratingly shrill and hoarse cry sounded. A blur of white shot forwards, landing gracelessly on the barrel of the pistol and pecking Ford's finger hard enough to make him wince and pull back.

Shrieking angrily as if scolding him and flapping one of its wings furiously was a young gull, and Ford's heart all but stopped right there as he recognised the tuft of feathers on its head and the scratchy screeching.

How was Stan alive?

One of his wings hung uselessly at his side, the fragile bird bone crippled by an ugly bullet hole still stained black from gunpowder. But the wound looked healed as best it could. The wing barely moved with the other, but the fact that he'd somehow survived both the plunge into the water and the injury…

"Stan." Ford choked. "Just… It's okay. You don't need me anymore. You'll be fine."

The bird protested loudly, almost as if he actually understood what Ford was saying. His flipper feet fidgeted agitatedly at the metal under him, trying to kick sand up over it. Ford weakly tried to reach again, but again his fingers were pecked almost hard enough to draw blood. Some of the birds were starting to fly off, scattering in different directions.

The bird didn't need Ford anymore. He was old enough to take care of himself, he clearly had managed after Bill shot him. Even if he needed him, there wasn't much Ford could do anymore. He had only two options available, and those were a slow agonizing death or a quick messy one. But… Looking at the wide eyes of the young bird staring at him pleadingly, he couldn't do that. Couldn't scare him, making him watch him shoot himself. It'd be more merciful on himself, but it would hurt someone else even worse.

"Okay…" Ford breathed, taking his hand back all the way and curling up on his side, trying to make himself as small as possible. There was the shade of the treeline a few meters off, but he didn't think he'd be able to drag himself that far. He closed his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. "Okay, I won't."

A small ball of feathers burrowed in-between his arms, pressing up against the crook of his neck. The bird croaked mournfully, brushing the sand from Ford's face with his beak.

Ford didn't expect to ever wake up again. But against all odds, he did. It was all very murky at first. He remembered voices, he remembered being firmly but gently made to drink something warm while barely consciously. He remembered the raw terror as hands touched his wounds and the image of Bill superimposed on the stranger. But the voice was distinctly female, and that was a small comfort. He heard squawking fading in and out.

Through the distortion, he heard reassurance that he would be alright, mumbled chants to some creature whose name he couldn't pronounce, and flashes of comforting memories of a brother he'd not seen in almost ten years.

Eventually, the fog that had rolled in over his mind faded gradually. The image of the real Stanley dissolved, leaving Ford staring at a gull with a broken wing perched on his bedpost.

Jheselbraum had honestly not expected the man to survive past that first morning.

His skin was covered in deep lacerations, some crudely cauterized and majority infected. Several ribs seemed broken, his face was bruised, he was running a dangerously high fever from probable blood poisoning and showed signs of both dehydration and malnutrition. There were rope burns on his wrists, but those were not nearly as concerning as the deep red gashes around the inner part of his arms. For a while, she'd wondered if the best course of action would be removing the damaged tissue altogether. But with the fragile state he was in she didn't dare. There was no sense in causing him even more distress when the risk was so high it would be too late regardless.

The man's injuries were horrific. It took days before she couldn't even tell if what she was doing was saving his life, or just easing his passing.

It wasn't that she was inexperienced with tough cases, she'd been a healer for many years, tending to all those whom nobody else would help. But usually when someone was very ill or severely injured they were so by unfortunate happenstance. It's women who'd had complications from childbirth, or men who'd been maimed in work accidents, or children who've been afflicted by unfortunate but commonplace diseases. It was very rare that she encountered someone so badly hurt intentionally.

It made her blood boil behind the professional bedside manner.

Still, she did what she could. It was hard to treat him when he was so out of it, any time she hovered a bit too close he flinched. The first time she'd cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she'd had to physically hold him down to stop him hurting himself further as he tried to escape the perceived threat. That should have been harder than it was, but he was gaunt and weak. He seemed somewhat comforted when she spoke, so she did. She spoke of her day, of chores, and insignificant nothings. She calmly narrated what she was doing as she did it.

A young gull sat at his bedside at all times, keeping watch while he fitfully slept. It regarded her every move like a hawk as she worked.

It had been the birds that led her to him abandoned on that beach. They'd circled high above the small stretch of land like a hurricane of wings; impossible to miss. She'd been interrupted in preparing her morning meal by one of the birds tapping incessantly at her window. Unperturbed, she'd opened the window to share some bread with it assuming it was simply drawn by her food. But it continued tapping at the glass as soon as she turned back away. She looked again, and suddenly there were two of them, sitting on her windowsill staring intently.

She stepped out into the morning air, and they took flight only to land again and stare back at her. That was when she spotted the flock, barely visible in the distance.

Jheselbraum had thought she was too late at first. The young man lying listless in the sand looked dead. But she spotted his chest rising and falling very slowly, and brought him back with her.

It took days, but—praised be the Axolotl—the man finally awoke.

Ford had no idea what to do now. He left Jheselbraum without much of anything to his name. He had his journal still in his coat, and his bird on his shoulder. She'd given him new clothes to replace his old destroyed ones, and bartered a place on a ship back to his childhood home for him. The people respected her, it seemed most everyone in the area knew someone who's life she'd saved. He supposed he counted amongst their ranks now.

The voyage was long, but eventually he'd reached his old port. The same one he and Stan had played in amongst the clamor and the ships. It looked the same, but it felt wrong. Too large and loud without his brother at his side. His own childhood playground shouldn't feel so overwhelming and threatening.

Nervously, he walked down the rows of homes and businesses tensing up and flinching at the shouts of merchants. He wanted to flee from it, but he steeled his resolve and kept walking until he finally reached the house he recognised the most.

He'd hoped for comfort. For Ma to reassure him and for the familiar rooms to offer safety. He'd hoped for his big brother, hugging him right and promising to keep him safe. He'd hoped for news of where Stan was, determined to track him down and set right what had gone so horribly wrong.

Instead he found strangers in his home, and two new graves in the local cemetery.

The neighbors told him his parents had passed not too long ago, and Sherman had left for lands unknown. Nobody had seen Stan. Filbrick told them he'd gone after Ford, and died doing it. Ford had nothing to come home to.

Everything he'd had before Bill was gone.

He made a new goal for himself that day. Jheselbraum had told him she thought Bill was inhuman. Ford certainly agreed. He wasn't a person, he was a monster.

And Ford was going to find a way to put that monster down.

Stan read the final page of the journal aloud, Staring emptily at the page.

With this, I return to where he left me to die and bury this book. I'm still alive, but the man I was before him died here. It seems a fitting memorial. I don't need painful memories and naively optimistic research.

I need revenge.

Stan shut the leather bound tome heavily, breathing hard to keep from breaking with the kids so close.

Ford was alive.

At least, he'd survived Bill.

"So… Bill lied?" Dipper asked hesitantly.

“Bill is a liar." Stan agreed. "But when he lies, there's no consistency. He never bothers to remember which lie he told whom. He’s told me about Ford. Over and over and over again; all the goddamn graphic detail he can. Bastard thinks it’s funny.” His shoulders trembled. “Thirty years, his story hasn’t changed. He doesn't know.”

He looked at the children, regarding him with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.

"We're coming up on Gravity Falls." He told them. "Fiddleford. We need to talk to Fiddleford."