Chapter Text
A quiet, rhythmic flipping of pages.
Turn, flip, silence, turn, flip, silence.
The carriage rocked gently, but the lone figure sitting to one side barely registered it in his focus. His seat was specially chosen – a little backwards from the centre of the compartment: near enough to both sides to hear movement and voices beyond either set of doors, not too close to either one in case of an event (though, if there was one, he set his bets on the door behind him. There were more carriages ahead of him, more places for people to come from. Behind may have seemed obvious from the eyeline advantage, but experience told him the back of a train was rarely considered as an escape route like the front or sides were.) He was positioned directly next to the window, angled so he got just the right amount of reading light without it being too strong such that he would get eyestrain, or that he would be so illuminated that his darkened figure would immediately draw the eye of anyone who did stumble into the carriage.
Aside from the sound of paper and wheels on track, everything was silent: the ideal amount of white noise for focus. Perfect.
Reaching the end of the document, Stanford sat back and sighed a little in contentment. It had been a moment since he’d just sat with himself in comfort, hadn’t it? The delays on the journey meant he’d unexpectedly found himself drowned in free time, despite his meticulously selected reading materials which he anticipated keeping him occupied the whole trip. Not a moment wasted. He let out a second, less contented breath. Until now, of course.
He checked his watch again and scowled a bit. Another 47 minutes.
You should always predict unpredictability. A voice rang through his mind. Better to overprepare than underprepare.
Irritated, he mentally swatted the voice away. If he couldn’t read something new, he figured, he may as well review what he did know. The board in his mind spread out in front of him, a beautiful, chaotic web of linked information. He began following through it like a maze.
Destination: Gravity Falls, Oregon. A relatively small city which has undergone rapid urbanisation in recent years, raising its population to somewhere around 150-250k. Less than ideal upkeep, neglected by government – perfect grounds to take advantage of. Isolated position – slower movement of provisions, likely tighter-knit circles. Figures of power will likely have an advantage here.
He stepped past, following the string to the next point, which sprawled out every direction from ‘My Directive’.
Goal: root out the core of the ‘Enigma Co.’ crime organisation, disassemble the structure of power by removing leadership. Use momentum to dissolve the remaining branches across the country. A power structure so fiercely maintained is doomed to collapse when its central figures are no longer able to command respect.
Method: any means necessary: civilian lives are at stake. Noted to the side, he acknowledged the harried extra context. Preferred, however, is live capture. Less trouble with department, more information, personal benefit.
Advantages: additional resources at disposal, fresh recruits as backup (recently trained, eager to get into action), experienced backline (office approved F and E-M for transfer at his request), degree of surprise (nobody here knew his face or name), new technology (long nights preparing with F bought him some new… experimental tools to aid in his investigation.)
Threats: unknown territory, city of base operations (likely more dangerous members centralised), public awareness (their previous takedowns hadn’t exactly been subtle, nor the order for Gravity Falls to have a crack down on law enforcement), criminal power (in a city like this, civilians are more likely to be frightened into compliance or already be indebted, by lieu of its isolated nature; the enemy assuredly had the home advantage over him.)
He looked back down to the papers in his hands, weaving the information into his understanding of the group congruent with his past experiences with them.
Enigma Co. - founded seemingly as a secret society, grew out across more illegal domains (no doubt due to the leadership’s craving for power). Originated in Gravity Falls, with branches quickly spreading across the country. Very effectively organised, with a lot of money running throughout. Absorbs smaller criminal groups where it visits (due to aforementioned money), establishing its own ‘monopoly’ over crime within areas. Criminal activity is marked by a golden Eye of Providence symbol – no doubt as remnant from its early days as a secret society.
The Eye of Providence – divine, guidance, protection. The symbol one might use to position themselves as a figure of trust, as undoubted authority. All signs point towards a leader with a large ego, a need for power, admiration; control. Easy to wager they’re the underhanded sort – a conman, positions themselves as far more benevolent than they are, whilst awaiting their victim’s turned backs.
Stanford’s nose scrunched at the thought. It’s not so much that he didn’t think he could handle that sort of figure, per se – but they definitely weren’t his favourite.
Ford could easily pass himself off as a ‘people person’ – if he really, really put his mind to it. But that’s all it was – passing off as something he’s not. Years on the job, studying psychology and looking to E-M for guidance on behavioural tells had left Ford in a place where he might viciously dissect someone’s psyche. Truly, he had gotten great at constructing mental profiles for different characters without second thought. He could read small twitches in body language, identify what emotion they should line up with, and connect them together in the web of his mind. He was great at spotting lies – provided he had context for them. It was all a game of picking up inconsistency above all: why should a person feel nervous talking about day-to-day activities? They’re probably actually nervous for a reason they won’t disclose. Their story changes day to day? Easy. Pick the thread, pull it, and watch it unravel. A story was just a report, a line of data to code and pick inconsistencies in. Lying simply wasn’t as easy as telling the truth – and much less keeping lies consistent. In much the same vein, people’s personalities would typically show themselves despite attempts to suppress them – a person who presents themselves as meek and quiet, but who slips into booming vocalisations in a panic, one might assume, would need to be loud a lot more often to even produce such shouts without their voice breaking. Ideals even – the small scrunch of disgust in someone’s nose as they speak abhorrent morals as if they were their own, or someone unable to make eye contact when they say they’re sorry. These things Ford understood.
However, Stanford was not a people person. And a vast majority of these deductions would be made by his unnerving, unrelenting gaze as he stared and examined and catalogued a person whilst they attempted to communicate with him. He could suppress this habit, he just… wasn’t able to focus on both at once. And that’s not to mention his own body language – constantly tensed, coiled like a spring about to bounce. He had good reason for it! When people realised who they were dealing with, there were good odds that he would be in danger; he had to talk to the least trustworthy people in America all day every day! He had to be constantly ready to strike out, catch a runner or defend himself. It was only rational. …And he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing it. No, communication itself was not a strong suit of his.
He dragged a hand down his face. No, he was great at the deduction side of social interaction. But without context? Without awareness of a person, their tells, their motives? Without giving himself away? Let’s just say F and E-M had on multiple occasions needed to… step in when he had taken someone a little too earnestly at face value.
It’s fine! When he knew he was facing off against a charismatic sort of profile, he just needed to keep one phrase in mind to protect himself against his own foolishness. Trust No One.
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It started out as a hobby. Well, a hobby suggests something a lot more… enjoyable? Sane? Than what he was doing.
It was a pretty standard day sitting in his dorm back at BMU when Ford’s gaze was idly drawn to the TV in the corner. This moment would change the entire trajectory of his life.
His own face stared back, with egregious facial hair and a showman’s smile, advertising some of the worst products he had seen or heard of. Who approved for these slogans??? Who let him on TV to begin with?!? For a moment he was simply agape, and then for another his body stirred with the bubbling magma of rage which threatened to erupt. He was pretty sure he would have exploded there and then, if something extra didn’t catch his eye first, cutting off all his present thoughts of TRAITOR, LIAR, SABOTEUR, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU---
A bruise. It was very well hidden, and a very specific angle of camerawork, but Ford had always been far to observant for his own good. And far too curious, too. He scrambled upright, grabbing the remote and pushing the commercial into rewind. It took him several tries, a lot of frustrating coordination of sight and delayed signal, as well as the mixed feelings of staring intensely at his brother’s digital face, but he eventually caught a frame-perfect moment where the injury was both well-lit and spread more clearly out in mid-motion.
He studied it furiously. It sat around Stan’s forearm, angry and purple – slightly patchy around multiple points of compression. He felt his stomach sink, retaining his uncanny stare into the TV screen. This was not a natural bruise. The shape looked reminiscent of a hand, and Ford winced as the visual flashed across his mind – someone clutching his brother that way, tight enough to leave a mark that bad. He felt like he was going to throw up.
But he didn’t. He rose to his feet, and sprinted.
“FIDDS! I NEED TO BORROW YOUR CAMERA!”
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The damn thing ended up keeping a near-permanent residence on Stanford’s desk, much to Fiddleford’s frustration. But it wasn’t like he was getting nearly the use out of it that his roommate was – to the extent that it seemed far more logically at home there, settled among his numerous sticky notes and printed pictures.
He knew that his best friend could get… obsessive about things when he got really into them. He certainly wanted to support him through this – family was a complicated matter, and it wasn’t like Ford was particularly… hurting anybody. Despite this, he couldn’t help but grimace at the wall across from his bed which looked nothing short of a horror movie stalker’s murder-board.
The monstrosity of paper and string spanned a majority of Stanford’s wall, even beginning to turn the corner onto the next adjacent wall in some areas. Pictures, locations, dates – he’s pretty sure a comprehensive timeline weaved itself through the middle- all surrounding one man.
Ford wasn’t especially forthcoming about his twin previously. In fact, he hadn’t really mentioned his family to Fiddleford at all before that point. Then suddenly, one day, the man’s brother became the main art instillation across the room – his eyes watching him from any given angle as he studied, ate, fell asleep… and look, hey – he got it. He really did. Ford was worried about his brother. He heard him talk through his nightmares, where he muttered to ‘Stanley’ and ‘Pa’ and begged under his breath and said sorry (a word Fidds was not overly familiar at hearing him say) over and over. He believed his brother was in trouble, somewhere across the states and being hurt. He really understood his anxiety.
At the same time, if Ford took one more multi-hour pace around the room, eyes wide, chewing his pen and muttering rapidly under his breath like a goddamn conspiracy theorist, Fiddleford might just lose his last shred of sanity. He loved him, but by GOD-
“-NEW MEXICO!!” Fiddleford looked up and blinked, train of thought interrupted by his manic-looking roommate.
“wh…” Fiddleford rubbed his eyes, already anticipating the headache he was about to get, “Ford what on earth are you talkin’ about?”
“HE’S IN NEW MEXICO!” Ford threw his hands up, before slapping a hand on a map of the states he had taped up on the wall. His chest was puffed up in pride. Fidds recognised anywhere the look in his eyes which accompanied Ford experiencing one of his breakthroughs.
… which meant, undoubtedly, he would be riding this high for multiple hours. Fiddleford sighed, paced across the room, and began setting up to make himself a cup of coffee, before he turned back to Stanford with a tired smile.
“Well go on, then. I can see yer buzzin’ ta fill me in.” Ford’s eyes practically sparkled with the spoken permission to talk at length about his deductions. In spite of the tiredness, Fidds’ chest swelled with affection towards this dumbass-genius force of nature before him.
And talk at length Ford did! He didn’t miss a single beat, speaking rapidly in a way which Fidds was surprised didn’t leave him utterly breathless by the end of it. He talked at length about the names which Stanley seemed to switch between at any given commercial, the many radio stations he tried to scan through – calibrating to one end of the country or other to narrow down where his brother’s reach started or ended or where the localisation was particularly strong. He even tried his hand at analysing the speech patterns and pronunciations through the many, short commercials – just to see if he picked up any sorts of regional dialect quirks. He went through detail after detail in his triangulation of his twin, seeming to lose no energy in the process, before Fidds finally decided that he had talked in enough circles about technicalities regarding his hypothesis which he proudly announced he was “EIGHTY PERCENT CERTAIN ABOUT! …approximately”
“-Stanferd. Stanferd.” He finally caught his roommate’s attention, watching his chest begin to quickly rise and fall as his body seemed to catch up with the idea of needing oxygen.
“ah?”
“This is all great. Really it is, very impressive work,” Fiddleford gestured up at the insane board and circled state on the map, “but- uh- what were you thinking you would do with this information?”
Ford paused for a moment, lifting a finger and inhaling to speak, before both seemed to fall away as understanding flashed in his eyes. They finally tore away from Fiddleford as he turned, finger retreating to his chin, and stared downwards in intensity that could burn through the floor.
Fidds feared that perhaps, as he often did, Ford had wrapped himself so heavily in the excitement of solving a puzzle that he had forgotten to consider the reason for solving it. Almost too enraptured in the thrill of the chase to consider the anticlimactic end when he finally caught up to his answers.
“…if,” Ford spoke up, more quietly than Fidds expected, his deep voice quietly cutting through the silence which had settled, “if I find him then… then I could bring him home.”
Well. Shit. If that agonised look on his friend’s face didn’t break Fiddleford there and then, the small break in his usually steady voice might as well just have finished him off. He reached up a hand on instinct, wanting to soothe that hurt any way possible, as his own chest panged.
“If… If-if someone’s been hurting him th-then…” Ford almost choked out now, startling Fidds backwards a bit as he felt his eyes widen. Oh GOD. He was haunted by the sudden realisation that he had never seen Stanford Pines cry and adrenaline overtook him as every neural pathway for protection and comfort lit up in an electrical fire of signals. His hands darted up, down, around. Uh- Coffee, blankets—Tissue?? Fuck, what do I do—
“I… I, I,” Stanford stuttered, lacking his usual eloquence with shuddering shoulders, “It’s- it’s my fault… he- I- I should have, I-“
Fidds’ chest was effectively caved in. He had rushed around Ford, fussing over him, but he couldn’t handle the way he looked so distraught, like he’d seen the light leave all his favourite constellations, the galaxy evaporating into nothingness.
“I should’ve helped,” he whispered, as tears finally ran down, “I- I thought he’d… he’s…” his eyes widened and then scrunched shut with a whimper, “he’s always been so… strong, I-“
Fiddleford wrapped his arms around him, trying to squeeze and apply pressure the way he knew was most comforting to Ford when he was getting stuck in his own head. He was about ready to start crying too, damn it.
“Hey-hey now,” he rubbed circles into his back, “ya didn’t know, ‘sides it sounds like he was a real force ‘a nature last you saw ‘im, so-“ he tried to reassure.
“He was just a kid, Fidds,” Ford choked. His friend stilled a bit, trying to bite back his instinct to join him in that anguish, “he was just a kid and- and I let him be pushed out of the house- I- I thought… I don’t know I- I don’t know that I thought. I don’t know if I did think I was just—I was so mad but. If I had thought, back then—then, I would’ve—I could’ve-“
“Hey now.” Fiddleford suddenly spoke with all the confidence he had wanted to muster this entire time, “if he was a kid, then so were you.”
“You don’t get it Fidds-!” he whined again between sobs, “I didn’t- I didn’t help. I could’ve said something- Pa wasn’t mad at me he- he might’ve listened and then—”
“Stanferd.” Fiddleford kept his voice steady and strong, sitting somewhere reassuring and stern in its cadence. “You were a kid. You were mad, and yer Pa sounds like a right piece ‘a work. I dunno that he would’a listened to ya. From how ya described him, I wouldn’ be surprised if there wasn’ a part ‘a ya who weren’t afraid to speak up.”
Fidds shook his head, gaining more resolve as his anger flared up behind his demeanour, “I dunno what kinda father kicks his own kid out to the curb, but he was the one who did it. Not you. Ya didn’t call tha shots in that house- and with how ya talk about it, I would bet that if ya did, ya wouldn’ta made the same call about it.”
Stanford shook for a little, silently. The cogs turning and processing were almost audible through his skull, smoke nearly pouring out his ears as he tried to process and decide the weight those words bore in the guilt which had enveloped him.
Fiddleford sighed. “It’s a lotta take in at once. ‘m sorry fer bringing it up now. ‘ts a rotten situation, but I can tell ya love him – ‘n whatever ya decide, I’ll help ya. Even give yer pops a stern talkin’ to.”
Fidds cracked his knuckles, trying to be encouragingly intimidating to back up his words. Sure, he wasn’t the most bulked out form, but he reckoned he could hold his own. At the very least, he was darned tall, and he could leverage that. Well, it didn’t work as well as he anticipated perhaps- he heard Ford snicker out a bit ahead of him. It was a weak noise, not yet freed from the tears gathering in his eyes, but Fidds’ chest flared with warmth as he smiled softly. He didn’t mind his genuine attempt being snickered at, not if it restored any ounce of hope to Ford’s face. He crouched back down next to him.
“An’ I wasn’ kidding, neither. Yer skills with all ‘a this,” he gestured up to the wall, flourishing his arm, “it’s mighty incredible, Stanferd. An’ ya did it all ta check up if your brother were okay. Yer a good brother, I reckon, at the end ‘a the day. Sometimes it just ain’t easy to consider things when a person’s outta sight outta mind, yeah? So don’t go beatin’ yerself up about it.”
He patted Ford on the arm again, gazing upwards at the stalker-murder-board again – this time with perhaps a bit more appreciation than he held for it when his only associations to it was his lack of post-its and his camera being held hostage. He chuckled a bit, “ya know, this ain’t half shabby. Reckon there’s a great lotta detectives who wish they had yer skills. I don’ reckon I could make even half the observations an’ er, associations that ya seem ta have just,” he gestured up again “pieced together. Effortlessly. I know yer head’s all up in the clouds with yer biology an’ anomaly sciences right now- but if ya really did wanna follow more PhDs down, I reckon you could try yer hand at Forensics or the like.”
Fiddleford was mostly trying to uplift his friend and express his admiration with those words, but when he turned back to look back at Ford’s face he could find no words to describe what he saw short of the madness of inspiration, thought so powerful it could rip through space and time. He felt an involuntary shudder almost run up his spine for a moment, as he realised that, perhaps, this wouldn’t be the last he saw of that line of thought.
After all, when Stanford Pines set his mind on something, he chased it relentlessly.