TW: Attempted Suicide

The next thing Stanford knew, he was laying on his bunk bed. He jumped in terror, and very nearly avoided falling off. He laughed and called down to his brother, "Stanley? Are you awake?"

There was no reply.

The memory of what happened the previous night hit him so hard he thought he was going to throw up. He killed Stanley. Ford killed his own brother! The very one he swore to protect.

That knowledge filled him with a sense of despair that he had never felt before. He felt all the life drain out of him, and he lay limply on his bed. He couldn't move if he wanted to. He certainly couldn't cry.

Murderers don't deserve to cry.

After a while of laying down and feeling sorry for himself, he sat up. Ford seemed to move on autopilot as he climbed down the ladder of his bed and started walking out of the room, as if in a trance.

He noticed that his steps were taking him out of the interior and onto the deck. He decided to let his feet take him there.

As soon as he got on the deck, the cold air nearly took his breath away. After a second though, he became just as impervious to it as he was to everything else.

He noted that his feet were taking him closer to the edge of the boat, Good. He thought darkly.

He was too distracted to notice that Stan's body was no longer on the ground. He was too distracted to notice the voice calling up to him. All that mattered in his mind was that he killed his brother, and he had to pay the price.

Meanwhile, Stan was just finishing breakfast. He frowned at their bedroom door. Poindexter never slept this late. Hell, his brother rarely ever slept at all, "Ford! Breakfast is done! Get in here before it gets cold, or I eat your share!" He called.

There was no response. Stan frowned, and went to their room. He opened the door to find his brother missing.

That worried him slightly. He definitely remembered seeing Ford still asleep when he woke up. Maybe he was on the top deck! Yeah, he must've snuck past without Stan noticing.

He walked upstairs and rolled his eyes. When he opened the door he called, "C'mon, Sixer! You can do your nerd stuff after- FORD?!" He looked up and noticed his brother standing on top of the ship's railing.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest as he ran to his brother, and it stopped when he saw him fall over the edge.

Luckily, by some miracle of God, Stan got there in time to catch his brother's wrist.

Ford cried out in pain, and Stan hauled him back onto the ship. By the time Ford was safely on the deck of the ship, Stanley was already yelling at him.

"What the hell was that, Sixer?! Why would you try to kill yourself, ya damn idiot! I can't believe- Oof!" He was suddenly being tackled in a hug by his brother.

Ford was sobbing into his shoulder, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

Stan didn't know what he was apologizing for, but he instinctively comforted him, "Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm fine. I'm right here. I didn't go anywhere," He whispered soothingly.

"I k-killed you Stanley! You d-d-died in my arms," Ford sobbed.

Stan rubbed soothing circles into Ford's shaking back, "It was just a dream. You just had a nightmare. I know you would never hurt me," He said.

Ford stiffened, and Stan held him at arms length to get a better look at him, "What's wrong?" He asked.

"Is this real? Are you real?" He asked.

Stan nodded, "Uh, yeah. Of course I'm real," He said.

Ford sniffed, "That sounds like something a hallucination would say," He said.

Stan rolled his eyes, "I'm real…" He said, though his voice distorted halfway through the reassurance.

Suddenly, Ford found himself floating in a different realm. There was no gravity, and the air was kaleidoscopic in color. It changed colors and patterns in a way that was disorienting, but not nauseating.

"Where am I? What's going on?" He demanded.

A deep, echoing voice said, "That is up to you to figure out,"

"Who are you? Are you God?" He asked.

The voice chuckled, "No. I'm simply an ambassador," He said.

"What is real?" He asked.

"Nothing. Everything. It's up to you," He said.

"That doesn't make any scientific sense!" Ford protested.

The voice laughed, "Not all science makes sense, Stanford,"

"What is happening? Am I losing my mind? Am I dead?" He asked.

The voice spoke, "It depends on how you look at it?"

Ford was getting annoyed, "Can you give me a straight answer?" He demanded.

"Oh? But how can I do that when nothing in the universe is straight?" He asked innocently.

Ford glared, "Listen, buddy, I'm not here to play games with you. I'm here to figure out what's happening to me!" He snapped.

"You'll find out, soon enough, Stanford" The voice promised vaguely.

That word began echoing through the area, in the voice of everyone he's ever heard, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford.

Images started flashing through his mind of the two different realities. Sometimes he was the murderer Ford, sometimes he was the fantasy Ford, the two realities slowly blending until he could hardly tell the difference anymore.

Then, a deafening voice shouted, "Nothing is real!"

Stanford awoke to his brother's body cradled in his arms, then when he blinked, it was the opposite way. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the sins of the other Ford.

He could barely hear Stan as he scrambled backwards on his hands and knees to get away from him.

The last thing he could register in his lucid memory was his haunted eyes meeting Stan's and his desperate plea, "I don't know what's real anymore,"

The last thing he heard before everything went black was Bill, I'm watching you!