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(Around the zodiac, Stan could feel everyone's eyes on him. He shut his own in retaliation. Jerks.
"...Grunkle Stan, that wasn't- you- is that…?" Dipper's questions jumped over each other, but before he could pick which one he wanted to start with, other people interrupted him.
"Yo, that wasn't funny." Wendy commented.
Soos squeezed his hand. Stan sighed, before looking up at the kid. He wore a very serious frown on his face, expression grave. "Dude, as a fellow Jesus, that's not something I think ANY god would approve of."
Around their little circle, he kept seeing eyes. They seemed to double over each other, each one trained on him. Blues and greens and greys and browns, all staring at him.
His skin began to prickle. He wanted to let go.
That's all it would take to end this, right? Just let go of either Ford or Soos' hands and the circuit would be broken, and he could get away from this nightmare.
Instead, he slammed his eyes shut, gripping their hands tighter.
He could do this. He wasn't gonna mess it up.
Everyone was counting on him.
The circle lit up once more as another memory began to play. Stan could see it moving behind his eyelids, but he didn't open them. Not until he realized the only sounds he could hear were the rustling of grass and crickets. Curiosity won, and he glanced up. Which one was…?
Oh. Right.
This time, he opted not to say anything, just taking a deep breath and hoping he could disappear before the clipshow ended.)
- - - - - - - - -
The slit on his neck could be hidden well enough with a high collar and a bowtie. After he'd escaped that weird Jesus-cult, he was on the move now more than ever. He didn't spend more than a few days in any given town before he was skipping to the next one, which was a business strategy that meant he didn't get run out very much, even if he didn't get many sales. Still, he was performing better than he had in a while, so that was something.
He just needed to get somewhere new, and then he'd look for his next big break.
So, now he was gradually heading west.
At first, it'd been a mad dash, crossing into the next state in a matter of hours, but after a couple days, he started making more wide circles around states, heading a bit more westward each time until he hit another town.
He'd just crossed into Oklahoma a couple hours ago, and found a place on the side of the road to stop for the night. He was in the middle of the country- while he could see the lights of a town not too far off a couple hours ago, almost all lights had been turned off by now. It was well past midnight.
Stan blinked, squinting. It'd been super cloudy the past few days, making it hard to see the stars. While he wasn't usually too bothered by it, tonight he found himself wishing for them, so he could at least give himself something to do.
The stars had changed a lot since he'd left home. He didn't need a chart to realize that.
Which constellations were above him now? Would he recognize them, after all this time? Would he still remember their stories, or had he left those behind? Thinking on it now, he could only recall a small handful off the top of his head.
The cicadas were really loud this time of year.
Stan groaned, rolling over to rest his face on his upper arm, sighing. He watched the field around him instead, lightly transfixed by the rippling grass as the breeze played with them. It was hard to see this late at night, but the dancing colors and movement drew his tired eyes.
Usually, he'd be asleep by now. This was nothing he wasn't used to by now, and there was no-one around. The nearest town was still miles away. He was safe.
So why did he feel so… uneasy?
Something wasn't right. His instincts were telling him to stay on high alert, but he couldn't really pin down why. The air was dry, if windy. It was cloudy. It was warm. Nothing he wouldn't expect from the middle of the country, from what the movies have told him.
Had he been followed? By who? If it was those weird cult-guys, they had plenty of opportunities to grab him again and hadn't done it yet, so unless they had legendary patience, it probably wasn't them. But then who…?
A cool breeze blew from behind, sending a chill up his spine. He shivered, curling in on himself more. He'd have been content to stay on top of his car, if not for the next several cooler winds in quick succession, followed by a much stronger wind hitting him in the front, even if it was warm.
"Fine, FINE, geez," he grumbled, sitting up. He slid off the car, landing feet-first in the dirt below him, and was nearly bowled over by a strong gust of warmer wind.
As soon as the door shut behind him, the breeze was locked out, but the sounds remained. The wind whistled past, rocking the car lightly on its wheels in a way that made it seem almost haunted. Stan groaned, long and tired, letting his head drop back onto the seat and covering his ears to get SOME semblance of rest. If he was going to have ANY hope at making a good first impression on this town, he needed to be ready to smile for several hours, and that was NOT happening with this damn wind blowing his car around.
Though… in a way, the car's repeated rocking motion was comforting. It was like how he imagined sleeping on the…
Well. Without the screeching of axles every time the wind got a little aggressive. But the feeling was close enough that he actively chose to take comfort in it.
Then another wind slammed into the front of his car with all the subtlety of a neon sign.
"Holy Moses!" He shouted as he was suddenly pitched upward, body sliding towards the back of the car as the front got body-slammed by a breeze. Before his brain could even catch up with him, Stan had already flipped onto his back, hands grabbing at the chair to catch himself. He was wide awake, and every instinct was screaming for him to turn on the car and GO.
"Heh… somebody's mad," he wheezed to himself, sitting up. He looked out the window, grin stretched as if he were looking directly at the four winds themselves. "Who got you guys in a twist?"
The southern winds replied by slamming directly into his car door.
Stan jerked back, hissing out breath between his teeth. "Alright, alright, yeesh! Is it always so damn windy this far out?!"
He paused, stiffening.
…oh.
A different breeze collided with the other side of his car, lifting it just enough that it bounced the interior when the wind dropped it again, rattling all his products and shoving him towards the window.
…OH.
The keys were out of his pocket and in the ignition before the next wind could hit him, and as soon as the Stanleymobile was awake, he slammed his foot on the gas.
The main issue was that it was 2 in the morning, with an overcast sky, in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't see town anymore and hadn't been able to for hours, but he had known that it was about at his 3 o'clock from where he'd stopped to rest. If he could just head that way, then maybe he could find shelter.
But, he also could barely see a damn thing.
Both headlights were on, and he turned on his brights just to be sure, but still, the only thing he could directly see in front of him was the road, and whatever grasses were close enough to lean over it. The forming twister could be anywhere, and he had no idea how to figure out where.
Didn't matter. He just had to make it to town. Then he'd be safe.
The engine roared, the speedometer creeping up past the 70 MPH, then 75 MPH, then the 80 MPH mark within seconds of each other. Bumps in the road shook the entire vehicle, but Stan didn't care.
He kept his eyes peeled for any upcoming turns in the road, listening to the bouncing and jostling of all his products in the back, hitting against each other and spilling out of their boxes. He heard something metallic hit the floor.
The winds were screeching at him now, batting his car around like a toy. A particularly strong one slammed into his left side, sending him skidding for just a moment before he corrected himself.
90 MPH. 95.
The gas tank suddenly looked a lot more empty than it had at the gas station yesterday.
There! Up ahead, he saw a fork in the road. His hands tensed, ready to jerk the wheel to the right.
His wheels skidded on the pavement, the entire right side of the car lifting off the ground as he hit the turn a bit too sharply.
One of his products hit the glass window behind him. It didn't crack, but Stan flinched regardless.
His car hit pavement again, his products slid back the other way, and Stan's heart stumbled over itself for a second.
The gas pedal was on the floor, and Stan's eyes were focused solely on the road ahead of him.
SMACK!
With no warning, the car seemingly hit a wall of wind, battering the front end down into the earth and Stan's head into the steering wheel. No seat belt caught him. He swore, lifting a hand to hold the ache. Black spots danced across his vision, and the car rocked wildly as the back end swerved, and he couldn't tell where he was or where he was going-
then all traction with the road vanished.
Time seemed to pause for just a moment, long enough for Stan's head to realize what just happened, before his heart dropped into his shoes.
The motion of the car rocking, what had been comforting not 20 minutes ago, was now tilting so violently Stan almost felt motionsick. Any look through the windows showed he was nowhere near the ground, and next to him was a giant, black pillar of debris, dirt, wind, and rain.
It hit the car in an avalanche, like a giant bucket had been dropped on top of the vehicle, and then it pelted against the Stanleymobile relentlessly.
The car dropped in the air, and Stan's heart felt like it was being tugged up towards his throat. He could see his products floating behind him.
It was too dark to see anything- where he was going, how high up he was, where the town was, nothing- and once a passing piece of debris (a fence post?) knocked out his right-most headlight, he squeezed his eyes shut, clutched the seat for dear life, and held his breath.
The first thing he heard was the clack-clack-clack-clack of plants rapidly hitting the side of the car, and then a split second after that, his tires met dirt on the left side, slamming Stan hard into the door- his arm reached out instinctively to catch him, and he felt more than heard a crunch as one of his bones snapped.
The car lurched right next, flinging him and his products towards the center of the car, before it hit something and the whole thing bounced upwards again.
Then, finally, the Stanleymobile landed.
The winds were still whipping around them, but Stan scarcely registered it, too busy grabbing at his chest like his heart was gonna leap out of there, and cradling his broken arm protectively. The sounds of the sudden downpour made it so any cries he'd made were drowned out, and somewhere, he was somewhat grateful for that, as ridiculous as it was.
The tornado was still nearby.
Realizing this, Stan came to himself enough to reach up with his other arm and finally fasten his seatbelt.
His ears were ringing, and his vision was blurry, and distantly he knew he probably had a concussion, but that could wait.
He just tried to breathe again, listening as the wind and the rain continued to bat around the poor Stanleymobile, as if she hadn't already just been through enough.
He knew enough to know he'd landed off-road somewhere, but if he wanted any hope of making it to town, he'd need to wait until morning. And there was no way in hell he was going to try and get there blind by guessing his way past a whirlwind of death.
So instead, he grabbed the long, metal handle of a StanVac, held it next to his fractured arm, and fastened it as tight as he was willing with the Scotch tape he'd snagged a while back. Duct tape probably would have been better, but he didn't have that with him in the car, and he wasn't about to go rooting around in the trunk for it right now.
Once his arm was wrapped, he kept a silent vigil, staring out the window, waiting for the beast to return.
- - - - - - - - -
(It had been fine. As soon as dawn cracked, he'd made his way back to town, and someone had taken him to the hospital. He broke out before they could bill him, and he skipped that place, opting to fix his car elsewhere.
His products took nearly a week to fix, with some being unsalvageable, but he didn't allow himself to feel too bad about it.
They were just junk, after all.
"You survived a tornado?!" Dipper's voice called out from across the circle. Stan grinned, slapping on his Mr. Mystery bravado, (pointedly not looking at his past self as the memory faded away). "Sure did, kiddo! It's just wind, it ain't got nothin' on me!"
"That's badass," Wendy chimed in.
To his left, Ford remained silent. His hand was still tight around Stan's, but it didn't feel like he was trying to prevent him from running away anymore. He didn't know how to explain it. It was just a strong grip, just cuz his first two fingers were slightly more relaxed than the rest doesn't mean anything.
Stan didn't look over. He didn't need more eyes on him.
Instead, he focused on his grip in Soos' hand.)