Dr. Stanford Pines (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
meteorman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
victory_road2018-01-01 10:57 am
meteorman) wrote in victory_road2018-01-01 10:57 am
[closed]
Who: Ford and Fiddleford
Where: Outside of Goldenrod
When: Today
Summary: Old men yell at each other, which is how you know they're friends
Rating: PG
[Boy is it cold. It probably would have been better to make the journey back to Goldenrod strictly by warp, but Ford has experienced warp nausea before and he didn't enjoy it. Walking the final stretch between Ecruteak and Goldenrod is... doable. It helps that he did most of it flying, but the icy weather and actively-falling snowflakes weren't kind to his dragon-type Fly Pokémon and he'd sent Falkor back to the box with half a day's walk to go. It's fine. He's got his usual warm clothes on, and for once they're weather-appropriate.
It also helps that he's got company. MIPS is gliding along next to him, legs not moving, claws and paws not properly touching the ground (though occasionally they bumps a hillock of snow and send some flying). It's gotten better and better at handling its own ghostly predilections, and now its strange method of locomotion comes easily instead of posing an issue... most of the time. Ford is really very proud.
A little less proud when MIPS leans over and very skillfully catches his hat on one of the outcroppings on its helm, tears it off, and zooms off up the road.]
Hey!
[Welp. Time to run after his giant idiot ghost dog, in the snow, with hat hair. Good. At least it'll warm him up?]
Where: Outside of Goldenrod
When: Today
Summary: Old men yell at each other, which is how you know they're friends
Rating: PG
[Boy is it cold. It probably would have been better to make the journey back to Goldenrod strictly by warp, but Ford has experienced warp nausea before and he didn't enjoy it. Walking the final stretch between Ecruteak and Goldenrod is... doable. It helps that he did most of it flying, but the icy weather and actively-falling snowflakes weren't kind to his dragon-type Fly Pokémon and he'd sent Falkor back to the box with half a day's walk to go. It's fine. He's got his usual warm clothes on, and for once they're weather-appropriate.
It also helps that he's got company. MIPS is gliding along next to him, legs not moving, claws and paws not properly touching the ground (though occasionally they bumps a hillock of snow and send some flying). It's gotten better and better at handling its own ghostly predilections, and now its strange method of locomotion comes easily instead of posing an issue... most of the time. Ford is really very proud.
A little less proud when MIPS leans over and very skillfully catches his hat on one of the outcroppings on its helm, tears it off, and zooms off up the road.]
Hey!
[Welp. Time to run after his giant idiot ghost dog, in the snow, with hat hair. Good. At least it'll warm him up?]
no subject
(Lying by omission and obfuscation is always easier.)
Anyway, some senior member of this Team Rocket had sat him down at a desk and placed a photograph in front of him and explained in the longsuffering tone of someone who has a difficult task ahead of them and knows their odds of success are low that Stanford Pines had been spotted walking on the open road toward Goldenrod, and that Stanford Pines was in possession of a great number of rare and powerful Pokemon that would be very, very useful in the hands of Team Rocket, and that McGucket's unfortunate last mission's disastrous failure would be forgiven if he managed to acquire one of Stanford Pines's Pokemon.
Do you understand? the senior Rocket had asked wearily.
Sure do! McGucket had replied brightly, with a face-splitting grin that did nothing to convince the commanding Rocket that anything he's said had made it into McGucket's brain.
You know what you have to do?
A-yep!
The Rocket had massaged her temples. All right, fine, just--go. Find him. Take his Pokemon. Don't come back empty-handed, Grunt, or there will be consequences.
McGucket had jumped to his feet--and straight onto the chair--and had done a dance. Don't you worry, ol' McGucket's got it covered! I'll be back with one of them rare Pokemons before you can say banjo polish! And he'd taken off out of the room with an ambling, springy step.
He hadn't told her that he recognized the name. Sure, he's missing his reading glasses, so he hadn't gotten a real good look at the photograph, but he didn't need to. McGucket knows who Stan Pines is, and the blur had been Stan Pines-shaped, so he figures he knows who's about to get waylaid by Rocket Grunt McGucket.
Now, Fiddleford McGucket has only been given so many resources for this venture. Fortunately, he's got thirty years of experience doing a lot with a little -- or rather, with a lot of trash. One trip to Goldenrod City's junkyard and about an hour's work later, there's a trap set just out of sight of Goldenrod's buildings. It's pretty simple, just a snare and a spring stick made from one of the bendier trees by the side of the road, but the mechanical moving parts have allowed McGucket to make the spring stick out of a tree that would normally be too thick for a human with normal strength to bend. There are gears and a crank and it's kind of ecopunk and very solid-looking.
Anyway, McGucket's brushed the snow up against the tree to hide that it's been tampered with, and it doesn't take long for the falling snow to hide the snare rope on the road completely. McGucket, in his R-cap (they'd made him leave his broad-brimmed scarecrow hat back at the base and he hopes no one's tried to steal it yet), domino mask (also disliked, it narrows his field of vision), and R-shirt on under his overalls (confining, but at least it's warmer than just the overalls!) crawls backwards into the very edge of the tall grass and nestles in to wait. The trap is motion-activated, so the first Pokemon -- or flustered human -- to blunder into it will find themselves caught by the ankle as the tree snaps back upright and dangling upside-down before they can say banjo polish.
They'll also see a filthy hillbilly who can do nothing to disguise that beard burst out of the tall grass and do a dance of victory, laughing uproariously.]
no subject
He's fairly certain this isn't an intergalactic bounty hunter situation. Bill is gone, so there's no one to even pay bounty on him anymore, and the universes he broke laws in don't have any jurisdiction in this universe so they'd be overstepping their bounds to arrest him here. No, in this case the call is probably coming from inside the house. Before he can process that idea much further he hears the laughter and oh, boy.
Now, Ford Pines has not been paying attention to his communicator lately. He was on a holiday trip with the friends he still has a hard time believing he has. He managed to miss the one post Fiddleford already made. He still recognizes that very distinctive laugh immediately, and does a very ungainly wiggle to try and locate its source. It only sort of works. He doesn't have any leverage, alright, let him alone. He can mostly just make out a rapidly-jigging blur in his peripheral vision.]
Fiddleford?
no subject
Yeeheehee, I got you good!
[But something is Off, and the not-quite-rightness digs at McGucket like a stone in a shoe, like wearing the wrong hat, like putting on someone else's glasses. The wrongness is in the clothes, in the voice, in the reaction McGucket couldn't have told you he was expecting until he didn't get it. He'd figured Stanford Pines would have kicked up more fuss than a long-haired cat in a rocking chair factory. Instead, it's Fiddleford?
It's like when one dream shifts into another, and McGucket goes still. He approaches, slow, the snow going crunch, crunch, crunchcrunchcrunch under his bare feet. One leg steps out sideways, and the rest of Fiddleford follows it in a sliiiiide around to look Ford in the face.
He pushes Ford's slipping glasses back onto his nose.
It's him. That's the author Dipper and Mabel were looking for, the researcher he's been trying to remember but can't. Stanford Pines? No, one part of his brain tells him, and yes, another part insists. Oh, he feels all muddled up in his brainpan, but at the same time, Stanford Pines is coming into focus -- fuzzy around the edges, sure, but real, a significant, familiar missing piece.
But McGucket knows he's being watched. Team Rocket's got an eye on him, and then there's those government agents, and who knows if an unexpected trip to an entirely different world is enough to shake the feds, but it sounds unlikely to McGucket. He doesn't have time to inspect this under a microscope.
So, the eyes that had narrowed with focus go wild again, off in different directions behind the mask, and the thoughtful frown is swallowed by a wide, manic grin.]
That's my name! How did you see through my clever disguise?
[Not now. Not now. Not now.]
no subject
[Ford Pines is a lot of things, but good at reading other people is not one of them. In certain situations, yes: he can tell when someone is about to try and shoot him. He's not so good with the finer nuances of things and he completely misses the subtle and complex sequence of emotions that pass across Fiddleford's face. He probably would even without the mask in the way.
Not that he can't appreciate a little humor. Ha, ha, how did you see through my clever disguise. Like he wouldn't know his best friend. Like he didn't know his best friend on sight even after thirty years apart, even with the beard and the decrepit posture and the lazy eyes and so many fewer teeth.
It hasn't quite reached him yet that this feels wrong. He's still relearning Fiddleford McGucket, and learning how to tell where the residual damage ends and his sanity begins is still difficult. It's just... a joke. Like the rapport they used to have.]
Mind cutting me down?
[They can discuss that frown-worthy shirt and hat in a second. He can feel his blood rushing to his head and away from his already-chilly extremities.]
no subject
Fiddleford wants to cut him down, to ask him about the laptop, to sort out the jumbled-up memories hovering just within reach. He wants some real answers. He wants to understand.
But he can't, not right now -- it's too dangerous. Leave it to Stanford Pines to complicate things without even meaning to, Fiddleford thinks, and that clicks right into place.
Retreating into what he's been for the last thirty years is so, so easy. There's safety in it, in knowing that anyone dangerous who looks at him won't see anything but a crazy old man. No one's expected anything from him in so long that it's easy, if a little cowardly, to pretend that they still can't.]
No! This is a rooobbery!
[He's shouting that awful loud for someone doing a crime not too far from a city.
McGucket scurries up the tree Ford is hanging from and along the branch the snare is tied to with a lizard's agility, dislodging fresh snow as he goes. McGucket, having turned (as he imagines it) Ford's pockets upside-down, is taking the next logical step: stomping on the branch with the intent to dislodge their contents, laughing maniacally.]
Eheh! Yeheheh! Go on, git on outta there! Team Rocket's takin' aaaall your rare Pokemon! ...or at least one or two!
[Is this a holdup, or a shakedown? If both things are happening, is it a hold-down or a shake-up? It looks more like a shake-up to him.]
no subject
[Is Fiddleford really, actually going to rob him? Or is this just, like, Fiddleford making an extended joke because Fiddleford's always been startlingly good at dragging Ford Pines through the fucking dirt? Or in this case, bouncing him around so his poor unhatted head whonks repeatedly into the snow? His bag had already fallen to the ground, but now the contents of his coat begin to shake loose. Pens (so many pens), his current journal, two different packets of candy, some loose money... and the Pokéballs that are attached to the strap across his chest.
It's about at this point that MIPS circles back around with Ford's hat still dangling from its helm. It makes a metallic, echoing sound that's sort of like that a small dog might sound like if it was barking from the inside of a space-ship. This is... well it doesn't quite know how to parse this.]
It's -- ow -- it's alright, MIPS, this is a friend!
[MIPs lets out a very quizzical yip.]
no subject
[Fiddleford leaves off the shaking-up and scrambles higher into the tree. Maybe if he'd come here post-Weirdmageddon, this thing wouldn't faze him, but it's either the biggest Pokemon Fiddleford has ever seen or the weirdest horse ever to exist.
Could be either one. Jury's still out. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, etc etc etc.]
Aaaaah! What is that critter? A hat-eatin' axe pony?
[McGucket clutches the nicked, wide-brimmed thing to his head, scrambling back against the trunk of the tree. He reaches out with one fist to shake it at MIPS.]
You better not be comin' for mine next!
[Until right now, Berry has been in her Pokeball, silently judging her trainer and wondering why Arceus is testing her like this. However, now that another Pokemon has appeared on the scene, she's decided enough is enough. With a metallic whir-rr-rree! she bursts out of the Pokeball in McGucket's pocket like digital fury. This entire scene is ridiculous, and it's time she took charge.
Choosing to ignore her trainer's startled "What in tarnation--?!" the Porygon uses Sharpen, and all her surfaces gleam with sudden smoothness. Berry leaps down from her branch, sailing at the rope holding Ford upside-down, and with her newly-sharpened edges, slices it neatly, releasing him. She lands in the snow on the other side, her eyes narrowed, pawing at the ground beneath her fins and shaking her head like a bull gearing up to charge. She lets out a metal whirrrrr!
They're going to do this, and they're going to do it right, so help her Arceus.
Fiddleford stares from his perch on the tree branch. She's never done that before. Impatiently, insistently, she whirrs at him and cocks her head, indicating that he should come down here like a proper trainer. Sheesh, this guy is impossible to work with.]
no subject
[Ford flumps to the ground on top of his dropped bag and the contents of his pockets. He rights himself, brushing snow from his sleeves, and begins to gather up his things. MIPs delicately leans down and dangles Ford's hat in front of his face until he takes that back too, then raises its head to regard Berry. Its head tips much like a dog's might when it's looking at something it doesn't quite understand.]
It's a Type: Null, a synthetic Pokémon -- a little like your Porygon, actually.
[Ford pulls his hat back on. That Porygon looks kind of... uh... mad? It's incredible how such a chunky low-res digital bird, even one that's sharpened up its lines a little, can convey an emotion so clearly.]
I think... it may want to battle. Which I'm not opposed to, entirely.
[MIPS mips in agreement. It could go for a fight, maybe. Its trainer did just get dangled upside-down and almost robbed. That probably calls for some kind of defending of honor?]
Many things are settled through battle here. If you want my Pokémon, you'll have to win them.
[There. That should solve the problem neatly. He is pretty sure he can beat that Porygon.]
no subject
Every word Stanford says brings them into sharper focus, years falling away from a gangly, excitable twenty-something with a pocket protector, from a just-as-excitable thirty-year-old whose frame finally caught up with his unstoppable jaw. It's so clear it's downright intrusive. And as much as Fiddleford snatches at focus, tries to stay in the moment, two more intrusive thoughts, stronger impressions than all of the others, push against the back of his eyes.
Best friend.
Stay away.
....welp, that checks out, he thinks, and the thought floats over the top of his mind like a life preserver over a waterfall. That's him all right.
I've got to act natural. They're still watching you, Fiddleford. Don't tar this up now.
It takes him a hair longer to sink back into his old self this time. It's not that the headspace is harder to find, not exactly, but it's harder to want to go back to it. Fiddleford is being pulled in all directions: go back, stay away, act crazy, askhimeverything-- and he has to make a choice.]
Well, then! What're we waiting for?
[That choice is to clamber down to the lowest branch, spring to the ground with a wild hoot, and do a rapid jig behind Berry.]
Yeehoohoo, bindle my pigpen and hogwash the knapsack! Jitterin' junebugs, we're gonna have ourselves a Pokémon battle!
[In Berry's opinion, this is the first thing her trainer has done right, his ridiculous mouth noises aside. She's staring MIPS down with steely intent. Bring it, glitch.]
no subject
[This still feels very wrong in a way that Ford can't adequately put any of his twelve fingers on. If it was a joke it feels like it should have been dropped five minutes ago, and this coming from a man who is very used to being dunked on by Fiddleford McGucket, the man who got him a terrifying possibly-sentient squash and said 'look, it's you'. Being dangled upside-down he can forgive. That tracks well enough. But that's about the point where maybe Fiddleford should have said nah, I'm just messing with you and started acting more like himself. Not that this isn't acting like himself, really, but it's a side of himself Ford isn't used to and can't parse as well and... and it just feels weird, is all, and not the good-weird Ford usually surrounds himself with. Bad-weird, like he's missing something, which is never a feeling he's enjoyed.
Ford blinks owlishly. There's no use thinking himself in circles, even though that's one of his best skills. He'll figure out where the issue is. He always does, eventually. He just needs to spend some time thinking about it. Feeling things out.]
Alright, MIPS! Metal Sound!
[MIPS lets out a horrible, metallic noise not unlike the bending of several steel beams layered over and over and then put through some kind of very bad audio filter. This won't do much even if it connects: Metal Sound lowers special defense, and almost all of MIPS' moves are physical. It's a soft opener, a way to gauge what he's working with and give Fiddleford a chance here because, let's be honest, he and Berry are at a huge disadvantage. See? Feeling things out. This is as much a chance to observe his best friend and try to isolate what about him feels so off.]
no subject
Then, he yells back.
It is also a horrible noise. Less horrible, less magical, but still the holler of a raspy-voiced lunatic hillbilly. When it's over, McGucket stands there, arms hanging loose by his side.]
Heh heh. Heh...sorry, did--did I miss something?
[Berry is looking at him in utter disdain. This is already going to be a very difficult battle, and it's just been confirmed that she can't rely on him for help at all. She's already used Sharpen, and she's going to need every advantage she can get. Berry takes this setup-turn to use Agility on herself. She's just going to have to boost her Speed and her Attack as long as this Trainer is giving her room to do it. She doesn't use Conversion yet.]
no subject
And how does one begin to address that? He can't very well just say 'Hey, Fiddleford, don't take this the wrong way but you're acting a lot less like a genius than you usually do and it's starting to get off-putting'.
Well. He could very well just say that but he's trying this new thing called tact and he has a faint suspicion that would not be tactful, somehow. If he were Fiddleford he knows he'd be deeply sensitive about the whole sanity thing, in much the same way he is deeply sensitive about the whole fingers thing, because Ford Pines is incapable of not being sensitive about things. He's also not too great yet at not assuming everyone has the same thought processes as he does. So of course Fiddleford wouldn't want this called attention to.]
You, ah -- mm. I had forgotten you likely haven't had much practice with this, have you?
[Because he's new. He has to be, because Ford can't have missed him being here for any great length of time. He's going to be really mad at himself if that's the case.
MIPS gives a concerned sort of yip-beep, sensing its trainer's unease. In the absence of an actual command it just kind of hovers, vibrating softly either with anticipation or because one of its feet is touching a bit of snow and it's caught on the geometry.]
no subject
It sends guilt twisting up inside him. Minnie hadn't expected to see him like this, and clearly, neither had Stanford. At least with Minnie, he hadn't been as lucid as he is now: he hadn't had the option of coming up to her and saying Minnie darlin', I know I've messed up in a real big way, but I want to try to get my mind back, and I think you can help me, if you're willin'. He'd been too far gone for that, then.
Nice going, Fiddleford. You find your best friend after all this time and you lie to him and make him think you're crazy. You really are no good to nobody.
But they're watching him. Team Rocket, government agents, a horror taking up dark space in the burned-out part of his brain that he can't bring himself to look directly at yet -- he can't draw their attention to him. He has to hide, even if it's in plain sight. And that means Fiddleford will do whatever he has to.
He gives his knee, which has started to bounce, a jovial slap into stillness.]
No sir, I've been battling Pokemons for two weeks already! I reckon that makes me practically an expert!
[He points at MIPS and crows:]
Berry, use your DEATH RAY!!
[UGH OLD MAN FOR THE LAST TIME IT'S CALLED PSYBEAM, Berry wants to scream, but it's the first sensible command she's been given, so she lets it slide this time. She fires the weird ray straight at MIPS.]