Stan, Soos, and the kids bolted down to the basement like their lives depended on it. The portal roared to life—swirling, glowing, unstable. Stan barely dared to breathe. After all these years, this was it. This was what he gave up everything for. Just one figure. That’s all he wanted.

Then, with a deafening bang, the portal spat someone out—and died.

Ford.

He barely had time to register the room before Stan shouted, “BROTHER!” and ran toward him, arms wide, heart pounding with relief.

Ford’s response?

A punch to the face.

Stan stumbled back, stunned more by the shock than the pain. What the hell? All these years—everything he sacrificed—and the guy clocks him like he’s the enemy?

Ford looked feral. Wild. His eyes darted around the basement, his body low like a cornered animal. He crouched between the broken portal scraps, hand twitching near a weapon Stan didn’t even recognize.

Stan took a step toward him—instinct, habit, maybe just pure emotion—but Ford's eyes locked on him with laser focus. And then he moved.

In a flash, Stan was on the ground, pinned beneath someone who looked like his brother but didn’t feel like him. Ford’s teeth were bared, his breath hot and ragged. For a moment, Stan couldn’t even move. He didn’t know what hurt more—the punch or the fact that Ford looked at him like a stranger.

But then… something shifted. Ford’s expression changed as he stared at Stan. Like he smelled something. Like something finally clicked. He backed off, slowly, just as Soos came running toward them.

That set Ford off again. He jumped up, teeth bared, gun raised. Stan barely managed to wrestle the thing away and kick it aside.

“Calm down, Poindexter!” he snapped, heart racing.

Ford looked like he didn’t even understand the words. The man was gone—buried under years of survival instincts and trauma. Stan tried to reach him, grabbed his coat sleeve—and Ford flinched like he’d been burned.

He was shaking, eyes darting everywhere. Stan felt something twist in his gut. This was his brother, sure, but not the one he remembered. This man had been through hell.

Mabel and Dipper came in, voices bright and small. Stan turned, half expecting Ford to snap again. But instead, he just… stared at them.

Mabel bounced forward, introducing herself at full volume. Stan winced, watching Ford brace himself like the sound alone could kill him. The guy was scanning for threats that weren’t there. But he was listening.

Then Dipper stepped up—nervous, awe-struck—and held out the journal. That finally got Ford’s attention. He just stared at it, like he couldn’t believe it was real. Maybe he couldn’t.

Dipper called him “The Author.” Ford didn’t even respond—just blinked, lost.

Eventually, he raised a shaky hand. “G-greetings,” he said. Voice rough. Foreign. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Mabel was thrilled by his six fingers. Stan could see the gears turning in Ford’s head—still defensive, still uncertain. When she touched his hand, he flinched again. Like affection was a threat.

Dipper tried another question. “How are you?”

Ford’s response? “How am I what?”

Stan sighed and turned away, jaw clenched. What was wrong with him? He looked back to Soos and growled, “He pointed a gun at my employee! Punched me in the face!”

Soos, ever the peacemaker, just shrugged and handed the blaster back. “It’s cool, dawg. I’m Soos.”

Ford looked at him like he was trying to figure out what species he belonged to.

And then it just boiled over.

“Thirty years,” Stan said, voice rising. “I spent thirty years trying to fix your mess—build that stupid portal—bring you home. And this is how you repay me? Not even a thank you?”

Ford blinked at him, confused. “Thank you?”

Stan stared at him, heart hammering. That was it? That was all he had to say?