Chapter Text
Stanley stared gloomily out the pawn shop window, wishing someone would walk by just so that he could watch them go.
He was bored.
He wouldn't have been, if things were how they were supposed to be, but nothing was going right for Stanley lately. It was like the world was out to get him, he was sure of it. Being alone was the pits. What was the point of having siblings if you were just left alone all the time anyways?
Well, maybe it wasn't all the time. It sure didn't used to be. He and his brother used to play together literally every day, every time they had a minute to themselves--and even when they didn't if they could help it. Even their older brother used to hang out with them every once in a while, if he didn't think their games were too "babyish." But Shermie had gotten too old for even that a while ago, and now even Stanford was starting to drift off. Stanley didn't know that was possible for twins.
Yet here he was, watching the store as a one-man crew while his parents were out. Shermie wasn't even a factor unless his Pa got mad enough, acting like some kind of vampire upstairs doing whatever it is high schoolers do. Ford--who would almost always be here with him, setting him up for jokes or making the trash sitting around the shop into an adventure with some fact or story-- was up in their shared bedroom: door locked, nose in book, and probably still seething.
Stanley had been seething himself (after a brief moment of smothering guilt,) at having to do the chores all alone like some loser, but after a couple hours that had faded into pure boredom. It was a very slow day, and he had nothing to do.
Pa hated it when they went upstairs while watching the shop ("You could miss some sucker walkin' by!") so he was stuck down here. Besides, all the fun stuff he could bring down was in their room, and he was not goin' near Ford anytime soon if he could help it. So, he was stuck down here. Alone, and bored.
Great times.
Stanley decided, for the third time that day, to reorganize the stock on the shop floor. It was pretty much the only thing to do besides polishing the second-hand second-grade trophies, and he'd already gotten them so shiny they hurt to look at.
Stanley shuffled about the store, moving stuff around and then moving it back again, switching items' places and sorting things by their coolness factor. He started to arrange some of the "lightly-used" bandage containers to look like they were mounting an attack on the unsuspecting buffalo nickels, when he noticed something tucked behind the display shelf.
He hadn't noticed it before. It was a box of merchandise that hadn't been put out yet, probably misplaced during restock day and forgotten.
Well, it was something to do.
He pulled the box out, straining as he did so (what was in there, rocks?!), until it was in the open. It was taped shut, but so old and dusty most of the stick had worn off, so he just tugged it loose. Pulling the flaps open, he stared down at the undoubtedly worthless junk he'd have to overprice to hell.
He was hoping for something interesting, or ugly enough to laugh at, but all he got was a bunch of old shirts. They weren't even folded, just stuffed haphazardly in til there wasn't any space left, and then some.
Stanley sighed, and began pulling the clothing out of the box. He wondered how he was going to price and display this, he wasn't even sure anyone would buy clothes from a pawn shop. He'd never seen any around the store before. Maybe this wasn't even to sell, maybe it was something Pa had gotten for... something else. The clothes were pretty big, but they didn't look like anything his dad would wear.
One of the shirts snagged, and Stan grunted as he tugged harder at the sleeve he was gripping. With another great pull, the thing came loose, yanking something up with it that clattered onto the floor from the momentum-- along with a second, softer thud.
Stanley froze. He hadn't broken something, had he? Pa would be so pissed if he had... maybe Pa didn't know even know about the box. He could run and hide the evidence before he got back! Put the box back where it was and claim ignorance. Yeah, good plan.
He stood from where he'd landed on his butt, and leaned to see whatever it was he had thrown.
The first thing was something metal, which he could've guessed from the sound, with dark paint and was shaped like a rounded rectangle. He picked it up and turned it over to see the front.
It was dark blue, with space imagery littering the area: planets, stars, asteroids, rockets, an astronaut, the works. A three-dimensional yellow track wound around it in loops, spotted with white, red, and blue circles right up until the end, where it transitioned into arrows that led down to a black sphere embossed into the tray. At the start, two little rocket ships stuck out on either side of the runway. There, on what must have been the front, was a brighter blue section that looked like it was emulating a control panel of sorts. It had a bright red GO button, two little levers, a tally number counter with a wide slot set right above it, and a wind up key.
In white letters that looked like they were being blasted through space, read the name: ZATHURA.
It was a board game. The weirdest, and coolest, board game Stanley had ever seen. He didn't even know board games could get this interesting!
There was no way he could not play this.
Responsibilities shoved abruptly to the back of his mind, Stan barely spared the second thing, what must have been the lid to the game's box, enough attention to avoid sliding on it before racing upstairs to the apartment.
"FORD!" He stood in front of his bedroom a second later, pounding on the wooden door with a fist while shouting for his brother in excitement. "Look what I found in an old box of clothes!"
Stanford's voice came through the wall, muffled but clearly angry. "Go away, Stanley!"
Oh. Right.
Stanley had been so momentarily blinded by the game, he had forgotten he was in the middle of a fight with the only person who would ever play with him. Well, Ford was fighting, and Stan was mostly just pushing back. It was pretty much his fault, after all.
It had started two days ago, when Ford's telescope came in.
This telescope had been a very big deal. Ford had saved and saved and worked and stolen to get the five bucks that the discount science wares ad in Scientific American had been asking. They had finally had a sale big enough and an item (relatively) cheap enough for Stanford to make the big purchase. He had been wanting a telescope for years, and would talk about it at least every time he managed to get a cent on him. No, Stan, I'm not getting candy with you, I have to save up if I want to get enough money! or Stanley, I can't pitch in this time. You know how expensive telescopes are, I've told you fifteen times already! or It's coming, it's coming, it's actually coming! I have to calculate the projected time for the postal service! Want to help?
Stan could respect the will not to get any boardwalk treats (legally) for two whole years, but it had grated on his nerves how completely this hunk a' junk had taken up his brother's attention. He had hoped that once the thing was actually here Ford would be able to relax and be some fun again.
Nope.
Stupidly, he hadn't considered how much Stanford would use the telescope once it was actually in front of him. He was pretty much glued to the thing, he even stayed up all night to get the "prime view" of space, or whatever. Stan had been annoyed after, like, an hour. By the second day, he'd had enough. He had just wanted to drag Ford away from the dumb piece of metal, or get a look for himself to see what was so dang special about it, or something. He didn't really remember what excuse he had been yelling when he'd started grappling with his brother by their window. He did remember the exact way his stomach had dropped when they had stumbled a little too harshly backwards and fallen directly onto Ford's very expensive and beloved telescope.
He remembered how much it hurt, too, as he still had a bruise on half his thigh.
Of course, the telescope got it worse. He wasn't too sure about the technical stuff, but the thing was busted enough for him to get the gist. Ford knew, though, and he knew to be pissed. Stan couldn't remember the last time his brother had hit at him that hard. Stanford had yelled even more than he had hit, loud enough for their dad to come in, and he hadn't even stopped when he did.
The twins had a mutual agreement; never fight in front of Pa. No matter how mad you were, you shouted in private, kept the peace in public. Not that they wouldn't ever get each other in trouble, but once Pa got even a whiff of some kind of active squabble he would start flinging punishments left and right no matter who was to blame. He'd get so annoyed he wouldn't care, said he wouldn't stand for their arguing like idiots. Once, the crossfire from Shermie yelling at the cat for getting white fur all over his favorite black jacket had somehow gotten Ford washing windows for a week. It was no joke.
So Stan was feeling equal parts ashamed and betrayed as Pa grounded him for a month and a half. He had glared at Ford all the while, but when the steam had cooled off later that evening he had tried to make amends.
He told Stanford he hadn't meant it, that he was sorry, that he'd save up and pay him back in no time. Stanford had told him to shut up and shove off. He'd tried again that night, and he didn't even get that. Ford had kept the silent treatment up until the next morning when Ma and Pa had told Stan to watch shop while they went out. He had told Stan not to expect any help and promptly went to their room to brood.
Ford was still brooding, then, even as Stan had pushed everything from his mind in the light of his new discovery. Guilt flashed in Stan's gut, as well as some annoyance. He had the urge to yell back something snappy and kick the door for good measure, but he smothered it. Squeezing the sides of the board game, he stood still in the hallway for a moment before trying again.
"Stanford, it's this really cool lookin' game. It looks like it's from the future, even though it's like super old! Come look at this thing!"
He didn't get a response. At first, he hoped Ford was reluctantly mulling it over, but after five minutes of silence his heart sank. He'd really thought this would be enough to at least put the fight on hold. Ford must have been madder than he'd considered.
"... C'mon, Sixer," Stan prodded.
He tentatively knocked again, face prickling with some stupid feeling.
"You'd better get back to the shop before Pa gets back, or you're gonna get it!" Stanford called vindictively at the fourth knock.
Stan withdrew his fist from the wood, face heated. Ford didn't want to have anything to do with Stan? Fine! He'd play the stupid game by himself, then, right here! And when Ford heard how cool it was and how much fun Stan was having, he'd feel so bad and so stupid for telling Stan to get lost he'd- he'd start crying! And Stan wouldn't let him play then! That would show him for sure.
"Alright!" Stan yelled and he slammed his hand against the door one last time. "Be that way!"
Huffing, he sat down with a thud, setting the game board in front of him. He flipped off their bedroom for good measure and looked down at what he was working with. He didn't see any instructions (they must have been in the box that was still downstairs) but he would figure it out-- on his own! Stan spun the board around on the floor in front of him, shifting into criss-cross-applesauce, until the large ZATHURA was facing him.
Stanley supposed the most obvious of the instruments on the board would be the GO button (like there was any way to misinterpret that,) and the wind up key. The little rockets were definitely the player pieces, which he'd probably just have to play both of since SOMEONE wasn't going to take the second turn. He wasn't sure what the little levers or the slot were for, but maybe their uses would make themselves known once he started playing.
The red button had smaller words, an encouraging "Blast off!" wrapped around it, which seemed unnecessary. Hesitantly, he pressed it, though it didn't really have any give. Nothing happened. He pressed it once more for good measure. Frowning, Stan wondered if it had rusted over in its time in shirt-jail, and was totally broken.
He looked over the console again. The little levers looked more like decoration than anything, they'd probably snap if he tried moving them. He couldn't even think of what to do with the slot.
He turned towards the key. It might've been one of those wind-up things, like one of those jittering frogs that would stumble across the floor. He turned the key three times for good luck, and jumped as the button popped up right on the last turn. He pressed it, and it went in this time with a click. The tally counter began to rapidly spin, and Stan grinned in excitement. It worked! He watched in rapt interest as the number finally hit five, and with a grinding of gears the little red rocket began to follow the track for the same number of spaces.
Seriously, a board game that moved? Ford was really missing out.
As soon as it plunked to a halt, a card ding-ed out of the slot on the board. Stanley took it in his hands and held it up to his face.
"Meteor shower... Take evasive action." Stan flipped it over, then back again. "What does that mean?"
He looked down at the game, which offered no obvious clue as to what "evasive action" he was supposed to play. As he stared, wondering if maybe he should just play the next turn, something shot past his ear with a small thwip. He smacked his hand against the side of his head on instinct, and spun his head to see what had flown past. Seeing nothing, he held up the card once more.
The card which had a smoking hole blown through the center.
"...Huh?"
Stanley slowly looked down to see another marble-sized hole charred into the floorboard, right next to his knee. He hesitantly poked at it with his finger, quickly withdrawing as it burned him. What the heck?
A larger crack had him jumping, turning to see another crater just behind him, splintered wood still red around the edges, the culprit apparently some kind of rock mostly buried in the floor. He stepped back, only to have yet another nick the heel of his shoe. The ceiling began to rain plaster as several more rocks shot through it. With a yelp, Stan pressed himself against the wall to avoid the onslaught. Was the roof caving in, or something?!
Heart pounding, he flicked his eyes back to the card, which was barely recognizable as another projectile had landed where it had been discarded, and was now actively on fire.
Meteor shower... Take evasive action.
"Meteor shower?!" Stanley screeched, flinching as one nearly hit him. He tried to step away and stumbled as he was cut off. He pounded on the drywall in a panic. "FORD!"
Something clattered from within the bedroom. "If you aren't going to be QUIET, go back downstairs!"
"FORD! METEORS!" Stanley cried, prancing back and forth as the downpour of gravel kept him from moving down the hall.
"Shut up!"
A particularly large rock-- more like a boulder-- crashed down two feet away from where he was standing, and Stanley screamed.
There was a thud, and the pounding of footsteps before Stanford finally flung their bedroom door open. His jaw dropped at the smoldering hall, still being pelted with ammunition, and his brother cowering against the wall.
"What did you do?!" Stanford asked shrilly.
"I DON'T KNOW!"
Both brothers flinched at another crash, Stanley bringing his arms up to shield his face.
"Get over here!" Ford shouted over the noise.
Stan shuffled closer, before leaping back to avoid being struck. "I'll get hit!"
"You'll get hit if you stay there!" Ford hesitated a moment, before dashing into the hallway. Yelping, he dodged the shower of rubble as best he could, snatching Stan's arm from where it was still wrapped around his head. He yanked them both back into the room and slammed the door shut.
The boys slid down against it, gasping. Stanford rubbed at his shoulder, where he'd been clipped, and Stanley coughed from the dust that had coated him, shuddering. They sat there, flinching at every crunch behind them, and fearfully watching the ceiling above to see if the destruction would follow them.
It didn't.
It was only a minute or so later when the cacophony finally fell silent, and the twins could anxiously crack open their door to survey the damage.
There was quite a bit of damage indeed.
The floor was in complete disarray, with at most less than a foot between the various holes, and peppered with the meteors. The cieling was still crumbling, plumes of dust covering the area in a ashy hue. The walls were not as damaged, but the angles of some of the rocks as they'd fallen had not left them unscathed. It looked like a hazard to walk in, and would probably be incredibly expensive to repair, even considering the fact the destruction was miraculously confined to about four feet on either side of the boy's bedroom door. Stanley hadn't noticed that in all the excitement.
"That isn't even fair..." He said. "It's like they were just trying to hit me!"
Ford grimaced, hand coming up to his hit shoulder again. "Yeah, well, they failed."
Stan looked at him in concern. "Are you okay? Is it bleeding?"
Stanford pulled his sleeve back to check while Stanley peered over to see. "...No, its just a little burn. It doesn't even really hurt, it just kind of stings."
He tested the wood in front them with the toe of his shoe. It creaked sadly at the slight pressure.
Stan buried his face in his hands. "Pa is gonna actually kill me."
"Stan, seriously, what did you do?"
The wreckage seemed to mock him as he replied furiously, "I didn't do anything! I was- I was just playing the game!"
"What game?" Ford asked incredulously.
Stanley pointed out in the hall towards the game board, which was covered in dust but somehow still in one piece. "The game! The one I told you about, like, five minutes ago! I was just starting to play, and I got a card that said there was a meteor shower, and then actual asteroids started pelting me like crazy!"
Ford scrutinized the game as it lay innocently in the rubble. "... Asteroids are large rocks that are still orbiting the sun in space...."
"Oh, whatever!"
Stanford ignored him, testing his full foot against the floor now. It held alright, and he started to make his way through to where the game lay. He picked it up, dusting it off with his sleeve. Stanley felt this was a little too casual of him.
"What are you doing?!"
"I'm inspecting a potential supernatural artifact! Do you know how amazing this game would be if it was responsible for an INDOOR meteor shower?! Imagine what it would take to break that many natural laws! It's probably super cursed." Ford replied in excitement.
Stan huffed. Of course Ford was just thinking about what cool science-y stuff the evil board game was made of. And yeah, a board game being able to smash up part of your house was completely awesome, but Stan had nearly died from that awesomeness. Not to mention, Ford had completely blown Stan off when he first tried to show him the game because he was still mad. Now Stan had gotten him a brand new (and way more cool than a dumb telescope) science project, and Ford didn't seem like he was gonna apologize for being a huge jerk any time soon.
"I'm not walking on that, it's probably gonna fall out from under you any second."
Ford rolled his eyes. "No, it won't."
"Well, then the ceiling will collapse on your head!"
Ford eyed the still-crumbling plaster and didn't disagree. "Well, how are you going to get out? Teleport?"
Stan stuck out his tongue. "I'm gonna climb out the window, nerd."
He turned and marched towards their bunk bed, which stood in front of their bedroom window, before Ford could get in a smart-alec response. He stopped to yank the blanket and sheets off the bottom bunk to tie together, before climbing up toward the window. He dropped the bundle to throw the curtains open and--
Stanley fell backwards onto the mattress in shock. The mid-day sunlight streaming the window hadn't been sunlight at all. Or, maybe it had, but the sun part was way closer than it should have been.
The neighborhood was gone.
Where should have been a view onto the open street, with cracked sidewalks and honking cars and squalling old ladies yelling at passing teens, there was open space. Literal open space, with stars curling all around the building, which looked to be floating in an astroid belt. Looming in front of him was the massive shape of what looked like Saturn, glowing gold in the deep void.
Stanley felt like passing out. He didn't, though, and mouthed wordlessly for a moment before he found his voice.
"Ford. Ford! STANFORD!" He yelled back towards the door.
"What!" Ford yelled back.
"WE'RE IN OUTER SPACE!"
"What?"
Stanley felt a surge of annoyance. You'd think he'd have learned after the meteor incident five minutes ago to take Stan seriously. "GET OVER HERE AND LOOK! WE'RE FLOATING NEXT TO SATURN!"
Stanford ran through the doorway, board game in hand, and stopped with his eyes bulging out of his head. The sight offered no small amount of vindication in Stan. He opened the window as Ford stumbled over. They gaped out at the impossible view together.
"This isn't... We can't... How are we not suffocating? Or freezing?! This is insane!" Stanford laughed in disbelief.
"I know, right? Watch this!" Stan leaned out the window to spit, and the two watched the saliva float up and away. "Also, look. Asteroids."
Ford hummed at the collection of large rocks in orbit that surrounded them. "... I don't think that's Saturn. It looks different than the pictures in my astronomy books."
"Yeah, well, it probably looks different in person Poindexter."
"I don't think this is even the Milky Way! Space doesn't work like this, it must be some anomaly connected to that game," Ford continued, ignoring Stan.
Stan glared at his brother. "Well, it doesn't really matter, Stanford. We're stuck out here if it's real space or not. How are we supposed to get home!"
Ford looked sideways at him, tapping the windowsill nervously.
"We should get Shermie."