Chapter Text
In the middle of nowhere, a highway rest stop stood as a pitiful thing against the vast expanse of darkness. Just a public toilet, a few weathered picnic tables, and a humming vending machine that cast an eerie glow across the cracked asphalt. A red El Diablo was the only car parked there, its cherry paint seeming almost black under the dim yellow lights.
A sharp, high yet broken wail resounded through the night, cutting through the cricket chorus and distant infrequent noise coming from the nearby highway. The sound hung in the air, unnatural and chilling, before fading back into the oppressive silence of the plains.
The man sleeping in the car's driver's seat jerked violently awake, his body tensing and his breath catching in his throat. His eyes snapped open, wide with confusion and alarm, as he abruptly emerged from whatever dreams had claimed him moments before. The sudden transition from unconsciousness to awareness left him disoriented, his heart hammering against his ribs as his senses scrambled to make sense of his surroundings.
He sat up, looking around himself, confused, where was he? Why was he in a car? He didn't even have one.
He could clearly remember having fallen asleep in his tiny one room appartement.
A sharp wail, a sound that could only come from a small… desperate-
A child?!
He patted his pockets, searched for his mobile. It wasn't there.
He frantically searched the glovebox, his fingers fumbling in the dark interior. Miraculously, buried beneath some old receipts and a road map, he found two light sources—a handheld flashlight and a forehead headlamp. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the flashlight, its weight reassuringly solid in his palm. With a sudden burst of urgency, he flung open the car door and jumped out, his feet hitting the gravel with a dull thud that made the fragments shift loudly.
His trembling fingers found the switch, turning on the torch which emitted only a dim, yellowish beam that struggled against the surrounding darkness. The light flickered uncertainly, suggesting batteries that were nearly spent, but it was better than nothing in this pitch-black night.
This situation creeped him out, sent chills down his spine that had nothing to do with the night’s chilly air.
He’d found himself mysteriously transported into a car he didn't own, with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. The confusion and disorientation made his mind swirl, like a thick fog blanketed it, one that stopped him from thinking. He couldn't think and that scared him more than he was willing to admit. He felt like his mind was betraying him.
Here he was, stranded in the middle of the night at what seemed to be some godforsaken rest stop, jolted awake by a sharp, unsettling wail that still echoed in his ears. A wail reached his ears again, sharp and broken, it reminded him of his baby cousin's screams, wails when the lil tyke was-
His eyes widened as he turned toward where the desperate wails originated. The sound was unmistakable now , high-pitched , frantic, and with that particular timbre that only comes from babies . It pierced the night air with an urgency that made his skin crawl, rising and falling in desperate barely audible from this distance gasps before building into another piercing crescendo.
The cries woke something in him, making him frantically search for it's origin.
This really seemed like a bad, uninspired B-rated horror movie plot, and maybe it was. Maybe he was about to disappear, maybe he was going to be killed in some gruesome way.
The desolate arid landscape stretched in front of him, a vast, too dark emptiness that seemed to tear any sense of safety or familiarity.
The isolation was absolute, cut off completely from civilization and human contact.
He moved forwards with careful steps, testing each foot falls, the sound of shifting gravel slowly letting place to the softer yet more unfamiliar sound of semi hard sandstone. In places the ground seemed to shift unexpectedly under him.
The scream resounded again, as ear shattering as it was heart breaking.
Finally he reached it, it was a baby in a sort of old time baby carrier. One he'd only ever seen in his parent's baby pictures.
He crouched light directed toward the form that lasted in the carrier, it was an old times thing that looked more like a portable bed than the ones he'd known, soft whimpers and an unpleasant smell reaching him.
Did someone abandon this baby here? In the middle of bumfuck nowhere? It could have been eaten or taken by a predator at any time.
He fumbled with the carrier's clasp, his fingers clumsy and uncertain, before awkwardly lifting the infant into his arms. "Oh god," he gasped, nearly gagging as an overwhelming stench hit him.
It was a nauseating combination he'd never experienced before. He held the baby at arm's length, unsure how to properly support its head despite his experience of holding his baby cousins.
The infant's pained whimpers had petered off, yet they still made him panic slightly. Was this a diaper thing? How lond had it been since the baby had been changed? Did it have rashes? Hunger? He had no idea…
He'd never even babysat before, let alone handled a potentially abandoned infant.
He spend what felt like long minutes trying to hold the baby correctly with one arm, in order to pick the carrier in the other.
He trudged back toward the car, his mind racing to formulate some semblance of a plan with each careful step he took across the uneven terrain.
The torch, now clenched awkwardly between his teeth, cast wildly bouncing shadows that made the darkness seem even more threatening. Its dim yellow beam barely illuminated the ground ahead, forcing him to move slowly to avoid tripping over unseen obstacles.
As he struggled to balance the infant in one arm and the carrier in the other, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air, he found himself deeply regretting his earlier choice.
The headlamp would have been infinitely more practical in this situation, allowing him both hands free and a steady light source that followed his gaze instead of this precarious arrangement that threatened to plunge him into complete darkness if he made one wrong move.
He stumbles as the toe of his shoe catches on a small rock, nearly sending him pitching forward. His body contorts awkwardly, hunching to protect the infant as he regains his balance with a sharp intake of breath. The flashlight between his teeth slips, light swooping wildly across the darkness before he catches it with a desperate clench of his jaw. For one heart-stopping moment, he thinks he might drop everything - the baby, the carrier, the light - but somehow, he manages to steady himself.
The baby lets out another piercing wail, apparently not appreciating the sudden jolt. The sound seems to amplify his sense of incompetence, of being completely out of his depth in this surreal situation.
He finally reaches the car, his lungs burning with relief as he carefully sets the carrier down near the trunk. For a moment, he just stands there, panting slightly, collecting himself before his next move. The baby's cries have quieted to soft whimpers, but he knows this reprieve might be temporary.
With his free arm, he popped open the trunk and began searching through its contents, hoping to find something - anything - that might help with his unexpected charge.
His fingers brushed against a tough fabric, and he pulled out a duffle bag.
Unzipping it quickly, he found it packed with clothing and basic bathroom necessities.
There were, unsurprisingly, no baby supplies.
The car did look like someone was living in it, but at least, now there was something he could work with.
"Okay, lil’ one," he murmurs to the infant, his voice unnaturally loud in the stillness. "Let's see what we can do about... well, everything."
He maneuvered the baby so it could be held in his other arm, then clutching the duffle with his other hand, he made his way toward the rest stop toilets.
The building loomed ahead, its exterior illuminated by a single flickering light that casts more shadows than it dispelled.
Inside he quickly found a dirty sink, the drain partially blocked with damp paper, he quickly cleared it, barely stopping his disgusted shivers as he did so. He tested the water it was clear and cold, but it would do the trick.
He was glad he’d remember to pick up the headlamp before coming in, as there were no lights here.
He put the duffle down in the other sink, wincing slightly as he remembered how dirty public toilets were. He opened the duffle and took out the towel, he swung it over his shoulder, the side not holding the baby.
He searched the bag further and found the toilet bag, he set it on the counter. He then took out a shirt from the bag, his nose scrunched as he sniffed it, the smell was of stale sweat.
Who's shirt was this?
He placed it down on the cold counter, maybe with multiple shirts he'd be able to make some sort of padding for the baby to lay on.
He managed to scrounge five such shirts, one he set aside to swaddle the kid in latter, just for the time it'd take to get to a shop of some kind wherein he could find diapers.
In the bag, he’d found any paper or tissues in the dispenser, to block the drainage and filled the sink with water.
He carefully lowered the whimpering baby onto the makeshift changing pad of shirts, his heart sinking as he gently peeled away tiny stained clothes and the soiled seeped through diaper.
What he saw made his stomach clench, angry red rashes covered the infant's tender skin, some areas raw and weeping. The baby boy's genitals and inner thighs were particularly affected, he musta been sitting in his own waste for hours, perhaps longer.
"Oh, buddy, sweety" he whispered, his voice catching. "No wonder you've been screaming your head off." He brushed tiny hair as he said those words, in a voice he barely recognized. That was not his voice.
He looked up, eyes wide and blinded by the headlamp’s light reflected in the mirror. That was not his face. It was older than him, more weathered too, the nose was bigger, he could see faint acne scars he'd never had. The jaw’s shape was all wrong-
He quickly patted his pockets, and found a wallet in one of his front pockets. He opened it with trembling hands. In it he found a couple twenties and tens… and an ID and a driver's licence saying he was from the state of Jersey.
“The US? “ He said with a frown, he'd only been there once and in New York at that. He barely knew the country.
“Stanley Carin Pines? Like the old man in the cartoon-” he paused, then snapped his fingers, “In Gravity Falls.”
He purposely ignored the ‘born June 15 1953’.
He clenched his jaw, opened and closed his hands, stretching his palms in a failing attempt at calming himself.
“God fucking damn it! Please..” he slightly leaned over the kid, one hand braced over the counter, the other holding the wallet and cards. “Please tell me I didn't Isekai as the old man during his years as a homeless criminal vagabond.”
He let go of the wallet, pushed himself off the counter, a barely muffled ‘Fuck’ left him even as he covered his mouth with his new, too big hands.
He cluches at his hair, his too long too greasy hair, he made note to cut them shorter.
Even if he was to be homeless he wouldn't, would never want, wish or will have the appearance of one. His upbringing would never let him do so.
With a shaky breathe he picked the baby in his two, too large hands - the baby was smaller than his two hands together - he dipped the boy's dirty bottom in the cold water, careful to not wet more of the baby than necessary, especially with how cold the world must seem to him.
He made shushing sounds as the small being wailed when his skin encountered the ice cold water, with careful fingers he gently washed the still soiled skin, then he dipped a corner of the towel under the cold water and began the delicate process of better cleaning the infant.
Every touch seemed to cause the baby pain; each gentle dab elicited pitiful whimpers that felt like physical blows to his chest, to Stan’s chest . The boy's tiny features contorted, eyes squeezed shut as tears leaked from the corners, mouth open wide, gums visible as he screamed silently, .
Stan worked methodically, whispering soothing nonsense as he went. "It's okay, little man. I know it hurts. We're going to make it better. I'm here." He wasn't sure if he was reassuring the baby or himself.
When he reached particularly raw areas, the baby's whimpers escalated into short, pained cries. Each one felt like an accusation. One that despite not being not directed towards his person still in a way he never felt before. It was one, an accusation for whomever had left this innocent child to suffer.
The sound cut through him, making his own eyes sting with unexpected tears.
He dried his charge with the dry parts of the towel, then held him in one arm as he searched the toilet bag desperately, relief washing over him when he found a small tube of petroleum jelly. It wasn't ideal, but it would provide some barrier protection until he could find proper diaper cream.
"This might feel cold, buddy," he murmured laying the child on the shirts, dabbing the jelly as gently as possible onto the worst of the rashes. The baby flinched at first, then seemed to relax slightly as the cool substance soothed his burning skin.
Looking down at the suffering infant, something fierce and protective surged through him. The logical part of his brain understood perfectly why the baby had been crying so desperately, his pain must have been excruciating. But understanding did nothing to soften the emotional impact of seeing such a small, helpless being in such immeasurable distress.
"Who did this to you?" he whispered, carefully fashioning one of the cleaner t-shirts into a makeshift diaper. "Who could just leave you out there like that?"
He then decided to quickly wash his hair and do his toilette after freeing the drain. Better now then who knew when.
As he quickly washed his hair with the bar of soap from the toilet bag, the baby lay on the makeshift changing pad, momentarily calm. The harsh near too bright yellowed light coming from the headlamp on the counter near the faucet cast strange shadows across the dingy restroom, highlighting the absurdity of his terrifying situation.
He searched the bag again, hoping for a pair of scissors so he could clean up the mess atop his head. He, unluckily, did not find any.
“What guy let's himself have a mullet…” he grouched.
He washed his face one last time, dried it with his t-shirt, put the cards back in the wallet, then the wallet in his jacket's inner pocket.
He picked up the infant, swaddling him in the most intact shirt he'd found, and carefully cradled him against his chest. The baby's weight felt impossibly light yet somehow anchoring, a physical reminder of the responsibility he'd unwittingly inherited. As he gathered the scattered contents of the duffle bag with his free hand, he prepared himself for what came next.
He needed supplies, direction, and answers, though not necessarily in that order.
Stan exited the bathroom with the baby cradled against his chest. The night air felt colder now, or maybe it was just the weight of his new reality settling in. The red El Diablo waited like a beacon, driver's door still open from his earlier panic, in the darkness, its cherry paint catching what little light the rest stop offered.
He made his way carefully across the parking lot, his steps measured, mindful of the precious cargo he carried. The baby had quieted somewhat since the diaper change, occasionally making soft gurgling sounds against his chest.
"Almost there, kid," he murmured, fishing the car keys from his pocket. "Then we'll figure out our next move."
He unlocked the car and opened the back door, where the carrier sat exactly as he'd left it. Stan secured it as best he could with the seatbelt, it hugged the contour of the carrier’s shell. With practiced caution that surprised even himself, he lowered the baby into the carrier, securing the makeshift t-shirt diaper one last time before tucking the infant into place.
The baby squirmed, tiny face scrunching as if deciding whether this new development warranted another crying session. Stan held his breath, hands hovering uncertainly.
"Hey now, we just got things quiet. Let's keep it that way, alright?" He attempted a reassuring smile, though he suspected it looked more like a grimace.
Mercifully, the baby settled, eyelids drooping as the exhaustion of their shared ordeal caught up to him. Stan carefully secured the baby under his small blanket, tucking the ends under the thin flat matteres, frowning at how inadequate they seemed for such a small passenger.
"Not exactly up to safety standards," he muttered as he saw no regular seatbelts in the backseats, "but it'll have to do for now. I'll have to drive carefully.”
He really hoped he got Stan’s memories because he was from decades in the future where he did not have his driving’s license and had never really learned to read maps.
"I suppose I'll just have to figure it out as I go," he sighed heavily after lowering himself into the driver's seat, adjusting the reclined position back to its upright position with a creak of worn springs. "Not like I have much choice now, anyway. One step at a time - first find supplies, then..." He trailed off, overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation he'd somehow stumbled into.
He opened the glove box, and found a map with states crossed out with red ink. He swore with all his soul, Stan had already started his life as a con-man, as a criminal with who knew how many aliases, banned from states left and right. At least it was only a fourth of the country he tried to reassure himself.
Had he already gone to prison?
He poked at his teeth, some were chipped, they were real and not dentures, so perhaps he was in a time before Stan was shoved into the trunk of a car? The community did think this was the moment he lost his teeth.
He opened the ashtray. Good, still had a couple cigarettes. He'd need them. This whole situation was turning into a one-way ticket to Crazytown, and he wasn't sure if he even had fare for the ride.
Three hours later, Stan was still driving. Driving turned out to be easier than he'd thought - maybe because he was on the largely straight roads that characterized the US rather than the winding European streets he was used to. The lack of Stan's original memories hadn't proven to be the obstacle he'd feared.
He hadn't encountered a shop or gas station yet, though he'd seen some truckers barreling down the highway, lights nearly blinding him. Once, he'd had to stop at another rest area to clean the little buddy when the unmistakable smell of soiled cloth reached his nostrils, making his eyes water.
The baby had alternated between fitful sleep and periods of quiet alertness, staring up at the car's ceiling with unfocused eyes. He had grown calmer after he’d covered him with his vest.
Each time those tiny eyes found his in the rearview mirror, Stan felt something twist in his chest - a mixture of responsibility and bewilderment that he was still struggling to process. The red vest draped over the cradle protecting the kid against the chill of the morning, warmed something in his chest.
"You're doing okay back there?" he asked, glancing at the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. The question hung in the air, unanswered except for a soft gurgle. "Yeah, I know. Not exactly the road trip either of us planned, huh?"
The gas gauge was dipping dangerously close to empty, the needle hovering just above the red zone. Stan tapped it with his finger, hoping it was just stuck, but the needle didn't budge.
"Just great," he muttered, scanning the horizon for any sign of civilization. "Hold on, kid. We need to find gas soon, or we'll be hitchhiking our way to... wherever we're going."
As if in response to his thoughts, a small green sign appeared in the distance, promising gas, food, and lodging at the next exit. Stan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Looks like our luck might be changing," he said, signaling to exit even though there wasn't another car for miles. "Let's hope they have diapers too, because this t-shirt arrangement isn't going to work much longer."
About an hour later, the baby started crying, soft whimpers escalating quickly into desperate wails. Stan glanced anxiously in the rearview mirror, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," he called over his shoulder, though he knew it was futile. The cries only intensified, bouncing off the car's interior and drilling into his pounding skull.
Stan's mind raced. "Hunger," he muttered to himself. "Gotta be hunger." He hadn't found anything resembling baby formula or bottles among Stan's possessions, and even if he had, he couldn't exactly prepare it while driving down a deserted highway at - he glanced at the dashboard clock - nearly 7 in the morning.
The baby's cries grew more frantic, more insistent. Each sob seemed to physically push against Stan's chest, making his own breathing quicken with anxiety.
"I know, buddy, I know," he said, louder now, trying to project his voice to the backseat. "I'm going as fast as I can. Just hang in there a little longer."
Stan watched the odometer tick upward, willing the numbers to move faster, as if that could somehow speed their journey to the exit. The baby's cries had taken on a hoarse quality that worried him even more than the loud wailing. The boy's face was red, eyes tightly shut as tears fell down his cheeks, mouth open to it's limit, tiny fists clutching at the thick fabric of Stan's red vest. This behavior, the one of a tiny body pushed beyond its limits.
"Come on," Stan muttered, somehow holding the baby closer, scanning the horizon desperately for the promised gas station. "Come on, where are you?"
Ten ear shattering minutes later he finally saw a gas station. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows across the empty parking lot. The illuminated sign reading "OPEN 24 HRS" flickered weakly in the early morning light. It was around 7 AM, and the world was still waking up.
Stan let out a relieved sigh as he pulled into the station, the El Diablo's tires crunching over loose gravel. The baby's cries had become a constant, desperate background noise that had frayed his nerves to the breaking point.
"We made it, buddy," he said, parking near the convenience store entrance. "Let's get you sorted out."
He turned off the engine and twisted in his seat to look at the red-faced infant. The poor thing's cheeks were streaked with tears, tiny fists balled up in frustration. Stan reached back and gently touched one of those fists, surprised when the baby instantly wrapped tiny fingers around his much larger one.
"Hang on just a little longer," he murmured, carefully extracting his finger. "I promise I'll make it better."
Stan stepped out of the car, carefully cradling the baby against his chest. The morning air was crisp with a hint of dust and exhaust fumes - smells that seemed sharper, somehow more real than what he remembered from his time.
Standing in the parking lot of this run-down gas station, the enormity of his situation finally hit him with full force.
"Holy shit," he whispered, careful not to disturb the now-quieter infant. "I'm actually here. In the past."
He looked around, taking in details he'd been too preoccupied to notice before: the boxy cars with their excessive chrome, the absence of cell towers on the horizon, the vintage Coca-Cola advertisements with prices that made him want to laugh hysterically. It wasn't just that he was in a stranger's body - potentially a fictional character's body, if his suspicions were correct - but he was displaced in time by several decades.
The realization made his knees weak. He leaned against the El Diablo for support, careful not to jostle the baby.
"Get it together," he muttered to himself. "Fiction or not, time travel or not, this is happening. And this little guy needs you to keep it together."
His gaze fell on a man emerging from the convenience store, cigarette dangling casually from his lips as he lit up without a second thought. No designated smoking areas, no health warnings, just the casual acceptance of a habit that would become increasingly stigmatized in the decades to come. It was such a small detail, but it drove home just how foreign this world, this time was to him.
The United States of America decades too early for him to know. A country he had only seen through movies and TV shows, experienced through music and stories. He'd never even visited the US beyond New York in his own time, in his own world, time, fuck if he knew, and now he was stranded here, clearly decades before his original birth, with no guidebook and a baby depending on him.
"One problem at a time," he told himself firmly, adjusting his hold on the infant. "First food, diapers, and maybe some actual clothes for this little one. Then we can have our existential crisis."
With a deep breath, Stan pushed away from the car and headed toward the convenience store, mentally preparing himself to navigate this strange new world without revealing just how lost he truly was.
Stan pushed through the glass door of the convenience store, the bell above jingling merrily in stark contrast to his frazzled state. The baby's cries had softened to whimpers, but those tiny fists still clenched and unclenched against his chest.
"Formula," he muttered, scanning the aisles with desperate eyes. "Diapers. Come on, where would they keep that stuff?"
A middle-aged woman behind the counter looked up from her magazine, eyebrows rising at the sight of a disheveled man clutching a crying infant.
"Baby section's in the back corner," she called out, pointing with a long fingernail painted cherry red. "Though we don't carry much."
Stan nodded gratefully and made his way to the indicated corner. The "baby section" turned out to be half a shelf with the basics: a couple cans of formula, a small package of cloth diapers, and some safety pins. No disposable diapers in sight.
"Of course," he muttered, remembering that disposables weren't widespread yet. He grabbed the cloth diapers, pins, and two cans of formula. Then, spotting a small display of baby bottles, he added one to his haul.
As he approached the counter, he passed through an aisle of general merchandise and impulsively grabbed a small teddy bear. The price tag read $1.99, and Stan nearly laughed out loud. Back home - or rather, forward in time. He huffed. - the same bear would cost at least fifteen euros.
"That everything?" the cashier asked, already ringing up his items.
"Actually," Stan added, adjusting the baby in his arms, "do you have anything for diaper rash? I'm worried the little one might develop something."
The cashier nodded knowingly. "Got some zinc oxide cream in aisle three. Works like a charm for the little ones." She pointed toward a small display of health items. "My daughter swears by it for her kids."
Stan grabbed the small tube of cream, grateful for the suggestion. "Thanks, I'll take this too." He added it to his pile of purchases, realizing how unprepared he truly was for caring for an infant.
"Yeah, I think so." Stan glanced at the total. $8.75 for everything. His mind reeled at the price, simultaneously amazed at how little it cost and horrified at how much value money had lost over the decades.
As he counted out bills from Stan's wallet, a newspaper headline caught his eye: "Environmental Protesters Block Construction of New Power Plant." The accompanying photo showed long-haired protesters with signs about saving the earth and stopping pollution.
"Damn hippies," the cashier commented, following his gaze. "Always causing trouble instead of getting real jobs."
Stan hesitated, biting back the instinct to defend environmental activism. He was in 19-something America - the energy crisis (was it that? He thinks) was still fresh, recycling barely existed, and climate change wasn't even on the radar for most people.
"They've got some points about pollution though," he ventured cautiously.
The woman snorted. "Sure, nobody wants dirty air. But these folks think we should all live in mud huts and eat grass. The economy's bad enough without shutting down more jobs." She handed him his change. "Your little one needs a world with opportunities, not one stuck in the dark ages."
Stan accepted the change with a nod, struck by the irony, even as he did not dare glance back at the newspaper just yet.
From his perspective, it was this time that seemed like the dark ages - cars guzzling leaded gasoline, factories dumping waste directly into rivers, aerosol sprays destroying the ozone layer, all happening with blissful ignorance of the consequences.
"Thanks for the help," he said instead, gathering his purchases. The baby started fussing again, a reminder of his immediate priorities.
"There's a restroom around back if you need to change the little one," the cashier offered, her expression softening. "Key's hanging by the door."
Stan thanked her again and headed out, his mind still reeling from the casual encounter. It wasn't just the prices or the absence of technology that made this time foreign. It was the entire worldview, the unquestioned assumptions about progress and resources that he knew would, have seemed so shortsighted forty years later.
"Progress doesn't necessarily mean it's for the better," he grouched as he opened the toilet door with a shoulder, having to press down on the handle with an elbow. The baby supplies clutched awkwardly in his other arm threatened to spill as he maneuvered into the small, dingy bathroom. "They'll put a man on the moon, but can't figure out how to make a bathroom door that doesn't require three hands to open."
The flickering fluorescent light revealed a space that could generously be described as "functional". A stained sink, a toilet with a cracked seat, and a changing table that looked like it had been installed before the second world war. The smell of industrial cleaner barely masked other, less pleasant odors.
"Welcome to your second bathroom experience together in the weird world that is the past, little man," Stan muttered, carefully laying the now-whimpering baby on a paper towel he'd spread across the changing table. "At least they have running water. Let's count our blessings."
Lifting the baby, who was now clean, treated for diaper rash, and properly diapered - though still dressed only in the too-large t-shirt, Stan gathered his purchases. The soiled garment that had served as the baby's previous diaper now rested in the trash can, emanating an odor Stan was trying his best to forget.
"Let's get these things to the car first," he murmured to the infant, who seemed momentarily content after the cleaning. "Then we'll come back and sort out your bottle. You must be starving, poor thing."
The baby made a soft gurgling sound in response, tiny fists waving in the air. Stan couldn't help but smile, despite the overwhelming strangeness of his situation.
As he pushed back through the convenience store doors, the cashier looked up from her magazine again, this time with an expression of curiosity rather than mild concern.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, setting her reading material aside. "I noticed that accent when we talked earlier."
Stan paused, mentally kicking himself. He'd been so focused on the baby and the shock of his situation that he hadn't considered how his accent might sound to locals.
"I'm surprised you caught that," he replied, aiming for casual. "Most people tell me it's pretty faint these days. I'm originally from France, a small town in the south."
The woman's eyebrows raised with interest. "France? Well, that's something. We don't get many Europeans passing through here. What brings you to this part of the country? Not exactly a tourist destination." She gestured vaguely at the dusty landscape visible through the windows.
"Just passing through," Stan said with a shrug, careful not to elaborate too much. "Taking the scenic route, I guess you could say."
"With a baby?" The skepticism in her voice was clear.
Stan glanced down at the infant in his arms. "It's... complicated. Family matters." He hoped the vague explanation would discourage further questions. "I noticed you have a microwave," he added, deliberately changing the subject. "Would you mind if I used it to heat some water for his formula after I put these things in the car?"
The woman's expression softened slightly. "Sure thing, honey. Come on back when you're ready." She gestured toward a microwave sitting on a counter behind her. A bulky, primitive-looking model compared to what Stan was used to, but right now it seemed like the most wonderful invention in history. "Just don't take too long. Manager gets antsy about non-customers using the facilities."
He thanked her, then went to deposit everything in the car. The whimpering baby seemed to grow more urgent in his cries as if sensing food was imminent. Stan returned to the store not a minute later, the fussy infant in one arm and the bottle, formula can, and a water bottle in the other.
"Looks like someone's getting impatient," the cashier observed with a knowing smile as Stan approached the counter.
"Yeah, I think we're well past his feeding time," Stan replied, his voice tinged with the mild panic of a new caretaker. "Would you mind if I used that microwave now?"
"Go right ahead," she said, stepping aside. "Just make sure you test it on your wrist before giving it to the little one. These microwaves can heat things unevenly."
Stan nodded gratefully and set about preparing the formula, carefully following the instructions on the can. He measured the powder, added water, and heated it just enough to take the chill off. As he shook the bottle to mix the formula thoroughly, his own stomach let out a long, embarrassingly loud growl.
The cashier laughed. "Sounds like baby's not the only one who needs feeding."
Stan felt his face flush. "Yeah, I guess I haven't eaten since... well, I can't actually remember." That was true enough. He had no idea when the original Stan had last eaten, and his own last meal had been in an entirely different time and place.
"We've got some pre-made sandwiches in the cooler," she offered, pointing toward a small refrigerated section. "Nothing fancy, but they'll keep you going."
"I think I'll take one," Stan said with a tired smile. "Actually, make it two. I'm starving."
He grabbed a couple of plastic-wrapped sandwiches from the cooler, ham and cheese on white bread, and set them on the counter. The cellophane packaging crinkled in his hands, the bread looking slightly squished from its time in storage. In 2025, he would have wrinkled his nose at buying such simple foods, but right now it looked like a feast.
"That'll be another dollar fifty," the cashier said, ringing up his additional purchase. "You want a coffee to go with that? Just brewed a fresh pot."
"God, yes," Stan breathed, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. "Black, please."
As the woman poured his coffee into a styrofoam cup, another item that would be virtually banned in his time. Stan tested the formula on his wrist as instructed. Finding it just the right temperature, he shifted the baby into a better feeding position and offered the bottle. The infant latched on immediately, tiny hands coming up to grasp at the plastic as he sucked eagerly.
"There you go, little guy," Stan murmured, feeling an unexpected wave of tenderness. "Better, right?"
The weathered woman raised an eyebrow as she handed him the coffee. "You traveling alone with the baby? No missus?"
Stan froze, his mind going blank. "Uh... missus?" he repeated dumbly, before realizing what she meant. "Oh! No, no missus." Then, desperate to change the subject, he asked, "Actually, could you tell me exactly where we are? I've been driving so long I've lost track."
The woman gave him a look that suggested she found his confusion concerning. "You're on Highway 6, smack between Ruth and Warm Springs. Not much out here but desert and sky, I'm afraid."
Stan nodded as if this information was exactly what he needed, though the names meant nothing to him. "Right, Highway 6. Perfect, that's... that's what I thought." He had no idea where the fuck that was.
"I'd like to take care of these now," Stan said pointing at the sandwiches and coffee with his elbow, handing over a five-dollar bill for his coffee and sandwiches. When the cashier returned his change, a whopping $3.25, he stared at the coins in his palm with a strange mix of awe and disbelief.
In 2025, $1.75 wouldn't even buy him a single cup of coffee, let alone two sandwiches and a beverage. The smallest, most basic coffee at any chain would run at least $4.50, and a decent sandwich would be closer to $12 or $15. Here he was, holding enough food to last him multiple meals, all for pocket change.
"Everything alright?" the cashier asked, noticing his extended contemplation of the coins.
"Yeah, just... thinking about how far this money will stretch," Stan replied truthfully. "Food's... reasonably priced around here."
She snorted. "Reasonable? Prices have gone up nearly twenty percent since last year! Inflation's killing us all." She shook her head in disgust. "My husband says it's only going to get worse, too."
Stan bit back a laugh that might have bordered on hysterical. If only she knew. At least he wouldn't have to worry about going hungry in the immediate future. Not when a decent meal cost less than two dollars. Small comforts in a completely insane situation.
"Might you help me with moving these to the table over there?" Stan asked the cashier, gesturing with his chin toward a small laminate table near the window. "I don't want to eat at the counter, but I can't exactly juggle everything while feeding him."
The woman looked from Stan to the happily feeding infant and back again, her expression softening further. "Sure thing, honey. Not like we're swamped with customers." She came around the counter, gathering his sandwiches and coffee. "I'll set you up."
As she arranged his modest meal on the table, Stan followed, careful not to disturb the baby's feeding. The infant's eyes were half-closed in contentment now, tiny hands still clutching at the bottle.
"There you go," she said, pulling out a chair with her foot. "Need anything else?"
"This is perfect, thank you," Stan replied, easing himself into the seat. "I really appreciate it."
The cashier lingered a moment, watching the baby with a wistful smile. "My youngest is seventeen now. Sometimes I miss those days." She shook her head slightly. "Anyway, holler if you need anything else. Name's Doris, by the way."
"Stan," he offered in return, realizing belatedly that he probably shouldn't have used his new real name. But then again, what did it matter in bum fuck nowhere highway number 6? There would be no digital records, no facial recognition, no algorithm to flag the appearance of Stan Pines the criminal or his other aliases.
No one should be after him, but with what he knew of the Stan Pines from the cartoon… He wasn't very hopeful.
When Stan had finally finished his first sandwich, he shoved the other in one of his jacket's pockets, and drained the last of his coffee, he let out a contented sigh. The baby had emptied most of the bottle and now dozed peacefully in the crook of his arm, tiny lips occasionally working in sleep as if still sucking.
"Well, little man," Stan murmured, careful not to wake the infant, "I guess we better hit the road again." He glanced at the analogue clock 8 hours and 14 minutes.
Doris had returned to her magazine but looked up as Stan began gathering his trash one-handed. "Heading out already?"
"Yeah, need to cover some more ground before we stop for the day," Stan replied, carefully shifting the sleeping baby to his shoulder.
"You be careful out there," she cautioned, coming around to help him. "Even in daylight, these desert roads can be tricky. Mirages on the asphalt, and the heat's already starting to build. Not to mention, you look like you haven't slept a wink."
Stan couldn't argue with that assessment. The full stomach had only intensified the bone-deep fatigue he felt. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Just need to find a place to rest during the worst of the day heat." And figure out where the hell I am and what year it actually is, and a plan for the next few days, he left unsaid.
Doris's warning was valid - his eyes were heavy and his mind sluggish after the overwhelming events of the past hours. He needed a safe place to rest, to properly assess the situation, and to figure out what the hell he was going to do with an infant in his care. For now, though, he had to keep moving - staying in one place too long felt dangerous, even if he couldn't quite articulate why.
Back in the car, Stan unfolded the weathered map he'd found in the glove compartment. The paper crinkled as he spread it across the steering wheel, squinting at the faded lines and text. His eyes traced the highways stretching across the country like veins, calculating distances and possibilities.
He noticed that Las Vegas was only a couple days' drive away depending on where in the highway he is. The name of the city conjured images of bright lights, easy money, and anonymity in crowds. All things that appealed to him right now. From there, he could head down to New Mexico, put some real distance between himself and... whatever he was running from.
His finger traced further east on the map to Louisiana. New Orleans. Now there was an interesting possibility. He'd always been curious about the place, with its reputation for music, mystery, and mayhem. Plus, he'd love to compare the Cajun dialect to his native French in person. Something about that cultural blend fascinated him.
"What do you think, little guy?" Stan glanced at the sleeping infant in the carrier in the backseats. "Vegas, New Mexico, or the Big Easy? We've got options, at least."
The baby stirred slightly but remained asleep, offering no opinion on their potential destinations other than a small grunt.
"Right," Stan muttered with a small smile, folding the map awkwardly with one hand. "We'll figure it out as we go." For now, just keeping moving seemed like the best plan. He started the engine, the El Diablo's motor rumbling to life beneath them, and pulled back onto the empty highway.
Hours later, as Stan piloted the El Diablo down endless stretches of sun-baked highway, a question nagged at him like an itch he couldn't scratch: Why was he running? This constant need to move, to put distance between himself and something unnamed. It didn't feel like his own instinct.
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, noting how naturally his hands fell into position. Muscle memory, but not his muscles. Not his memory.
The whole situation was surreal. One moment he'd been a twenty-year-old student juggling classes and a part-time job, living a completely ordinary life in 2025. The next, he was here, wherever and whenever "here" was.
A news update crackled through the car's radio, cutting through his thoughts.
"...and that's your weather outlook for Tuesday, July 13th, 1976. Coming up next, we've got the latest on President Ford's campaign against Reagan for the Republican nomination..."
Stan's breath caught in his throat. 1976. Nearly fifty years in the past. The radio host continued chattering, but the words washed over him without registering. 1976. Before cell phones. Before the internet. Before he was even born.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at the infant sleeping peacefully in the carrier on the backseat. Not a car seat—they probably didn't have proper infant car seats in the 70s, or at least this version of Stan didn't own one, for obvious reasons. Just the old basic carrier he'd found the kid in, it seamed to be a blend of mid-century and pre-ww2, only awkwardly secured by one of the two point lap seatbelts in the back. It made his 2025 safety sensibilities cringe, there hadn't even been a slot to slide the seatbelt in.
The fact there where only three point seatbelts in the fron…
“I hate the past…” he grumbled.
The baby stirred slightly, tiny hands flexing in sleep, one catching the side of the teddy bear he'd bought earlier, completely unaware of the existential crisis happening in the front seat.
"1976," Stan whispered to himself, testing the reality of the year on his tongue. "July 13th, 1976."
He tried to recall what little he knew about the 70s. Disco. Watergate. Star Wars wouldn't even be released until next year. His parents wouldn't meet for another decade. He wouldn't exist for nearly thirty years.
And yet here he was, somehow inhabiting the body of a man named Stan Pines—a man who, as far as he knew, was entirely fictional. A character from an animated show he'd watched years ago. How was that even possible?
The universe had a sick sense of humor, dropping him into what should have been fiction, in a time long before his own, with no warning and no instruction manual.
Maybe that was why he felt the need to run. This body came with its own history, its own instincts. And those instincts were screaming at him to keep moving, to stay ahead of... something. Someone.
Stan Pines was a con man, a drifter. Always in trouble, always one step ahead of the law or angry marks. These weren't his problems , they’d belonged to a fictional character, but they were his reality now.
He eyed the gas gauge, noting it was getting low. Soon he'd need to stop again, find another anonymous gas station in another anonymous town. Keep moving. Stay ahead.
But ahead of what? And for how long?
The baby made a soft cooing sound from the backseat, as if offering an answer Stan wasn't ready to hear.