"McGucket!" Ford thought frantically as he watched his best friend being carried off rapidly by the fleeing Gremloblin. If he didn't do something, Fiddleford would likely end up dead. Thinking quickly, he rummaged through his backpack and pulled out one of the three magnet guns he'd brought along. Fiddleford still had his own bag in his arms, and it contained the steel hyperdrive. Running as fast as he possibly could after the flying monster, Ford shouldered his backpack again and took aim with the gun at the Gremloblin. The second he pulled the trigger, he was yanked forcefully away from the ground and into the air.

Fiddleford was scared out of his mind. It had been bad enough being snatched up and clawed by the Gremloblin, but then the thing had gazed into his eyes, unleashing bouts of unimaginable horrors into Fiddleford's imagination. It was like having everything he'd ever feared playing out in front of his face all at once. It all seemed so painfully real. Such a high level of terror and stress had caused him to become effectively paralyzed, unable to fight for his life. The Gremloblin was flying back to its cave, and was soaring over the outskirts of town. A barn was passing beneath Fiddleford and the Gremloblin when something flew into the back of the creature's head, knocking it unconscious. The Gremloblin's huge wings ceased their flapping. Ford yelled as all three of them hurtled towards the building fifty feet below them.

The bales of hay were what saved them from any serious injury. A few horses standing in the barn whinnied and reared up on their hind legs, but eventually calmed down. Stanford was the first to stand up, gently clutching the shoulder that he'd landed on. 

"Fiddleford!" He called softly, not wanting to reawaken the Gremloblin lying only a few metres away from him. It didn't take long to see him. Fiddleford was half buried under a pile of fresh hay, and he sat up and surveyed his surroundings. His eyes were moving wildly and were bloodshot, and he flinched when Ford called his name.

"Come on buddy, we have to leave this place before that thing regains consciousness!" Stanford approached his friend who was still sitting on the floor. Suddenly Fiddleford clenched his teeth and shut his eyes tight, exhaling hard. He started mumbling inaudibly. Ford worriedly watched his friend stand up and walk slowly past him. One thought stood out among the turmoil in his mind: What did he see?

The entire way home, Fiddleford's mind was on autopilot. He couldn't forget the terror he'd just felt, and had pretty much retreated into his own mind. Even several minutes later, his heart was still racing, but the effects of the burst of adrenaline were gradually dying down. He was beginning to notice a throbbing pain in his arm, and to realize that the nightmare was over. Eventually his consciousness had totally resurfaced, and he was mostly back to normal. Or so he thought.

For the next several nights, Fiddleford got almost no sleep. The rare moments he was fully asleep were fitful and spent tossing and turning. His attention span grew shorter and shorter, and if he had nothing to do, his mind drifted back to the horrible place it had been in during the Gremloblin attack, creating a vicious cycle. Stanford noticed all of it, and tried to help Fiddleford. He shared meditating techniques with him, and reminded him;

"We are scientists, Fidd. We just need to harness our creativity, and through it, we can find- and sometimes manufacture- the solution to any problems we may face, including our fears."

"I wish I could just forget about that incident." Fiddleford said remorsefully.

Both statements sparked an idea in Fiddleford's mind. Knowing he would face yet another sleepless night tonight, he decided to at least spend it productively, and when Stanford had his back turned, he smuggled a few varying materials and tools into his room.

What Fiddleford didn't realize was that Stanford was developing some ideas as well. The only difference was, they weren't really his.

The next day, before they could resume their work on the portal, Fiddleford decided to take a risk and show his latest invention to Stanford. With a smile on his face at the thought of being able to sleep at night, Fiddleford showed him the device.

"A memory erasing gun?" Stanford's voice had only the slightest quiver in it as he examined the contraption in his hands.

"Mm hmm." Fiddleford nodded proudly. "It targets the synapses that fire when a bad memory is triggered and destroys them, effectively erasing the experience."

"Fiddleford, I hate to tell you this," Ford tilted his head slightly, a nervous gleam in his brown eyes. "But this is a horrible idea. Erasing someone's memories? That's..." Ford shook his head. "It's not a good idea."

"Wh- why not? I know you've noticed how.. Anxious.. I've been as of late." Fiddleford said in a slightly accusing tone.

"Trust me, I have. You've not been sleeping, your attention span is that of a small child's, and you haven't solved your Cubic's Cube in days, despite how scrambled I've made it." Ford's tone softened. "Look, Fiddleford, the fact that you've created this thing... It really is extraordinary. It's your astonishing brilliance on display. But it's extraordinary in the worst way possible." Ford stared Fiddleford in the eyes as he finished his statement. "It's dangerous."

"No, it's not. Don't you see how it could benefit us? People have bad experiences all the time. Think about how this could make their lives better! Can you imagine having the stress of living with certain memories lifted?" Fiddleford argued back forcefully. He wasn't going to destroy his invention; it was far too valuable.

"You're only seeing one side of this! You're missing how badly this thing could malfunction!" Stanford snapped. He was frustrated, and quite frankly, nervous. "What if it erased something it wasn't supposed to?!"

"It ..wouldn't." Fiddleford said without conviction and stared at the floor. He didn't know for sure that the memory erasing gun wouldn't erase something important.

"McGucket." Ford started, knowing he'd finally started to get through the to him. "This gun needs to be destroyed." Fiddleford turned his body so he couldn't face Ford and took a deep breath. "What if you were to forget your family?" Ford asked him, holding the device out for him to take. Fiddleford let out the breath he had been holding in.

"You're right." He finally conceded, taking the gun back. "If I forgot Ada and Tate, I don't know what I'd do with myself."

"Thank you." Ford tried for a small smile. "Now go destroy that thing. The blueprints, too."

"Alright." Fiddleford sighed, nodding. Stanford turned back to his desk, taking out a pen and scribbling furiously in a maroon-jacketed book. Fiddleford began to walk out of the room.

"What am I doing?" Fiddleford stopped in the hall on the way to his room. "I can't destroy this. I just can't." He whispered to himself. If he didn't destroy the gun, Stanford surely would. The first words out of his mouth when Fiddleford returned would almost definitely be "How did you dispose of it?" Fiddleford couldn't not destroy it, but he couldn't destroy it either. For a long time, he thought about what to tell Stanford. Then he had a thought that both appalled and intrigued him. Nervously he glanced at the memory erasing gun in his hands. Could he really do it? He thought about the nightmares he'd had, the sleepless nights, and most of all the terrifying voice he'd heard on more than one occasion. This gun could take all of that away, bring his sanity back. But it could also cause irreparable damage to his brain.

"Fiddleford?" Stanford hollered. Already he'd been gone too long, Stanford would be getting suspicious by now. He had to make a decision. Steeling himself, Fiddleford turned around, memory eraser in hand. Using the device's keypad, he typed in the words "Memory gun intact", and started to head back to the study.

"Did you get rid of it? What's behind your back?" Stanford asked, his eyes narrowed, upon Fiddleford's reentry into the study. His arm shaking violently, Fiddleford pulled the gun out from behind his back.

"What are you doing!?" Stanford stood up abruptly as Fiddleford pointed the gun at his face.

"Stanford, even if you won't remember, and neither will I, I just want you to know... I'm so sorry."

"No, DON'T SHOO-" Fiddleford pulled the trigger, sending a blast of blue light at his friend's skull. Stanford stumbled and then fell to the ground. Fiddleford closed his eyes and rushed out of the room, to his bedroom to store the gun there. As quickly as he could, he ran back to the study to find Stanford standing up and swaying slightly. He was looking around the room, dazed.

"Something wrong?" Fiddleford asked him, hiding his mixed emotions.

"I-" Stanford stopped, frowning, then shook his head. "No, no. At least I don't think so."

"Okay.." Fiddleford raised one eyebrow, faking curiosity and slight concern. Stanford looked like he had something else to say, but never opened his mouth. Again he shook his head before sitting down and writing another sentence in the maroon-jacketed book.

"Ugh, what have I done?" Fiddleford asked himself breathlessly, pacing. The day was ending, and they'd met their work quota for the day, so Stanford had told him to take a break if he wanted, which he had. There were so many things in his mind that needed to be sorted out. The gun sat on his cot, cold and lifeless, seeming to glare back at him. "It's not like I could've kept it hidden any other way. Stanford would've figured it out in an hour." Fiddleford tried to justify his actions. He couldn't shake the guilt of what he'd done.

"It was for the best. All of this will be better soon." Fiddleford promised himself out loud as he grabbed a pen and paper. He had some faith in his invention, but it had only had one test run. Precautions had to be taken.

After writing himself a note, Fiddleford picked up his device, typing "Gremloblin induced nightmares/Shooting Stanford." into the specifier. Then he turned the weapon on himself. Before he could pull the trigger, he saw something that made him pause. A framed photo of Ada and Tate sat on a dresser. For a long time, he stared at the photo, thinking this over. Could this backfire? He mulled the question over in his mind.

"No." He finally decided, and pulled the trigger.

Your name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. You are married to the sweetest and most loving woman on the planet, Ada Laney McGucket, and your son's name is Tate Thomas McGucket. He shares Ada's kind disposition, and you care about those two more than anything.

Recently, a very good friend of yours called you and asked you to come work for him in Gravity Falls, Oregon. You two are building a trans-universal poly-dimensional metavortex. His name is Stanford Pines, and you two attended Backupsmore College together.

There were many other paragraphs on the paper, each describing an aspect of his life, going as far back to when he was five years old. Reading this piece of paper he had found on the floor, Fiddleford had no idea why he would write something like this to himself. All of it was as familiar to him as his own reflection in a small mirror on the wall. The last two paragraphs cleared things up, though.

After coming to Gravity Falls, (which, for the record, is a strange, strange town.) you and Stanford went out on a mission, going for a two day hike through the woods. All was going relatively well, until you two encountered a Gremloblin. It grabbed and clawed you, flying off with you in its clutches. Stanford saved you, but the damage was done: the creature had stared you in the eyes, showing you visions of things too horrible to describe in detail here. You haven't been sleeping at all for the past week, because you've been having nightmares and hearing voices. You were driven nearly to the brink of insanity. Finally, you were able to invent a device that can destroy the synapses that fire to trigger bad memories- a memory erasing gun. You used it on yourself, and now you can't remember the Gremloblin attack, or the terror that followed.

Stanford told you that that gun was dangerous, but he was wrong. This device is your salvation, and the salvation of all who have seen that which they'd like to forget. You've helped yourself to forget your bad experience. Now that you've done that, you can begin to help others, too.

Fiddleford could effectively remember everything in the letter he'd written for himself, except for the last two paragraphs, but they explained themselves. He'd saved himself from insanity by creating a near-impossible device, and the possibilities were endless. Just like the letter stated, the help didn't have to be limited to him alone. He could help anyone who needed it. An idea began to form in his head. With a smile, he changed his clothes, turned out the lights, and climbed onto his cot, being careful to move the memory gun beforehand.

And for the first night in a long while, sleep came easily to him.

Hey guys! I guess I'll be updating this book every four-six days or so. I'm thinking this book will have around ten-twelve parts..

If anyone has any constructive criticism or positive feedback, I'd love to hear either one. Specifically, how am I doing writing from the POV of someone who can't remember things?

Thank you guys for reading, voting, and commenting! Thanks you for over one hundred reads! :D Later!
~GreyJay13