A/N: We're back! Sorry for the lateness, folks: I meant to post this about five days ago, but work and preparing new lodgings for assorted people got in the way. But I'm back, bruised kneecaps and all, fresh from having learned the lesson that travelling downhill on tiled pathways in the pouring rain can be hazardous to your health. Hopefully now that most of the nonsense is out of the way, I can keep the updates regular, but as always, best laid plans of mice and men and monstrosities.
Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine. All I own are my own bruises and headaches. Feel free to furbish me with your theories on where we're heading next in this crazy little story...
Mabel instinctively backed away, but she hadn't quite gotten used to precision manoeuvres in the hamster ball, least of all while moving backwards; the first thing she did was back directly into the edge of the door, nudging it halfway closed and bouncing her even deeper into the room.
Next thing she knew, Pacifica was lunging for her; she was clearly sick and probably delirious if that unfocussed look in her eyes was any evidence, but she still had just enough strength left in her to move without toppling over. Thinking that she was aiming for her, Mabel rolled quickly out of the way, only to realize that Pacifica was really headed for the door – and before she could stop her, it was already shut. Right now, there was no way of opening it without opening the hamster ball first, and doing so would mean risking a double-infection.
She was trapped.
"There," said Pacifica, giggling almost uncontrollably. "Now we can talk about our friendship in private. And I think it's time I took you up on that hug."
Was it Mabel's imagination, or was she actually beginning to sound like her as well?
"Pacifica, stop," Mabel pleaded. "This isn't you! You don't really want to do this – it's the Forger Wasp in your head taking control! It's making you sick, making you do things you wouldn't do!"
"We – I – We've – I've – We've…"
Pacifica blinked rapidly, eyes shifting from blue to brown and back again. "I've spent my entire life doing what I've been told and not knowing what I really want. I'm not sick, Mabel: I've never felt better in my entire life. If I was sick, I wouldn't know what I'd really want, and right now..." she laughed in a horrifyingly Mabel-like way. "I want this. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life."
"But-"
"I'm not sick, Mabel. I'm free."
Mabel took in what little of Pacifica's features hadn't changed, and so far, none of them looked particularly healthy: sweat was now cascading down Pacifica's flushed face in steaming, cloying waves; though the room was warm and the air-conditioning was off, she was shivering; her outstretched hands trembled and spasmed near-constantly as she reached for Mabel; her gait was unsteady and often looked on the verge of tripping over something; and the less said of her wild, rolling eyes, the better.
"Oh-kay," said Mabel, in her most diplomatic tone of voice. "You're not sick. Nobody's gonna argue with you on that, Paz, but I really think you need to lie down for a minute and think this over."
"I've done enough thinking already: it's time I became part of a proper family!"
"Alright, fair enough, but... uh..." Mabel's mind raced. "Don't you want to see Dipper again?"
For a moment, the look of feverish determination on Pacifica's face faded ever-so-slightly, and suddenly she was just a very tired, very confused human once again. "Dipper?" she echoed deliriously. "Isn't Dipper with them? Aren't we going to be together anyway?"
"No, Pacifica: the Forger-Wasps took him and turned him into another clone, and right now they're erasing his mind! Grunkle Ford told me that the people taken by the wasps will all be as good as dead by next week, and that's what's going to happen to Dipper if we don't finish the cure by then! Now please, just sit still for a minute: we've got more doses of serum downstairs, and if we can get you one in time, we'll be able to keep you from getting any worse. Just one dose of serum, and everything will be okay."
Then again, she reflected, the wasps wouldn't be able to toy with her head if she hadn't already gotten a dose of serum and they hadn't learned how to force it out of her body, so maybe I'm overselling this stuff. No, no, FOCUS!
"Come on, Pacifica," she all but begged. "We're friends: let me help you. Let me get some serum, and you'll be fine."
For a moment, Pacifica looked as if she was considering this. But then her eyes changed colour once again, and suddenly, the awful look of maddened certainty was back on her face. "What's the point?" she asked quietly. "We've already lost. At least I won't be alone."
And once again, she lunged. Once again, Mabel rolled away, only to reverse over one of Pacifica's discarded shoes; suddenly losing her footing inside the hamsterball, she fell backwards, sending the little plastic sphere on a collision course with the nearest corner – where she was immediately penned in by an ottoman and a vanity.
"HELP!" she shouted. "SOMEONE HELP!"
But of course, nobody responded: the Northwest Manor was simply too big and too labyrinthine for sounds to travel far enough to reach the others – after all, Dipper and Pacifica had run rampant across the house without meeting anyone or disturbing the guests the last time they'd visited.
Winded, trapped, struggling to get a grip on the inside of the hamsterball again, she was left helpless as Pacifica wedged her in and began forcing the ball's hatchway open. In total, it took less than five seconds for the partially-transformed victim to destroy the airtight casing; a moment later, two boiling-hot hands reached in and seized Mabel by the wrists, dragging her out of the ball and into Pacifica's arms.
"That's it," she whispered, barely lucid. "Just a hug. Just one hug."
And then she was hugging her, drawing her so close that it was impossible not to make contact. One scalding touch, and it was all over. But still, Mabel struggled to free herself from Pacifica's grip, hoping against hope that it wasn't too late to avert disaster, trying valiantly not to actually touch the victim's skin as she forced her away – but without much success. Not only was it impossible to wriggle free of the vicelike grip, Pacifica was only getting stronger as her transformation accelerated and hugging Mabel even tighter to her as the fatal metamorphosis reached its final conclusion.
Before her eyes, the last stubborn blonde streaks in Pacifica's hair faded to brown; the aristocratic cheekbones softened ever-so-slightly; artfully-plucked eyelashes bristled out of shape; the perfect, photogenic mouth turned goofily cute and mischievous. In a matter of seconds, Pacifica Northwest was gone, and Mabel was staring at her own reflection.
There was a pause, as the newly-finished Pabel grinned hideously. "I win," she said smugly.
Mabel had just enough time to absently reflect that she actually looked pretty good in Pacifica's clothes, before the door swung open, revealing a concerned-looking Wendy, with Waddles at her heel.
Pabel didn't even give her a chance to react: she simply snatched up a metal nail file from the shelf, put her head down and charged, clearing the last six feet between them with one almighty leap. To her credit, Wendy wasn't confused for long; she had just enough presence of mind to fling herself to the left just before the double hit her target, so she was at least spared having the new Mabel land right on top of her. Unfortunately, she hadn't quite reckoned on how little space she had to manoeuvre, or how swift the clone really was: as she rocketed past, Pabel lashed the air with her nail file, slicing open Wendy's protective suit at the shoulder and grabbing her fiercely by the wounded arm to slow her descent; as Wendy reeled backwards with a yelp of shock, the doppelganger let go, hit the ground running and vanished down the corridor.
Mabel hurried over, just in time to see Wendy hastily covering a jagged cut across her upper arm.
"Did she touch you?" she asked urgently. "Did she actually managed to get a hand on you once she got through the suit?"
"I can't tell, I couldn't feel anything other than the nail file in my shoulder. But yeah, chances are she probably got me. I don't know if she just touched my arm or if she actually got a finger in this cut, but its bad news either way." Snatching up one of Pacifica's discarded blouses from the floor, Wendy tore the sleeve off it and wrapped it around her arm as an improvised bandage. "Come on," she said breathlessly. "Let's get her before she tries to infest anyone else!"
"But what about you?"
"Who cares? If we don't get that clone, she'll have everyone in the house infested before we get to the serum supply, and then it won't matter how much of it I take. Now come on, let's go! Forget about the hamster ball – just run!"
Unknown to both Wendy and Mabel, Pabel wasn't intending to infest anyone at all – not directly, at any rate.
From the knowledge circulated throughout the hive mind, she knew that trying to attack the defenders while they were all clustering together could easily end in capture, or in valuable hosts suffering unnecessary damage. So, under the guidance of the Queen, she fell back on her next best option: sabotage.
Fiddleford had been very careful to secure the controls to the manor's new defence systems, concealing them well away from windows and exterior doors, wiring them up to multiple power sources and even separating them from the shield generators – actions that other homeowners would have dismissed as ludicrously paranoid, but to Old Man McGucket had just been common sense. For good measure, he'd also refused to tell Preston where he'd hidden them in case the Northwest Patriarch got any creative ideas.
Unfortunately, he'd failed to account for the fact that Pacifica had seen him setting up; at the time, he hadn't thought this would be a problem – after all, why would he? As a fellow member of the Zodiac, he'd automatically assumed that Pacifica was trustworthy, and besides, he hadn't known the full scope of the threat that the Forger-Wasps posed.
And now that Pacifica had been assimilated into the hive mind, her memories had already been greedily dissected for useful information, from the sight of McGucket setting up the control terminals to that faint but distinctive mechanical humming sound from the attic; she'd even heard a little about Preston's highly-expensive security gates.
Now, guided by the whispers of the Queen, Pabel knew exactly where to go.
First port of call was the targeting computers, the remote access terminals used for programming and controlling the turrets, tesla coils and other defence mechanisms arrayed across the manor; hidden in a closet under one of the smaller staircases on the east wing of the manor, the dust here made them perfectly secure from nosy patriarchs and their snobby upper-tier servants. For good measure, McGucket had also padlocked it just to be on the safe side.
Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on Pabel's strength. Inside, she attacked the control systems in a frenzy, smashing terminals, tearing out cables, disembowelling machinery, and generally leaving Fiddleford's hard work quite beyond repair.
On her way out, she happened to run into the butler on one of his many inscrutable errands around the house.
Said butler was in due course, very briefly surprised.
After pummelling him into submission, she'd tied him up with a length of wire, and infested him via as many open wounds as she could inflict in the next ten seconds – just to make sure the newly-implanted larvae would have plenty of food to speed its development. Then she stashed the semi-conscious butler in the closet and went on rampaging, confident that they would have a fully converted member of the hive within minutes.
In the distance, she could already hear the urgent shouts and screams of the defenders as they struggled to find her; by now, Mabel and Wendy had alerted them to her presence, but it would do them little good. Northwest Manor was a vast and spacious location, and Pabel could run faster and longer than any of them; with only six people left among its occupants, they'd never be able to find her in time.
Next port of call was the building's backup generator: by now, her sisters had already cut the power to the mansion, and the only thing keeping the lights on inside Northwest Manor was the top-of-the-line gasoline-fuelled generator down in the basement – though McGucket had at least been smart enough to attach the shield to an independent power source. Once again, all due protection had been provided, especially since Preston's elaborate security door setup couldn't work without power: past the ranks of dusty crates and lesser riches that were the mainstay of the basement's first level, a heavy chainlink fence surrounded the generator, along with a second, electrified fence with a password-locked door.
Pabel tore through both with her bare hands.
It took a grand total of twenty seconds to completely total the backup generator, reducing it to so much pulverized metal and shredded wiring. Once it was done, Pabel stood amidst the wreckage, glorying in the victorious exaltations of the Queen and listening to the low, disappointed-sounding drone of electrical systems winding down.
"Lights out," she whispered with a grin.
The transition from full power to blackout was nothing short of astonishing.
One minute, Mabel was hurrying along the corridor with Wendy at her side and Waddles tucked under her arm, watching Ford readying his weapons, listening to the surviving Northwests screaming for their butler, and hoping against hope that McGucket could meet up with them before Pabel started zeroing in on stragglers.
The next, everything went pitch-black.
As one, all of Northwest manor was plunged into stygian darkness, leaving the five of them stumbling helplessly through the shadows, crashing into each other, tripping over furniture, walking into walls and generally panicking. Grunkle Ford tried as best as he could to calm them down, but with Pacifica converted, the butler AWOL a clone loose in the house, it was utterly impossible to settle either of the Northwests. Worse still, now that it was close to ten PM at night, the only illumination from outside the windows was from the Mabel army besieging the building, and it wasn't long before the army began extinguishing their own lights – leaving the five of them stumbling around in coffinlike gloom.
And it was at that moment, just as Ford and Wendy were readying flashlights and Preston and Priscilla were readying themselves for a histrionic episode, there was a clatter from somewhere in the darkness ahead. As one, the entire group froze in horror.
"Who's there?" Ford bellowed, drawing a gun.
There was a pause, and then a light appeared from around the corridor, held in the perpetually-bandaged hand of Fiddleford McGucket. "What's going on?" he asked breathlessly as he skidded to a halt.
Ford barely suppressed a sigh of relief, and hastily explained everything that McGucket had missed out on. "From the looks of things, the new clone's just taken out the internal generators," he concluded.
"That's not all: someone's smashed up the controls to the turrets and teslas and ripped up most of the power cables."
"You mean we're completely defenceless?" Preston squawked. "It's bad enough that I can't work the security gates now that the power's out; now you're telling us that your precious defences are useless as well?!"
"Not all of them," McGucket corrected. "My shield's still protectin' the mansion."
"What good will that do while we've got a Mabel already inside the house?!"
"Not a lot. On the upside, she won't be getting reinforcements any time soon."
"So there's a chance we can stop her from doing any worse?" asked Mabel.
"Possibly," said Ford, clearly not believing it. "Unfortunately, this is a very big house, and we don't have much time before she goes for…" He took a deep breath, as the awful realization slowly slid home. "The shield generator," he finished. "In which case we should probably go straight for the attic."
"We?" echoed McGucket. "Who's we, Ford? You know you're not supposed to be doing anything strenuous while you're infested. I'll go – it's my machine."
"But you're not wearing a protective suit!"
"Then I'll go," said Wendy.
"Your suit's been torn and you're infested; you're going to have to stay put, just like Ford."
"Oh for heaven's sake, can't we all go?" Preston snapped. "This is my house and I am not travelling through it alone, so I claim veto."
"But this isn't your house anymore. You sold it to me, remember?"
"…god damn it. Look, we'll just have to find the butler and give him a suit; he'll head up to the attic for us and-"
The rest of Preston's demand was lost in a ghostly shriek of laughter from somewhere in the darkness ahead of them; Mabel's flesh immediately rose in goose pimples, recognizing the distinctive laugh of one of the clones issuing from the darkened corridor – and never in her life had she imagined that her own voice would sound so unnerving. As one, Wendy, Ford and McGucket shone their flashlights into the gloom, but saw nothing other than ominous-looking shadows cast by the innumerable statues and antique furniture lining the walls. Then, just as the six of them were starting to wonder if they'd just imagined it, they heard the unearthly cackle again, this time much closer; a moment later, something sprinted past the beam of Wendy's flashlight, almost too fast to be seen clearly. For perhaps ten seconds, the sound of footsteps continued to echo up from the darkness, the sound almost seeming to circle them as it drew ever closer. Then, just as quickly, it drew back from them, suddenly sounding as if it was on the other side of the corridor, then from one of the rooms bordering the hallway, then from one of the chandeliers overhead…
"What's it doing?" Preston whispered frantically.
"It's toying with us," said Wendy, reading her axe. "Trying to get us good and spooked."
"I can see that, but what's this clone doing down here? I thought it'd be upstairs sabotaging the shield generator."
There was a horrified pause.
"What are the chances this thing would actually give up on the shield generator just to come down here and mess with us?" Wendy hissed.
"Round about zero," said Ford.
"Okay then. When was the last time anyone saw the butler?"
By way of a reply, there was another piercing laugh from the darkness, and the newest clone giggled, "You rang, Mr Northwest? Come closer! Let's shake hands and make peace… or if you're really that interested in the shield generator, we can turn this into a game of tag! Don't be scared of the dark, Mr Northwest! Nothing to be scared of out here, just lots and lots of shadows and a million different ways for me to sneak up on you!"
As one, the six of them readied their weapons – or rather, Mabel, Wendy, McGucket and Ford readied their weapons and Mr and Mrs Northwest took cover behind them. But as Mabel readied her grappling hook, she realized that they'd overlooked something rather important.
"There's only one person who can make it to the attic and stop Pabel without getting infested," she said grimly.
Wendy eyed her strangely. "Mabel, what are you – no, NO! Someone grab her before she-"
But Mabel was already running, sprinting out through the darkness with a flashlight of her own at the ready and Waddles still under her arm.
As she ran, it belatedly occurred to her that her grappling hook was still in her pocket, and with her hands full with the flashlight and Waddles, she couldn't properly arm herself… and no sooner had she thought this, the face of Butler!Mabel loomed out of the darkness, her grin hideously exaggerated by the stark glow of her flashlight.
"COVERING FIRE!" bellowed Ford.
A well-aimed stun-bolt lanced out of the darkness, and the monstrous rictus fell away, jittering wildly as Butler!Mabel collapsed to the carpet. Recognizing the opening she'd just been given, Mabel sprinted onwards, not daring to look back: she could already tell from the stun blasts and Mabelish roars of anger from behind her that the new clone was already recovering.
And she ran, hurtling down the corridors and tripping over furniture and toppling over decorations and doing everything she could to stay ahead of the clone she thought might be at her heels, moving faster and more relentlessly than ever before: she'd never run this far or this fast without stopping in her entire life, not even when fleeing from Bill in the Fearamid. Of course, it wasn't because the danger was greater or because the stakes were any higher – right now, Mabel graded them as more-or-less equal, except for the fact that the enemy had a vested interest in keeping her alive. No, she ran because she couldn't tell if she was being chased or not, because it was dark, because her imagination was running wild, and because if she arrived too late, the world might very well be doomed and it would be all her fault.
It wasn't easy to navigate the manor in the dark, of course, for she hadn't memorized the layout and the mansion took on a horrifying new aspect without power… but somehow, somehow she made it to the grand staircase, far enough from the gun battle that she could finally recognize that she was no longer being followed.
However they'd done it, Ford, Wendy and McGucket were keeping Butler!Mabel occupied. Lungs straining and muscles aflame, she flung herself along the landing for what felt like miles until she reached the narrow, steep staircase leading to Northwest Manor's attic, and – with some difficulty – managed to work her way up without losing her balance. As she climbed, she listened frantically for any sign of violence from above, hoping against hope that she wasn't too late.
As soon as she reached the top, Mabel set down Waddles as quickly as possible, drew her grappling hook, and launched herself into the murk. No less than a few steps across the highest floor of the mansion, however, she saw the squat, whirring shape of McGucket's shield generator sitting in the middle of the attic amidst a nest of power cables, humming serenely. Against all expectations, it was unharmed.
Mabel sighed in relief…
….and then a familiar voice from above cooed "Lose your dance partner?"
Before she could look up, before she could raise the grappling hook to fire, Pabel was right on top of her, grabbing her by the wrists and forcing her into a mocking tango across the attic. Mabel fought with all her might to escape, biting her arms, kicking her in anything that came within reach, even headbutting her at one point, but Pabel seemed utterly impervious to pain. Indeed, the attacks only seemed to make her all the more amused – until at last, she pointed Mabel's gun-arm squarely at the generator, wove her fingers around the trigger of the grappling hook, and squeezed.
At the last moment, Mabel just managed to shift Pabel's aim ever-so-slightly – not by more than half an inch, but it was enough to send the grapnel soaring harmlessly over the generator and through the side of a large set of stacked crates in the corner of the attic.
Victory!
But if Pabel was in any way inconvenienced by this sudden burst of good fortune, she didn't show it. Instead, she just smirked, and suddenly yanked Mabel backwards.
And because Mabel was still holding the grappling hook, the gun and the grapnel went with her – along with anything it was attached to: on the other side of the attic, the stack of crates groaned, wobbled, tilted, and finally came tumbling down…
...right on top of the shield generator.
Mabel could only watch as their last hope of surviving the night unceremoniously collapsed into a heap of scrap metal, one side of it literally squashed like a bug under the overwhelming weight of the boxes. At once, the mechanical humming ceased and was promptly replaced by a low, tortured-sounding groan as what remained of McGucket's machinery began to wind down.
With that, Pabel shoved her to the ground. "I win again," she giggled. "Now, let's see how many friends you have left by the end of the night-"
The grapnel caught her square in the chest, sending her crashing backwards through the attic window; suddenly seized by the thought that she might have accidentally killed Pabel – and by extension Pacifica – Mabel hurried over to see what had become of the clone, but by then, her double had already recovered: two stories below, Pabel was sprinting out through the gardens at high speed, kicking peacocks aside as she thundered across the lawn to freedom.
In desperation, Mabel turned to the crumpled remains of the shield generator, hoping that there might be something still working – enough to repair or at the very least salvage. But as she watched, the last few surviving components of the ex-generator gave a few half-hearted sparks and exploded into useless shrapnel. By the time the staccato pop and crackle of detonating components had ceased, so had the groaning from the emitters.
The shield was down.
Outside, the Mabel army grinned in perfect unison as they felt the shield flicker out of existence.
They had been waiting patiently for this moment ever since they'd felt the stirrings of their newest sister within the Northwest girl, ever since the Queen's host had sought shelter within the walls of this ivory tower. By now, the hive had deployed over five hundred troops to secure this little siege, not counting the personnel they'd used to shut off all external power sources and search for hidden exits and entrances to the building. The rest was committed to guard the borders of Gravity Falls, preparing for the inevitable expansion into the forests and beyond, and ensuring that any unwanted visitors were quickly captured and assimilated before they became a problem.
Frankly, five hundred were all they needed.
They waited a moment longer, just to make sure that the last vestiges of the shield had well and truly faded away, just to let the defenders realize the full extent of their failure (if only because the Queen's mysterious backer had suggested it).
Then, they surged forward, swarming over the gate like ants, scaling the sheer wall with all the strength and dexterity their enhanced physiology offered. The mansion itself was next: several outriders from the horde made colossal leaps through first-story windows, randomizing the spread of their attack, while dozens more scuttled up the walls and invaded through the second story and the chimney; almost a hundred more circled the building to cut off any attempts to escape through the gardens, but the main bulk of the army charge straight for the front door, hammering off its hinges with a battering ram comprised entirely of giggling, shrieking, impervious host-bodies.
Soon, Mabel would be theirs again.
"Move! MOVE!"
"Alright, Mr Infallible, where?!"
"The garage, you moron, where else? You parked our car there, right?"
"I don't know! The butler parked it for me, and he's currently being used as a finger puppet by the Forger Wasps! Can't we just stop and take refuge in the panic room?"
"Come on, Preston, that's three corridors behind us, and the Mabels will be all over it by now – don't you know your own house?"
"Aha! I thought it was McGucket's house; now it's suddenly mine again."
"SHUT UP AND RUN!"
Utter chaos reigned within Northwest manor: Mabels were pouring in through every window and door in the building, flooding the corridors with their wide, manic grins and frenzied, grasping hands. With no defences left in the building and no weapons capable of holding off an entire horde of clones, the six of them had been forced to beat a very hasty retreat; on the upside, Mabel had been able to meet up with them fairly quickly, but that was the only plus to an ever-worsening situation.
The lights were still out: quite apart from the fact that it was terrifyingly easy for them to lose their way in the dark, there was no way of knowing precisely just how many of the clones there were in the building, or even how many were actually chasing them; that would mean actually pointing their flashlights in their direction – or worse yet, turning around in mid-sprint. However, the Mabels had their own powerful lights, and all too often, the survivors were reduced to scampering like rabbits out of the searchlights for fear that the dopplegangers would be ready to intercept anyone who stood still for too long.
Worse still, the Mabels were nothing short of lethal at close range: less than a minute after they first arrived, Priscilla Northwest had been brought screaming to the ground by an outrider Mabel and dogpiled by the rest of the army. With no way of rescuing her, they'd been forced to flee onwards down the corridor – hoping that the horde wouldn't catch up with them before they reached the safety of the garage.
So here they were, once again lost and running for their lives, Mabel jogging frantically down the near-lightless corridors with Waddles galloping along beside her and a whole host of her friends and allies at her back – and a few hundred Forger Wasp-infested clones hot on their heels.
"Just keep goin'," McGucket panted. "Once we're inside, you'll have the fastest sports cars in the Northwest stable to escape in!"
In spite of the situation, Ford actually managed to look askance at the old inventor. "What's wrong with the Stanmobile?"
"Well, no offence, but I'm pretty sure she's been pushed well over the limit today already – and she's a pretty old car, too, so-"
There was a muffled thud from somewhere around floor level, and suddenly McGucket went silent.
"Fiddleford? FIDDLEFORD?!"
No response.
Some distance behind them, a cluster of Mabels had gathered around a struggling figure and were in the midst of pinning it to the ground, their cackling audible even over the brutal thuds and twangs of a weaponized banjo. Ford let out a yell of horror and tried to turn around, clearly hoping to rescue McGucket before it was too late, but Wendy grabbed him by the collar and dragged him onwards, forcing him to look away, his protests drowned out by the growing chorus of terrified expletives from Preston.
And then, just as Mabel thought the situation couldn't get any worse, another doppelganger had dived in from the side and grabbed Waddles by the flanks; before Mabel could stop her, the clone had tucked the squealing pig under her arm and charge off down another corridor. And though she knew that she was being baited, even though she knew that the Forger Wasps were only doing this to make her follow on so they could capture her (after all, it wasn't as if they could convert pigs, right?), even though she knew the garage was just around the corner….
...she stopped, throat tightening with horror and grief as she tried vainly to figure out what to do next.
Next thing she knew, someone had grabbed her – but it wasn't one of the clones.
It was Preston Northwest, hauling her backwards by the scruff of her neck into the nearest spotlight; and judging by the blade he was pressing to her throat, he wasn't out to rescue her.
As one, the army of Mabels froze in mid-charge, their faces turning slack and expressionless in near-perfect unison.
"ALRIGHT!" Preston barked. "All of you stay where you are, or your Queen dies along with Mabel! I warn you, I have a letter opener and I'm not afraid to use it!"
Behind them, Ford groaned in exasperation. "Oh, you idiot. Didn't I tell you this wouldn't work? Do you think you'll actually get away with so much as bruising the Queen's host? For god's sake, why didn't you just take a flying leap out the nearest window if you wanted to kill yourself so badly?"
"You said that killing the host wouldn't work, you never said anything about taking hostages, Pines. Besides, look at them – they're frozen! I've done what you couldn't: I've found their one real weakness! I now have a bargaining position, and I can ask for anything I want!"
"A bargaining position?! This isn't Washington, you chinless streak of piss! You're not dealing with something that you can intimidate or blackmail! The only thing you can offer them is more hosts, and right now, you don't have the resources or the distance to make the deal work! For crying out loud, do you honestly think you can stick your hand in a wasp nest without getting stung? I mean, even you should at least have some idea of what eusocial insects do when their hives are threatened!"
"Shut up, I'm negotiating!"
"Should I knock him out?" Wendy asked Ford in a low whisper.
"Why bother? In a few seconds, it won't even matter; just get ready to start running again."
Meanwhile, Preston was still haranguing the hive: "Now that I have your attention, I expect your immediate obedience from here on: I have a long list of demands, and if they are not met, I will slit Mabel's throat before you can even respond. By the time any of you get your act together, I'll have killed every last one of you long before you select a new Queen. Now, there's no reason we can't work together: you can have one half of the world, and I can have the other; abide by my terms, and your Queen will remain unharmed. If not-"
And before Ford could stop him, Preston Northwest reached down and nicked Mabel's neck with the letter opener. The wound was little more than a paper cut, but it hurt – and judging by the sudden warmth creeping along her throat, it was deep enough to draw a few tiny droplets of blood.
"See what happens? I hope I don't need to inflict any permanent damage for you to get the message. Now, if you'll… all… just…"
He trailed off, suddenly realizing that the Mabels surrounding them were no longer looking on in blank shock: instead, they were now staring at him with something that looked uncannily like hatred… and as their anger grew, their eyes began to glow an incandescent shade of red.
"Um… what are they doing?"
"You've just triggered their swarming instinct," said Ford. "Nice knowing you."
For a few heart-stopping seconds, five hundred pairs of searing ruby eyes glared back at Preston from the stygian darkness. Then, as one, they flung themselves at him. In situations like this, words like "launched," "lunged," "pounced," "swarmed" or "leapt" couldn't do the situation justice: instead, the clone horde tsunami-d down the corridor towards Preston, sweeping through the hallway like a living tidal wave of blazing red eyes, screaming mouths and hands outstretched like talons. Mabel had just enough time to elbow Preston in the groin and fling herself out of the way before the Forger Wasps ploughed into him, sweeping the Northwest patriarch off his feet and dragging him to the ground – where he promptly vanished under a colossal mass of clones. It was hard to see what they were doing, but they had to be infesting him, and judging by the shrieks of pain and the flat, un-movie-like thud of fists against flesh, they weren't being gentle about it in the slightest.
Whatever was going on in there, though, Mabel knew that now wasn't the time to indulge her curiosity; taking to her heels, she resumed her mad sprint down the corridor with Ford and Wendy down her side. Ahead, the garage door passed over them, the journey pausing for a moment as Ford locked and barricaded it shut behind them as best as he could – even partially welding it shut with a handheld laser concealed in his coat.
"Right," he panted. "It won't take them long to batter their way through that, but it's brought us some time. Hopefully they haven't found any secret entrances to the garage, otherwise this is going to be a very short trip."
For the next minute, the three of them continued their charge downstairs in total silence, hurrying through the garage until they finally tracked down the improvised workshop McGucket had set up. Less than twenty feet from the lab space, the battered Stanmobile sat in awkward silence where the butler had parked it, looking almost hilariously out of place amidst the limousines and sports cars of Preston's collection.
Ford immediately made straight for the workbenches and began hastily scooping up the few vials of serum he and McGucket had managed to make, ladling them into his pockets five at a time. For good measure, he injected himself at the neck with one.
"I've been exerting myself too much – it's accelerating the process," he muttered by way of explanation, but frankly, Mabel didn't need to be told: she could see it happening before her very eyes.
By now, his wrinkles had long since vanished, the grey was gone from his hair, and Mabel could tell from the slightly loosened cut of his coat that the last of the muscles he'd gained in his years travelling the multiverse had all but melted away. From the looks of things, he was around thirty at best… and even now, even with the serum slowing the rate of conversion, Mabel could almost see Ford getting steadily younger, shedding year after year with every passing minute. Right now, his latest dose looked to be slowing his descent, but not by much: he'd gone from dropping a year every sixty seconds to perhaps a month a minute, but there was no stopping it now. Soon, he'd stop getting younger and start looking more like her; soon, he'd be just another Mabel.
"Come on," he said briskly. "Let's go. Hopefully, we'll have enough fuel to make it to the next port of call."
"Where's that-"
"NO!" Mabel shrieked. "I don't want to hear it! The Queen's listening, remember?"
"We've still got a five minute delay on the Queen's memory-reading, Mabel."
"La-la-la, not listening!"
Wendy sighed. "Is there any reason why we need to take the Stanmobile at all? We've got all these fancy cars around here, and I'm betting they're a lot faster than this old rustbucket."
"For one thing, the only man who'd know where the keys are kept is currently being infested." As Ford paused for breath, there was a thump from upstairs, followed by several dozen perfectly-identical voices crying out in glee. "And for another, we probably don't have enough time to hotwire any of them," he continued hurriedly. "So, let's just get moving, shall we? Everyone into the Stanmobile – quickly, if you please?"
As they began piling into the car, however, Wendy hesitated. "How many vials of serum do you have?" she asked quietly.
"Ten. Does it matter?"
"Something tells me you're going to need them a lot more than I will, Ford."
"Wendy, this is no time to play hero! Get in the car!"
"This isn't me being a hero, this is me being smart: I didn't just get skin contact from the clones, I got cut open, remember?" She gestured at the hastily-bandaged would on her shoulder. "I took a dose, but it's not enough: the infestation's working a lot faster on me than you, and if you're going to cure this thing, you don't need me around and using up all the serum."
"For crying out loud, we can ration the serum if we have to!"
Without saying a word, Wendy removed her hat, revealing a slowly-expanding halo of brown hair slowly replacing her distinctive red mane.
"I'm already an inch shorter," she said quietly. "It's speeding up as well – I've been doing as much running as you have, remember? If you take me with you, I'll either waste the serum stock or convert in the car. Either way, you'll be as good as dead. I'll try to hold them off as long as I can; just take Mabel, find a new lab, and make the cure."
Ford's face fell. "I'm sorry," he sighed.
"Don't be. This beats the hell out of sitting around waiting to die by conversion. "Now come on, get going! They'll be here any minute."
Still sighing, Ford started the car and began the blood-curdling process of getting it in gear; but even as Mabel fastened her seatbelt, she couldn't help but stare at Wendy, her willowy frame looking shorter and more childish by the minute. She'd seen the transformation before, with Soos, and back then it had been disturbing… but this was slower, more painstakingly detailed, and somehow even more unearthly to witness in action: to see Wendy being slowly but inexorably diminished, her athletic frame shrinking away, her clothes growing baggy and ill-fitting, the look of confident determination on her face softening into Mabel's ecstatic grin… it looked wrong – horribly, horribly wrong.
And suddenly, Mabel almost couldn't sit still for the sense of guilt and horror she felt – at everything she'd done, everything she'd been duped into doing. Everyone had told her time and again that it hadn't been her fault, but she never believed it for long; how could she, when the monsters had her face? How could she, when she'd lost so many friends and relatives already because she'd been so easily fooled? How could she, when she was about to lose another?
"Wendy," she began. "I-"
"Just go! If all this works out, we'll see each other again soon. If not…" In spite of herself, Wendy smiled. "Well, I guess I'll see you again anyway, won't I? So I won't say goodbye. Just… good luck."
And then Ford put pedal to the metal, sending the Stanmobile hurtling across the garage, down the ramp and off towards one of the many hidden exits; behind them, Wendy waved goodbye, slowly receding into the distance until she vanished behind a pillar.
Ford was trying to tell Mabel something important, or maybe something apologetic – it was hard to tell through the pounding in her head. But then, even if she could have heard him, it wouldn't have made much sense: in that moment, Mabel's mind was blank except for five words, repeated over and over again like a mantra:
And then there were two…
A/N: Up next… care to guess?
This chapter's soundtrack is Ambush Attack, by Nobuo Uematsu.
Now for the code!
Xzm'g blf hvv rg'h uzi gll ozgv?
Rg'h grnv gl gfim zmw uzxv blfi uzgv
Blfi hgivmtgs rh hkvmg, blfi wzb rh wlmv
Hl qfhg zwnrg dv'ev zoo yfg dlm