Voices.
Murmurs. Whispers.
Conversation, words his mind couldn't grasp onto as it eased in and out of the waking world. These voices didn't belong to anyone named Pines.
He had had a good memory, as quasi-omniscient multidimensional entities usually did, and knew these voices. The chanters, the cultists who had dragged him kicking and screaming from the ether and thrust him into this sorry situation in the first place.
The idiots who didn't know what they were messing with.
They were lugging him along, their gross skin puppet hands on his gross skin puppet body. A gross skin puppet body that was currently limp and defenseless.
With hazy recollection, Bill thought back to years ago, when he had possessed Pine Tree's body, how the dumb thing eventually just couldn't take it anymore, given out in a crumpled heap. He'd watched the Pines family afterwards, as he often had, and observed Pine Tree sleep for three days straight. When the boy finally woke, he had been woozy and wobbly, and at least twelve percent more traumatized than he had been before.
That part was funny.
What was very not funny was what was happening right now. More or less the same thing that happened to Pine Tree's body, but this time it was happening to a form he couldn't escape. He recalled Pine Tree's systems failing, the vehicle that was his flesh giving out with the stage lights hot above and Shooting Star on his heels.
Such weakness. Such helplessness.
Losing consciousness was a relatively new experience for him, and it was something that he found highly disturbing. He'd been awake, alert, from the moment he was born and through the eons after, his mind constantly active. Periods of unconsciousness for a creature like him were nearly incomprehensible. These pockets of time when he couldn't think, couldn't watch...he was debilitated, impotent, until the body he was trapped in was roused again. It was maddening enough to drive a guy insane, if he hadn't already been there.
A weird and half-formed thought occurred; the notion that he hadn't appreciated Pine Tree's Mindscape enough, the fact that there was a place to go when this body couldn't function anymore, had to lay down and recharge like the rest of its pitiful, blood and guts brethren. The Mindscape had been somewhere to escape to then, a place where he was still awake, still plotting, and still...
...not in control, maybe, but at least more in control than if there was nothingness.
These blank spaces made him think of his death, the moments leading up to which were always clear in his mind. The panic and rage as he realized he'd been tricked, the fear as he saw Stanley's fist heading toward him, the agony of being pulverized, and then...endless vacuity.
It had felt like forever until he began to reform and the first buzzing of consciousness returned to his dispersed atoms. When he was whole enough to think, to reason, he'd been more than a little horrified to discover that it had only been a few years. The void was ages-old, far older than even he, and it was terrifying.
Death, unconsciousness, the complete loss of dominion, complete loss of the self...he wasn't eager to be in that position again. And that was one of the many reasons why, as soon as he was free from this fleshy tether, he'd rest a lot easier.
"Over there," he heard one of them say, felt himself being dragged across an even surface. His head bobbed as they moved him, too sapped to hold up.
The most basic of human functions, holding up your head! And he couldn't even do that.
He willed his eyes open, saw movement at the periphery of his view. His hands were pressed with their backs against a wooden floor, and his vision cleared in time to witness twin blades punch into his palms, through the soft flesh and into the wood beneath. He inhaled sharply at the pain.
The ritual daggers. The ones from the very beginning of this nightmare jamboree, the weapons that caused the stigmata that, he still had to admit, was pretty hilarious.
There was another surge of pain, lower, as the other set of daggers pierced the flesh of his feet.
It wouldn't be any good trying to escape. Much like during the binding ritual, these daggers weren't just there for fun. They were ceremonial implements, restraining devices, made of magical materials and likely fortified with old enchantments. Tools like this were old hat to him, familiar things he'd seen a thousand times before. Like the Desk of Gaap, the blades would hold him in place until a human deigned to remove them, and struggling would get him absolutely nowhere.
He reminded himself to throw Pine Tree and Shooting Star into a lake or something for not taking the daggers with them when they first left the museum.
A cool hand grabbed him by the chin and lifted up his head. Between flickers of his eyelids, too heavy to hold open, Bill saw the face before him, the leader of the cult. Scarred and bearded, with large, yellowing glasses, but otherwise unremarkable. Just another human who wanted things humans weren't meant to have. Bill gazed blankly at him.
"As I said in the very beginning," the man whispered in a gentle voice at odds with his grizzled appearance, "you are at our mercy, and will perform how we see fit. You don't have a choice, demon. This is mandatory service."
Bill wanted to scowl and spit and rage, blaspheme the man and his troop with the million or so curses he'd picked up in this world and countless others...but he didn't have any fight left in him. The body was too spent, energy too drained. He let his eyes slip shut again, felt unconsciousness creeping back in.
"We've taken care of your...friends. Is that what they are?" the man asked, voice still a soft murmur, before adding, "or should I say, were."
That caught Bill's interest enough to rouse him back to life. He opened his eyes again, staring in disbelief, pupil contracted to a delicate line. Something that didn't go unnoticed.
"Oh yes. I harnessed your own energy to destroy them. I hear burning to death is particularly painful...then again, I imagine a beast such as yourself has caused plenty of immolation in its day."
Well, Bill thought, he really couldn't argue with that.
"Now rest up, hm? Once you regain more energy, the real work can began," he stroked a calloused thumb across Bill's cheek before releasing his chin, letting the demon's head drop back down to his chest.
With dimming vision, Bill gazed at the ornate hilts of the daggers, at how the double-edged blades gleamed in the light. His eyes traveled from his immobilized hands and raked up his left arm, studying the sprawling burns. The scars swam in and out of his vision, red marks like conifer branches, bristling with needles.
He was currently at the cult's mercy, yeah. And he did like to partake in a little bit of immolation here and there, sure. But the human had been wrong about one thing.
Pine Tree was still very much alive. Bill didn't doubt it for a second, could feel it in the blooming brands on his arm, could feel it in his very bones and beyond.
He smirked to himself.
It was always nice knowing what someone else didn't.
When the hour hand on Stan's old watch hit three, the Pines family knew it was time. They'd taken turns observing the old church through Ford's binoculars, and there had been no movement through the thick glass of the windows for the past couple of hours. Light glowed from within, but it was soft and orange, likely candlelight, not the violent blue that erupted from Bill when his energy was being harvested.
Wherever he was in there, he was dormant.
"There are two up and patrolling the perimeter," Ford pointed out the dark shapes milling about outside the church, their forms illuminated by lanterns. Dipper wondered why lanterns and not flashlights. Lanterns were very cult-y, though, so he guessed that it made sense.
"Might be more awake inside," Stan pointed out.
"So if there's two out there, there's seven in the church?" Mabel asked. Ford shook his head.
"We don't know that for sure. There could be more than the nine who showed up at your campsite. We must be wary. Your Grunkle Stan and I will dispatch the two guards as quietly as we can, and move their bodies out of sight."
"And we'll scale the steeple," Dipper nodded, recounting the plan, "get inside the church that way, and locate their book and Bill. The place looks small enough, it shouldn't be too hard to find him."
"Might have him underground or something, though," Stan grumbled, "I wouldn't want the little jerk sleeping on the same level as me, much less in the same room."
Dipper gritted his teeth awkwardly, but was saved by Mabel, who gave an optimistic smile.
"And while we're freeing Bill, you two will work your way into the church and take out the rest of them in their sleep!" she said excitedly, then added, "without violence. I'm just gonna believe that you'll do it without violence."
"We won't kill them if we can help it," Ford shrugged, "that's all we can give you."
"We might not be able to help it," Stan said, cracking his knuckles.
"I think we need them alive if we're still planning on that reverse ritual Bill talked about," Dipper thought aloud.
"Your safety trumps Bill's freedom," Ford's tone was stern, "just remember, if things go sideways, run into the mausoleum. The unicorn hair barrier should protect those inside from stray magic. And be on high alert. Their access to Bill's power may not be the only weapon they possess."
He checked the settings on his laser gun for the fiftieth time that night, then handed it to Stan before removing the quantum destabilizer from his satchel. After hooking it securely to his belt, he gave a nod, and they were off.
The family abandoned their camp, skirting the side of the hill and creeping down toward the meadow below. They rounded the graveyard and reached the back of the church, crouching low in the overgrown grass.
Stan peeked out from the side of the building, then signaled Ford, who responded in kind. The Grunkles gave quick, if uneasy, smiles at their great-niece and nephew, and then they were gone, swallowed by the night.
Mabel, her trusty grappling hook in tow, eyed the church roof, then aimed and pulled the trigger. The hook shot forward, arcing over the shingles before tangling itself on a vertical black pipe that likely led to a stove within. After giving the handle a little tug and seeming pleased with its tension, she scaled the side of the wall. Once on the roof, she beckoned for Dipper, who was quick to follow.
When they were both up, Mabel unhooked the metal prongs from the pipe and reeled her gun back up. Slowly, silently, they made their way toward the steeple.
As they approached the structure, Dipper heard an 'oof' noise and a soft thud from below. Stan and Ford had taken care of one guard, it seemed, but there was another left to go.
Plus however many were inside.
Luckily, the steeple's window was open, likely to let in the pleasant night air, and the twins were able to slip through without issue. They found themselves on the second floor of the two-story building, a narrow wooden balcony that wrapped around the inside of the church. Moving in almost exact unison, they crouched and peered between the banisters.
The interior was dimly lit with a few lanterns, and seemed to be well-lived in; this must have been a pretty regular haunt for the enigmatic cultists. Dipper wondered if this was their base of operations, where they'd began their grand plan of trapping Bill before moving later rituals to the Gravity Falls History Museum.
Where pews should have been, there were cots, lined horizontally along the walls, ten in all. It seemed that at least one cultist had stayed behind when they'd been ambushed. Bookshelves, chairs, small tables and a few personal effects scattered here and there...it looked like this was home. Dipper noticed some questionable artifacts; a shriveled monkey's paw with what looked like a Ring Pop on the index finger, a small human skull with irregular chunks of turquoise in the eyes. He also spotted the miniaturized Desk of Gaap, out of its box and sitting on a shelf.
He squinted in the low light and counted. Eight of the cots were occupied. It seemed they were safe; the two outside were being taken care of, and the rest were fast asleep.
Toward the back of the church, the wooden floor rose into an altar, upon which stood a pulpit of ashford marble, black and inky in the flickering lanternlight. On its platform was a book, spread open to reveal timeworn pages.
And below, with his back against the pulpit, head bowed toward the slumbering congregation, sat Bill.
The demon was in an odd position; cross-legged, with one knee angled slightly in front of the other, his arms reaching forward to rest against floor. His hands lay palms up before him as if in supplication, fingers curled inward like the legs of a dead spider. It didn't take long to figure out what was holding him down. Two daggers were plunged nearly down to their guards through Bill's wounded hands, pinning them firmly to the floor below. The situation was the same at his bare feet, which had been stabbed just below the ankles.
He was slumped forward over his pinned extremities, disheveled head of blonde hair held low.
It looked like he was begging, and Dipper knew Bill's placement wasn't accidental; this was symbolic. He was their thrall, a god they'd captured and conquered. Helpless and ready to be taken from.
It was sick.
Dipper concentrated, queued the words up in his mind, focused them toward Bill. He knew they could communicate telepathically with one another, at least in some vague and limited way, and hoped Bill could hear.
Bill. It's Dipper. We're here to help you.
His heart gave a little leap when Bill stirred momentarily, but there was no more movement after that, no acknowledgment. He was down for the count, asleep or unconscious.
Dipper gestured at his sister to follow him and they crept, hunched, down the side of the narrow walkway. A rickety staircase led from the balcony down to a doorless room in the very back of the church, behind the altar area. It turned out to be a small kitchen and, sure enough, there was the stove whose pipe they had used to gain entry to the roof.
The two peeked cautiously around the corner, confirming that all was still quiet, before Dipper looked at Mabel.
"Get the book," he whispered, "and go back up the way we came. Get as far away as you can with it. I'll free Bill."
She gave a thumbs-up and they moved as one toward the pulpit and the demon pinned before it.
There was a small commotion outside; they froze in fear, staring with rapt attention toward the doorway. But a moment later the church door eased open, and Ford inched inside. He spotted the twins and jerked his head to the side, signaling that their Grunkle Stan was outside hiding the bodies (whether unconscious or dead, Dipper didn't want to think about). Dipper nodded back, giving Ford the signal to proceed. As Ford slunk toward the nearest sleeping cultist, the twins continued their tasks.
While Mabel pulled the book off its pedestal, Dipper knelt in front of Bill, lifting his chin and patting a clammy cheek. It took a moment, but the demon's eyelids fluttered open. Dipper waited as Bill focused on him, then held a finger to his lips before taking hold of the dagger hilt erupting from Bill's right hand. With a heave, he yanked it out, and blood swelled like water from a spring into Bill's open palm. After setting it aside, he pulled out the second, freeing both hands. Bill watched, weak and wordless.
As Dipper worked, he glanced at Mabel, who snuck off with the old book under her arm. She began a tiptoe ascent of the stairwell.
It was when she mounted the fifth step that the wooden slat cracked loudly underneath her foot, splintering and sending her falling forward, hard, onto the stairs, her leg caught and dangling in the broken board.
All the members of the congregation woke at once.
The cultists, whether from sleepiness or surprise or fear were slow to react; most of them just stared, half out of bed, startled eyes roaming from Ford, to Mabel, to Dipper.
Mr. and Mrs. Northwest weren't among them. They must have been the guards posted outside, the ones Stan was presumably stashing somewhere else.
One unfortunate member sat up in bed just in time for Ford to strike him with swift hit from the butt of the quantum destabilizer, knocking him back out instantly.
The moment of stunned silence ended there, and the group clambered out of their cots, swarming the Pines family. A gang of them jumped Ford, two more bolted at Dipper, and others stalked toward Mabel, hands outstretched for the book. Dipper saw his sister whip out her grappling hook, and, like she had with Bill in the museum, aimed it at one of the approaching cultists. It hit its mark, and the guy was sent soaring backwards.
Dipper turned to face Bill again, hurriedly tearing another dagger out of the demon's foot. Just as his fingers reached for the last dagger's hilt, he felt a large body behind him, thick arms around his neck. He let out a strangled yelp, an immediate pressure crushing his windpipe. Another cultist rounded him, grabbed one of the discarded daggers, already red with blood, and stood before Dipper, raising the weapon high.
He flinched, waiting for the searing pain...but it never came.
When he cautioned a look he saw her gasping soundlessly, the point of a blade protruding just below her chin. She tumbled to the side, grasping her neck, dying gurgles catching in her throat.
The arms on Dipper's neck tightened and the boy gasped and choked, fingers scrabbling fearfully at the heavily muscled arms. His legs kicked wild in reflex, and in the painful clarity his panic brought on, he could see Bill before him, eye flashing crimson, pupil a burning white slash.
The demon, his right foot still pinned awkwardly beneath him, snatched up the last free dagger in a slick and bloody hand and lunged forward as far as he could manage, stabbing the point deep into the big man's neck, one time, two times, three. Dipper heard an awful gargle and felt a spray of warm blood, and they all three fell heavily to the floor. The grip on Dipper's neck loosened and he scrambled off his attacker, whipping around to look.
The man was dead on the ground, eyes wide and sightless, blood spurting in streams from the side of his punctured neck. Dipper felt like he was going to vomit.
"No time to appreciate my work, kid!" Bill barked, trying in vain to stand. The last dagger held his foot firmly in place, and he collapsed back onto the floor with a grunt.
But Dipper couldn't move, he was frozen in the chaos before him.
Stan was inside now; either having finished his task of hiding the bodies or abandoning it as soon as he heard commotion from the church. He aimed Ford's laser gun, trying to find a clear target as Ford himself attempted to fight off the group mobbing him. Mabel still clutched tightly onto the old tome, but her leg was still stuck in the broken step; she struggled desperately to pull it free, blood running down her calf and soaking her pink sock red.
A cultist lurched toward her and got his fingers around the book. Mabel screamed at him, yanked it back, bit his arm; but he backhanded her hard and she reeled, dazed.
He ripped it from her grasp and flipped it open.
"No!" Dipper cried out, but it was too late. The cultist began the incantation and Bill, still half-lying on the floor with one leg pinned, threw his head back, eyes blazing blue.
Panicked, Dipper tore the final dagger out of the demon's body and tried to pull him up, but it was fruitless; Bill was stock-still, dead weight, and his power was already being harvested.
A wall of energy, cerulean and shimmering, materialized around the cultists and they regrouped, gathering around the chanter. His intonations grew louder, more even, and electricity seemed to arc from their protective bubble, licking at the walls of the church.
Mabel's grappling hook, its rope unwound and spent on the floor, glowed violent azure and seemed to come to life, rearing like a snake. The metal hook that was its head turned toward her, and in one blisteringly fast motion, shot forward and wrapped around her, binding her arms to her body. She squirmed, yelling something at Dipper, but it wasn't audible against the chanting of the cultist and the crackling energy around them.
Stan darted toward his great-niece, but was quickly overtaken by a blue light that lifted him clear off the ground. He let out a curse and his legs kicked the air for a moment, before he was slammed backward into a bookcase by an invisible force. He crashed to the floor, the bookcase falling heavily on top of him, one limp arm visible underneath.
The laser gun he'd been holding clattered to the ground. It rose up on its own, its barrel pointing at Ford.
All Dipper could see was the burning orange blast as it fired.