A/N: And we're back!
It's at this juncture that I should note that, as much as I'd like to post another chapter on the 25th, the next few days are going to get very crowded and I may not have time to write, much less post. New Years will be equally chaotic. In any event, I can only wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Satisfactory Saturnalia, etc, etc, etc, followed closely by a Happy New Year: chapters will resume posting next year.
Anyway, with all that out of the way, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls/The Park/TSW are still not mine.
Today's soundtrack will be Arresting Helena from the Mirrormask soundtrack.
In the earliest hours of the morning, well before dawn, Solomon Island was gloomier and colder than ever before. Winter might not have brought snow or frost to the island's doorsteps, but spring hadn't shown even the slightest hint of approach either, even though it had been months since December. Ever since the Fog had swept in, Solomon Island and all its territories remained locked in a chilly, bitter autumn where the days were always grey and overcast and the nights were always long, dark, and almost as confining as the Fog itself… or so Marianne had claimed.
She'd given Mabel a rough map to the location of this mysterious grove to the south, but it was pretty vague: her team hadn't needed to keep any maps around other than a chart of the Moon Bog and its surrounding waterways, and the spot that Mabel needed to find was roughly half a mile from any of them. However, it had been just accurate enough for her to realize that the site she needed to find was barely a stone's throw from where she'd followed Lorraine off the beaten path and into the depths of the alpine forest. In fact, if Mabel hadn't been forced to start grappling from tree to tree, she might have actually stumbled upon the hidden grove by herself.
Marianne had said that the hidden grove was meant to be perfectly safe, according to the Bee-people she'd met. True, it had been surrounded by monsters for months on end, and yes, there'd been some rather worrying reports of even nastier monsters moving into the surrounding area, but in spite of all that, the grove was somehow still untouched even after all this time. If this was accurate, it made sense that Lorraine would keep Dipper here: after all, where else would she be able to keep them safe and hidden without getting attention from the locals?
I just hope this isn't like the hidden grove back home, Mabel thought. I really don't want to see what the unicorns are like in this dimension. Actually, I don't want to see unicorns ever again, period. Then again, Lorraine and the unicorns deserve each other, so you never know…
Of course, with a huge patch of monster-infested woodland between her and the site, they'd both agreed that it would be easier if Mabel simply took the long way around and circled around the island until she reached the southern entrance. Even so, Marianne had insisted that would have been safer to wait until dawn so she could at least have some idea of where she was going, but with Lorraine still holding Dipper captive and probably planning to do something really weird to him, Mabel couldn't afford to wait.
So, with a badly-sketched map of Solomon Island's northernmost region on a piece of notepaper in one hand, she had set off down the road, into the gloom of the early-morning hours. Mabel had no idea how long it would be until dawn finally arrived, but so far it seemed like the old saying was true: it really was darkest just before the dawn – and coldest, too.
But in that moment, she didn't care; she was having too much fun to worry about any of that.
After all, she had the hamster ball. As far as she was concerned, she was invincible.
In that moment, she was rocketing down the street at a speed that would have outpaced even the most determined cyclist, whizzing and ricocheting down the road like a pinball hurtling from bumper to bumper. She'd no idea how the heck this thing was moving so fast when it worked entirely by foot power, but somehow, it just kept going and going: Marianne had explained that it had been designed to exploit natural momentum and accelerate as rapidly as possible with the least degree of resistance, but all Mabel knew was that it was lighter than any bike she'd owned, more agile than a pair of rollerblades, and a million times more fun than either. Plus, it had headlights, so the darkness of the early morning hours didn't even matter all that much. All it needed now was a sound system, and she could feel like she was back in Gravity Falls.
As soon as Marianne had shown her how to deploy the collapsible sphere, the hamster ball had gotten moving so quickly that she'd barely had a chance to wave goodbye before she shot off down the road like a bullet. It had been a little difficult to stay on the path, especially given the embankments that bordered Solomon Road, but once she got the hang of the sheer acceleration, these hills had been crossed so quickly they might as well have been speedbumps, and as for obstacles like crashed cars and overturned trucks, she simply bounced off them and rolled onwards as if nothing had happened. Even monsters on the road didn't pose much of a threat: most zombies had been too slow to even get within arm's reach of the hamster ball as it zoomed past, and the few who'd been quick enough to make a grab at it simply couldn't get a grip on the frictionless plastic shell. The weird, scuttling, half-human monsters of the forest gave up after about fifty yards, as had the animated scarecrows patrolling that pumpkin patch bordering the road.
In fact, the only downside to the hamster ball was the fact that it was a little difficult to stop; after all, it didn't have brakes, so the only way of stopping, slowing, or reversing was to backpedal as quickly as possible before anything messy happened. Mabel found this out the hard way, but really, that had been a bit of an adventure in its own right. And yes, while missing the turn and flying off that cliff had been a nasty shock, it was nothing compared to the sheer joy and excitement she'd experienced once she'd realized that the hamster ball could effectively travel on water (well, once she'd figured out how to work the pump so the ball wouldn't end up sinking like a stone, of course).
With that little surprise out of the way, travelling around the island became ridiculously easy: she didn't even have to use the roads anymore: she could just circle the island itself until she found a beach that was closest to her destination – in this case, Kraken Cove. From there, all it took was a little finesse to get her around the next few hundred yards of roads and up onto the grass, towards the forested hillside.
Unfortunately, it was here that Mabel hit the first snag: while the hamster ball could scale hills, steep embankments required a little more effort, and the one leading into the forest just across from the Devore Bridge was practically vertical. It had been hard enough for Mabel to get up there back when she'd been hot on Lorraine's tail, and back then she'd been on foot; getting uphill while in a hamster ball took so much effort that Mabel seriously considered packing away the hamster ball and walking.
Or, she thought, maybe I could mount the grappling hook on the side of this thing! It'd be like piloting a shooting star!
And it was then that, just as she was starting to wonder if she could find someplace quiet to modify hamster ball or if there was meant to be another way into the forest, a low, guttural snarl split the silence behind her. Mabel had just enough time to turn around and realize that she'd been caught off-guard by another monster – before it lunged at her. It was another one of the scuttling, leathery-skinned things that had nearly eaten her on her last visit, the ones that crawled on all fours and looked as if they might have been human once upon a time… and fortunately, it wasn't much smarter than the last one she'd met. Whatever it was, its first attack was a brutal underhanded strike that sent the hamster ball rocketing away, bouncing off the trees and careening wildly up the embankment.
Mabel had barely enough time to mockingly shout, "thanks for the help!" over her shoulder before the slope finally evened out, sending her rumbling back along a more-or-less even keel. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much room to manoeuvre up here: now that she was travelling with a set of headlights instead of blundering wildly through the undergrowth, she could see that the forest ahead was even denser than she thought, and while there was just enough space between the trees to fit the hamster ball through, it wasn't going to be the easiest journey in the world. Beforehand, she at least had the option of being able to zipline her way into the treetops if anything went wrong; now, or at least until she could work out how to modify the hamster ball, she was officially stuck and ground level.
And now she could see that, up ahead, the undergrowth was clustered with ugly looking cocoons and hardened lengths of webbing strung against the roots of trees. And even through the shadows at the end of the headlights, Mabel could clearly see that there were monsters already lining up around her.
From the looks of things, they'd been in the middle of a fight: the scuttling near-human things against a swarm of weird, fleshy bugs the size of Volkswagens; maybe the scuttlers had been hungry, maybe the bugs just didn't like anyone getting too close to their patch – Mabel didn't know and frankly didn't care. Whatever the case, the new neighbours were clearly taking an interest, the bugs reshuffling their defence to block her approach, and the scuttlers hungrily zeroing in on them with fanged jaws dripping with rabid slobber.
In the distance, a solid wall of rock loomed on the horizon, courtesy of the mountain still overshadowing the woods; if the rumours were accurate, then the entrance to the grove was just a hundred feet away – with just a few dozen hungry monsters in the way. But after spending most of the summer running from various monsters, Mabel was used to these odds.
Putting her head down, she put her feet to the hamster ball's built-in treadmill and broke into a sprint, propelling the plastic sphere down the path with all the force that she could muster – and thanks to the backup flask of Mabel Juice, she still had enough gas left in the tank to hurtle onwards. She was dimly aware that the bugs were charging headlong towards her as well, but she wasn't in the mood to pay the slightest bit of attention to any of them: she was having too much fun and focussed too tightly on getting back on Lorraine's trail to bother. She was going to find Dipper, even if it killed her. She'd find a way to come back from the dead just like Lorraine if that was what it took. All that mattered was finding this grove, of finding Dipper.
Ten seconds later, the hamster ball crashed headlong into the nearest of the bugs with a loud, squishy thud; it was like crashing into a trash can filled with expired meat and rainwater, and the impact immediately sent her careening away into a tree at high speed. Another bug lurched forward with a tremendous surge of speed, ramming Mabel backwards across the forest and into the oncoming scuttlers, smacking one of them so hard in the face that the thing actually slumped forward in surprise. Rebounding, Mabel put on another burst of speed, this time aiming for the subtle gap in the oncoming bug army as they struggled to reorganize their ranks. This time, she broadsided another bug in the side of the head, hitting it square in the eye with a wet pop loud enough to be heard over the howls of the scuttlers.
Immediately, the bugs rounded on her again, but by the time their ungainly bulks had shuffled to face her, Mabel had finally managed to get the hang of manoeuvring at speed: once again, she rocketed forward, but instead of simply pinballing into the bug ahead and ricocheting helplessly away, she furiously sidestepped until the hamster ball curved around the oncoming monster, missing it by inches. Behind her, the bugs clumsily shuffled after her, only for the scuttlers to seize the opportunity and pounce on their undefended flanks, biting, tearing, clawing, feasting on whatever they could bring down. Most of Mabel's pursuers quickly broke off and joined the others trying to fend off this newest attack, and while a few remained on her tail, she was already too far away for the lucky few to reach – and the attempts to charge her only sent the hamster ball ploughing deeper into the forest.
"SO LONG SUCKEEEEEEEEEERS!" she roared cheerily over her shoulder, as the last of the bugs began receding into the distance.
Of course, this still left Mabel with the matter of where she was supposed to go next: there was only so much that Marianne's rough map could tell her about the entrance to the hidden grove, but she couldn't afford to slow down and check, not with so many monsters still trying to close the distance between them. All she could do was charge heedlessly onwards, practically willing the entrance to appear… until her headlights finally illuminated a narrow gap in the rock wall.
With a frenzied yowl of excitement, Mabel put on an extra burst of speed and flung herself at the gap, rumbling across the uneven ground until the entrance finally towered overhead. She had just enough time to recognize a series of glowing shapes carved into the surrounding gap – the ground, the rock walls, the nearby trees – before the hamster ball plunged onwards over the threshold.
A moment later, something huge and furry loomed out of the darkness ahead – bigger than any of the scuttlers or bugs, bigger even than the giant swordsman that had attacked them back at the motel. With no time to stop, Mabel simply crashed into it, bouncing helplessly off the thing's muscular bulk and wedging herself between the crags of the rough rock wall; flung off her feet by the sudden stop, Mabel was left slumped against the inner shell of the hamster ball, dazed by the impact and frantically struggling to claw her way upright… until she realized that whatever she'd crashed into didn't appear to be trying to attack.
Confused, Mabel peered through the clear plastic bubble, amplifying the headlights a tad so she could get a better look at the roadblock she'd run into.
The first thing she noticed were the feet: groggy from the crash as she was, she briefly thought that she'd caught the creature in the middle of a handstand, and almost giggled at the thought before she realized what she was actually looking at. Instead of the usual five little piggies per foot plus a feel and ankle, this thing had another set of hands on the end of its legs, complete with a thumb and a dense coating of black fur. Didn't apes have feet like this? Was there some kind of giant orangutang living in the forests of Solomon Island, or had she hit her head harder than she thought?
Mabel very slowly looked up.
And up.
The figure standing over her was just shy of twelve feet tall. A roughly human-shaped mass of bulging muscle supported by a pair of almost comically undersized legs and framed by a pair of colossal arms that hung down past its kneecaps, it would have made Manly Dan Corduroy look a bit on the puny side. Above the glossy black pelt, a thrust-forward skull glared out at the word from beneath a heavy, simian brow, its gorilla-like face twisted into a grimace of irritation.
Fair enough, Mabel thought. I did just crash into him.
"Hi!" she said brightly. "Sorry if I hurt you!"
The creature grumbled a bit, hooting and grunting to itself in consternation. Mabel couldn't understand a word of what was being said, but eventually, the big guy glanced over its shoulder and barked into the shadows of the glade behind it. A moment later, other figures began looming out of the darkness alongside it, some of them even bigger than the first, some of them probably female based on the body shape, and some of them small enough to be children. But all of them were big, hairy, and sported the same massive feet.
Mabel blinked in confusion. Then her eyes lit up: there was only one thing this could possibly be, for Dipper had studied this sort of thing for days on end during one of his many fits of obsession over the course of the summer. From the long self-lectures and pages of notes he'd made, she knew that these things normally appeared on the west coast, hence why Dipper had gotten so excited about finding giant footprints in the forest, but it seemed that a few of them had somehow ended up on Solomon Island with all the other weird and wonderful creatures this place seemed to attract. There was only one creature this could possibly be… and yet, Mabel couldn't help but ask.
"Are you Bigfoot?"
Stan sighed deeply and did his best to ignore the dirty looks that the Council operatives were giving him.
The fact that he'd made a deal with Colonel Utterson hadn't softened the army's attitude in the slightest: beforehand, they'd treated Stan like a prisoner, then like some yokel who'd gotten rolled into a recruiting drive by mistaken; now they were treating him like a potential saboteur, watching him like a hawk wherever he went and whatever he did. At the moment, he was being given as many courtesies as the Council forces could offer, including a nice comfy chair and a place away from the action; as Utterson's ace in the hole, Stan even had the right to request food and drink… but with the way people were acting around him, he wouldn't have been able to enjoy any of it. He'd be too busy worrying that people might have spat in it – or worse.
At the moment, he was being held in a small compartment at the back of the command centre truck, tucked away behind Utterson's office; it was a little cramped, having barely enough room for the two cushioned chairs that had been added here, and Stan got the distinct impression that it might have been used for smuggling at some point, but it was the nearest thing he'd had to luxury since he'd arrived on Solomon Island. So, he tolerated it, if only because staying outside in constant view of the Council soldiers would have been a million times worse.
Unfortunately, Stan wasn't the only "guest" on the base. Less than half an hour after he'd taken a seat, a new prisoner had apparently been brought into the compound, judging by the shouts and expletives from outside. Over the course of the next ten or fifteen minutes, the new arrival had been questioned back in the command centre, and though Stan had tried to listen in, the walls of the compartment were too thick to work out anything worthwhile; most of the time, Utterson was talking too quietly, and on the rare occasions when he wasn't whispering, he was being drowned out by a hurricane of bad language from the prisoner. Eventually, the swearing and shouting petered out, and the prisoner was ushered roughly into the compartment, forcing Stan to budge up so that the guest could take the seat next to him.
This newcomer hadn't introduced himself, but whoever he was, he'd been living even rougher than most of the locals. Back at the sheriff's office, the defenders at least got a chance to sleep on mattresses, brush their teeth, occasionally change clothes, and on really good days, shower. This guy looked as if he'd been bedding down under the open air for months on end: his breath stank of rotten teeth and cheap whiskey, a rank stench of unwashed armpits clung to his wiry frame like hot tar, oily tendrils of dandruffy hair dangled from under the brim of his battered fedora, his once-perfectly tailored business suit was a soiled and tattered mess, and his face had been cut to ribbons by dry shaving – not that it had done him much good, considering the stubble that was already building up on his sunken cheeks.
Stan had tried to introduce himself, but the newcomer had wanted nothing to do with him. As soon as he'd tried to open his mouth, the man had croaked "fuck off," curled into a ball, and promptly fell asleep.
Under the circumstances, Stan would have been happy to leave him that way, but the man kept waking himself up: ever so often, he would lurch back into wakefulness, scrawny limbs pawing the air as he struggled for a grip on consciousness, and then he would give Stan a dirty look as if it had been all his fault. Doubly infuriating was the fact that the man would often growl and thrash about in his sleep, and more than once, Stan had ended up getting smacked over the ear by one of his wildly-flailing arms. And worse still, the more noise and commotion the new prisoner made, the more attention he garnered from the Council soldiers – earning Stan another round of filthy looks from the white-uniformed operatives marching back and forth outside.
In the end, all Stan could do was sigh and try to ignore them… but by now, he'd been doing that for nearly an hour and a half, and he didn't have another lungful of air to waste on sighing.
And, when the newcomer suddenly opened one eye and snarled, "Don't look at me like that," Stan actually heard the muffled crack of his patience finally snapping in half.
"Like what?" he growled.
"You damn well know. Keep your fucking eyes to yourself."
"You keep your hands to yourself and I might just do that."
"I'm not responsible for what I'm doing in my dreams, genius. You don't like it, find another seat."
"I got here first."
"And I've been fucking sleeping in the backseat of my fucking car and eating fucking roadkill for the last few fucking months. Far as I'm concerned, I've got more of a right to a fucking seat than you do."
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"Eat my asshole, pal. You wanna get rid of me? Wait until that pompous prick's finished his next round of questions, and you'll never have to put up with me ever again." The man laughed bitterly. "Nobody on this planet is gonna have to put up with me ever again. They'll probably be covering their tracks, if they're smart, and everyone on this island's been written off as a lost cause; what's it going to matter if one unlucky businessman turns up dead as well? But I don't need to tell you about that: if I'm right, they're already digging a hole with your name on it, and you don't even know as much as I do. And it's all because my piece-of-shit dad couldn't be bothered to build his legacy in Florida. God, I'm getting nostalgic for Florida – fucking Florida!"
Stan's brow wrinkled. "You've lost me," he said at last.
"Lemme guess; Colonel Utterson gave you the same spiel as he did me, right? 'Help us out, sir, and once this mission's complete, we'll give you whatever you want, plus a trip to the mainland, tickets to a really good health spa, and a free set of steak knives. Just give us all your info on Atlantic Island Park and we'll have you out of here before you know what's happening.' I don't buy a word of that. As soon as they're done with us, they'll kill us both. They've got too many secrets wrapped up in this mess to let either of us go free."
"You're not telling me anything I haven't already thought about, buddy," Stan grumbled. "I sure as hell don't trust these Council types, but-"
"The Council!" The man laughed hoarsely. "If it was just the Council, we'd have nothing to worry about! I've been on this rock long enough to see all the visiting secret societies at work: the Council's normal line of work on Solomon Island was all about guarding bottlenecks and providing aid to civilians. I was relying on ration packs from them whenever I could, if I could get as far as one of their outposts... and that's how I know these guys aren't their usual flunkies."
A savage, bitter smile ripped the man's face in half, exposing grey-and-black teeth.
"Utterson and his boys are Venice's black ops division, here on super-secret business; they do things that the rest of the Council doesn't know about – and probably doesn't want to know about – and they're here for something too powerful and too volatile to let slip through their fingers."
"Yeah, I know. Lorraine's one of their operatives and they don't want her running loose. I know all about that."
For the first time since he'd arrived, the man looked blank. "Who the hell is Lorraine?"
"I thought you said you know what Utterson was doing out here: they're trying to get their hands on an agent gone AWOL – one of these Bee-people, or whatever the hell they are. Er… that was what Utterson said, anyway."
The man's eyes narrowed. "If Utterson's goon squad really are hunting down a rogue agent, then that's either an excuse to put boots on the ground, or they've changed plans since they got here."
"What do you mean?"
"They've got way too many eyes on Atlantic Island Park for a simple search-and-retrieval operation. And if they were just scouring the place for anywhere this Lorraine might be hiding, they wouldn't have brought me in for questioning."
Stan considered this for a minute. It made sense, but if any of this crazy drunk's rambling was accurate, then why was the secret societies' equivalent of the UN was suddenly so interested in an abandoned amusement park, of all places. And come to think of it, why did the park keep cropping up? Lorraine's boyfriend had died there, Lorraine herself had done something absolutely bonkers in there after it had been shut down, and now a black ops division was making eyes at the place. What was so important about Atlantic Island Park? More to the point, how was the newest prisoner connected with it?
"And you are…?"
The man sighed deeply; he'd clearly been dreading this part, and judging by the look of bitter resignation on his dirt-splattered features, he was already steeling himself for a response he'd heard too many times already.
"Nicholas Winter," he replied at last.
"Stan Pines," replied Stan, extending a hand in greeting. "Pleased to meetcha."
Hopefully, the old salesman's charisma would be able to get through to the grumpy bastard, but frankly, Stan didn't hold out much hope: mean drunks didn't warm up to his charms unless you had another shot of booze on hand.
The prisoner ignored the handshake, instead fixing Stan with a look of utter bewilderment. "My name's Nicholas Winter," he said pointedly. "You know, as in Nathaniel Winter?"
Stan wracked his brains for several seconds, trying to recall where he'd heard that name before, until realization finally dawned. "Oh right," he said at last. "He was the guy who had the park built in the first place, right? You're – what? – his brother? Cousin? Son? Help me out here, Nick."
If anything, Nick looked even more confused than ever before. "I'm his son. I'm sorry, do you really not know all this already?"
"I'm kinda new here; I only just heard about Atlantic Island Park a couple of hours ago."
"But… it's part of American history now. I mean, not to boost my dad's ego any further, it's one of the biggest scandals of the 20th century. How the hell can you not have heard of it before? No offence, but you look old enough to have been reading the papers when this mess started."
"None taken."
"So how the hell have you not heard of Nathaniel Winter and Atlantic Island Park? This is the sort of thing that gets taught in high school economics classes these days."
"Oh yeah, and I really look like the kinda guy who's taken economics classes? Like I said, I'm kinda new here – and I'm not talking about the island, either. So… maybe you could explain this whole business with the island to me from the top? Just assume I know absolutely nothing about what you're talking about, and you'll be okay. Actually, just pretend you're talking to an alien, okay?"
Which isn't too far from the truth, Stan reflected, hastily hiding a smirk behind a hand.
Nick sighed and doffed his hat, revealing a mass of thinning, unwashed hair. Then, pausingly only to massage his temples, he began in earnest:
"Like you said, Nathaniel Winter was the guy who had the park built, but before that… well, he was one of the richest men in America pre-1975: multi-millionaire, industrialist, real-estate mogul, landlord, self-made man, and all-around successful businessman; he had oil wells, coal mines, investments as far as the eye can see… oh, and let's not forget a helluva lot of political influence, everything from greased palms to friends in the Senate. I got a look at his business records a few years back, and at the height of his power, his holdings would have added up to over two billion dollars if you adjust for inflation. Yessir, my dad had it all… up until he decided to build an amusement park on some shitty little island off the coast of New England."
He chuckled mirthlessly. "Nobody could figure out why. I mean, look at what you've seen of Solomon Island so far: not exactly a roaring tourist trade around here, is there? He didn't have any experience with amusement parks, didn't have any interest in the trade, and he couldn't have seen anything profitable about some damp stretch of rocks and farmland in the asscrack of Maine. But away he went, caution be damned. Nobody knows who designed the park, the attractions, or even the basic infrastructure; I didn't know, and I was the lucky kid who was asked to come up with ideas for the rides! I mean, there were rumours, but nothing substantial."
"So… what happened with the park? I've heard stories about accidents and deaths from some of the locals, but I still haven't gotten the full story from any of them."
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. "Pretty much exactly as it sounds," he grumbled. "Dad bought a plot of land and started building, and it all went to hell from there. The local yokels said the property was cursed by the previous owner – some crazy occultist-slash-mass murderer by the name of Old Man Henderson. Some said the Devil lived under the island. Whatever way you slice it, things went tits up and a helluva lotta people died: structures collapsed, safety equipment failed, parked vehicles rolled over people… I remember when I visited, one worker ended up getting crushed while setting up the bumper cars. Nobody could figure out if they were really accidents or if someone was trying to sabotage the park, but the construction crew certainly thought something was up, kept talking about how the rides whispered at night. Either way, construction didn't stop, even with the budget skyrocketing, the deadline getting pushed back and back… oh yeah, and the death toll hitting double digits."
"You're kidding me," said Stan. "Nobody kicked up a fuss about how many people died? Nobody tried to get unions involved, go on strike or anything like that? Nobody even complained?"
"High wages and threat of legal action kept most of the workers on site. If that sounds illegal, then it probably was. And Dad didn't like dealing with unions unless he could keep them on the end of a choke chain."
"But there had to be at least a couple of inspectors sniffing around after the first five deaths, surely…"
Nick grinned wolfishly, exposing slate-grey canines. "Would you be surprised to hear that my father was eventually indicted for bribing state and federal officials?"
"Not really, no."
"Well, things got worse before then. Atlantic Island Park finally opened in 1978, and people kept dying. I'm not sure if it was after that guy in the mascot suit stabbed those teenagers to death or after that child's body was found chopped up behind the cotton candy stand, but eventually, Nathaniel was forced to shut the place down. And I do mean "forced": even dad's political connections couldn't protect him after that, not after he'd totalled his finances just keeping the park open. Just two years after it was opened for the first time, Atlantic Island Park was shut down for good."
"And your dad went to jail, right?"
"Nope. He vanished into the park; locked the gates behind him and retreated inside. Didn't even bother to say goodbye to his wife, his daughters… or me. FBI eventually went looking for him, but they didn't find anything apart from abandoned rides; for the next few years, he was officially a missing person…"
Nick reached into the depths of his coat, drew a hip flask, and took a belt before continuing.
"…right up until the local cops found his body draped over the perimeter fence. Last I saw him, he was in a casket. And that's the end of the great Nathaniel Winter: a sad old bastard dying alone in a giant useless amusement park that nobody ever wanted or needed."
Stan sighed deeply; few things were quite so disheartening to him as some rich, overprivileged corporate-style prick somehow managing to duck his well-justified arrest. However, one question still nagged at him.
"But if that's the case," he said slowly, "what are you doing here?"
"Because I made the mistake of trying to sell the thing – and actually coming to this hellhole to complete the deal in person. Then the Fog rolled in and the only place I could hide was in that damn park. After all, it was harmless… or so I thought then."
"And now?"
Nicholas took a deep breath, and when he finally met Stan's gaze again, there was a worryingly familiar expression in those bloodshot eyes – a thousand-yard stare that he hadn't encountered since that first visit to Gravity Falls thirty long years ago. As unromantic as Stan was, even he couldn't help calling that look "haunted."
"I know for a fact that the rides do whisper," he said.
"But why have you spent the last couple of months sleeping in your car and living off Council rations? I mean, I'm not saying the roads are perfectly safe or anything like that, but the townies are running a pretty decent fort down in Kingsmouth. So why didn't you head there? I'm just saying, you could've had a chance to brush your teeth once or twice."
This time, "haunted" wouldn't have worked: the only word that could possibly have described the look in Winter's eyes was "possessed."
"There's a gravity to the place. People, hopes, dreams, feelings, it doesn't let go of any of 'em easily, and the longer you hang around… I don't know if I could let go of Atlantic Island Park any more than it could let of me. And whatever's causing it, that's what Utterson's after; that's why he dragged me out of my car and brought me here for questioning. The gravity of the place… and the other thing."
"What other thing?"
"Mr Pines! WE'VE FOUND HER!"
And then the other thing, whatever that may have been, was forgotten in the mad dash for the command centre.
The Sasquatch tribe weren't exactly in a chatty mood that evening.
There were only about a dozen of them in total, and most of them were too busy standing guard to pay much attention to Mabel. The rest regarded her with indifference at best and irritation at worst, booming in annoyance whenever she tried to speak with them. Eventually, the biggest of them – apparently the Chief of the tribe – had gently taken their guest aside and informed her (through a mixture of grunting and crude mime), that the Sasquatches weren't on good terms with human beings. Given that the Chief's back was a collage of long-healed bullet wounds, Mabel had to admit that he had a point.
Despite the tribe's overall mistrust of her, they'd at least allowed her to stay in the glade until the chaos outside had subsided enough for her to leave safely, and in the meantime, had gruntingly permitted her to look around to glade. Mabel didn't think she'd find much, given that the glade was a rough clearing of trees and rocks no bigger than the Mystery Shack's parking lot, but she'd take it over unicorn territory any day; at least the Sasquatches openly distrusted her instead of hiding their contempt behind smiles and passive-aggressive sanctimony.
Maybe they're this world's equivalent of the Manotaurs, then, she thought absently, as she began her investigation in earnest.
Unfortunately, Mabel's search quickly turned up nothing. There were no signs that Lorraine had been anywhere in the glade in the last few hours, and by now, Mabel had learned to recognize them almost off by heart: even if there hadn't been a fading trail of glowing footprints dotting the corners of this place, there was still that tell-tale smell of honey to look out for; after all, it was all over the items that Mabel had borrowed from Lorraine's now-abandoned backpack. The smell lingered for hours on end – especially on things she'd been in close contact with – so if the crazy Bee-lady had been here, Mabel would have known in a matter of seconds; all she could smell here were old trees, mossy boulders, and the equally-distinctive musk of Sasquatches (a mixture of old gym socks and wet dog).
If Lorraine had been here, it had been a very, very long time ago. But if that was true, then what was Mabel supposed to do next? She was out of ideas on what to do next: the Sasquatch Glade had been the only clue she'd been able to find as to Lorraine's whereabouts, and short of searching literally every single inch of the island, she'd no idea where to look next… and in the meantime, she still had no idea what Lorraine was planning to do with Dipper – or how much time he had left before those plans lurched to life.
In desperation, Mabel found herself looking to the Sasquatch Chief for answers, without much success. They'd obviously never heard of Dipper or Lorraine, while Mabel's attempts to describe the two didn't help; she didn't know if the Bigfoot brigade could actually understand English or any other human language, so she quickly resorted to mime and gestures, but no matter how hard she tried to depict Dipper's birthmark and Lorraine's wide, crazy eyes, her audience couldn't make sense of it. As far as she could tell from the dismissive hoots and gestures, Sasquatches had a lot of trouble telling human beings apart, and their only means of differentiating between visitors was "shooting at us" and "not shooting at us." Attempts to describe the Bees – which Mabel accomplished by loudly buzzing and miming tiny wings – were met with ambivalent shrugs; apparently, the Bee-people visited the glade so often that it was barely worth remarking on.
Running short of ideas, Mabel found herself bringing out the handful of Lorraine's belongings in the dim hope that the Chief might recognize them. So far, Mabel hadn't had a chance to look most of them over, partly because she'd been too preoccupied with looking for Dipper but mostly because they looked to be nothing more than useless junk. However, at second glance, Mabel had to admit that it was a little strange that she'd been able to fit all of this into an inside pocket of her sweater, especially since some of the objects were actually bigger than the backpack that she'd taken them from.
First, there was the brass shield with the grinning demon's head emblazoned across it. Then the strange tentacle-studded book that couldn't be opened, no matter how determinedly Mabel thumped it against a tree. Then there was the coiled bullwhip, eyed with immediate distrust by the Sasquatches. And just as Mabel was on the verge of giving up, the next item slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor, allowing her a good look at what she'd been trying to display.
It was a white porcelain mask, big enough to completely cover an adult's face but somehow malleable enough to fit Mabel perfectly. By itself, this wasn't too weird compared to everything else she'd seen in the last few hours. No, what made Mabel stare in confusion was the design: this was not Lorraine's style. If the crazy Bee-lady were to wear anything over her face, she'd probably be saddled with the tiger mask used to keep mental patients from biting people, or maybe just a good old-fashioned hockey mask.
Instead, Lorraine's mask of choice was an eerily beautiful affair of white porcelain, silver filigree, and a pair of mirrored lenses for eyes; the whole thing was dominated by a long, conical nose, almost like the beak of a crow.
She held up the beaked porcelain monstrosity for the Chief to see, absently allowing the mask's breathing filter to slide over her mouth as she did so. "What about this?" she suggested, immediately surprised by how drastically the mask distorted her voice; it sounded like someone had just jammed a hornet's nest down her throat, so perhaps the mask was supposed to disguise her voice.
"Maybe she was wearing this?" she went on, hastily lowering the mask. "I mean, you couldn't' have missed something like this, right? I mean, I don't know if you can actually understand what I'm saying, so I'm probably going to have to repeat everything in mime, but…"
She trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward and self-conscious with so many humourless eyes fixed on her at once. But as luck would have it, Mabel's typical response to awkwardness was to double down on whatever she'd been doing and push it as far as it could possibly go; some people called this crazy, but Mabel preferred to think of it as her way of beating whatever odds were pitted against her. More often than not, it worked. Even the sanity-straining events of Weirdmageddon hadn't quite killed the habit, and just as well, really, because the alternative was a trip to Sweater Town, and she hadn't felt like paying a visit there since Mabeland.
Suddenly feeling devil-may-care and eager to let off a little steam, she slipped the mask over face almost without thinking, then spread her arms wide and thundered, "Bewaaaaaaare! For I am the dreaded bignose, and armies of bugs flee before my might! Cower!" admiring the way her voice boomed and whirred through the mask's filter.
The effect on the surrounding Sasquatches was instantaneous. Immediately, the Bigfoots all gathered around, hooting and growling at each other, pointing at the mask with great consternation – maybe even a little anger. Then, just as Mabel was certain that she was going to get into a fist-fight with the residents of an enchanted glade for the second time in her life, the Chief barked loudly and raised his arms for silence.
Then, he began making gestures once again, first pointing at the mask, then indicating walking with two fingers, slowly tracing a path downhill from the glade entrance into the heart of the clearing.
"So you did see Lorraine here? When?"
The Chief held up a hairy hand, extending one finger at a time until he'd reached five. Then he pointed up at the sky, indicating the moon's passage through the night.
"Uh… five nights ago, I guess? But what was she doing?"
The Chief pointed at the centre of the glade, where a huge tree towered over the Sasquatch; either the trunk was hollow or the whole thing had been split open by something equally massive, and inside the gaping cavity, unearthly blue light rippled out across the clearing. As far as Mabel could tell from the Chief, this was meant to be some kind of tie to the energy of the island, or nature, or magic in general, something equally important.
Then, the Chief knelt before the tree, traced a series of unusual shapes in the dirt around him, and then made a complicated gesture that Mabel couldn't make head nor tail of at first. However, the general gist of it was that Lorraine had tried to perform some kind of ritual here while the other Sasquatch were busy warding off monsters.
"And what happened next?"
The Chief drew a hairy finger across his throat.
"Huh?"
The Chief sighed; maybe the Sasquatch really could understand English, because he clarified by putting the same finger to his temple and pulling an imaginary trigger.
"Someone shot her? Who?"
At this, the Chief struggled to articulate, but eventually, he squatted down in the dirt where Lorraine had been kneeling all those days ago, put his head in his hands in a dramatic gesture of despair, and then repeated the shooting gesture on himself.
It took a moment or two or Mabel to get the picture.
"…you're saying Lorraine shot herself?"
The Chief nodded.
"But why?"
Shrug. The Sasquatches could definitely understand her.
This added another wrinkle in Mabel's increasingly complicated idea of who and what Lorraine was: why would she have wanted to kill herself? At nearly thirteen years of age, Mabel was only just aware that adults might off themselves, but she still didn't understand why anyone would actually do it. Admittedly, she'd seen a crew of aliens in a human suit abruptly self-destructing one time. And yes, the notes that Bipper had added to the Journal had mentioned forcing Dipper to jump from the water tower and making it look like suicide – and then seeing if he could get Mabel to join him. And yes, Mabel heard a few strange things from the music Tambry had been listening to back at the start of summer, but after one particularly disastrous afternoon of practical jokes, Grunkle Stan had ordered Wendy never to play Tambry's albums over the Mystery Shack's public address system ever again – if only to cut down on the number of angry customers he had to deal with on a daily basis – and so Mabel didn't hear anymore of that particular style of music until after Tambry's tastes had changed. But even based on what little she'd seen and heard that summer, Mabel couldn't understand why anyone would actually want to kill themselves; Lorraine was almost certainly out of her mind enough to threaten people with horrible deaths and believe that Dipper was her son, but that didn't explain why she'd want to put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. But then, maybe that was just the limits of Mabel's imagination: even in the darkest, ugliest moments of her life, even when she was convinced that Dipper was abandoning her and growing up would bring nothing but misery, the idea never crossed her mind.
No, but making a deal to freeze Gravity Falls in time did, a nasty little voice in the back of her head remarked. Guess that's the difference between you and crazy Lorraine, isn't it?
Forcing herself to ignore the voice, Mabel plunged onwards as best as she could. "But she got up eventually, though. I mean, she had to. So where did she go after that?"
Another shrug.
"Listen: she has my brother. I don't know what she's planning on doing him, but I'm willing to bet it's not good. If there's anything, anything you can do to help me find him, I'll give you…"
Mabel trailed off, realizing that there wasn't much she could offer the Sasquatch. If they wanted anything at all, it was probably something weird and magical that Mabel would never be able to get her hands on, and as far as she knew, the tribe didn't seem to know what trade was – and why would they? There were only twelve of them on the entire island as far as she knew, and humans tended to shoot at them more often than not, so there weren't too many trading partners around for them to get a feel for the concept.
But just as she was starting to lose momentum, there was a low groan from the centre of the clearing, and in near-perfect unison, all eyes turned in the direction of the tree. Frowning deeply, the Chief put a hand to the cloven trunk; a moment later, he shuddered dramatically, and looked up at Mabel with all-too-human expression of fear in his simian eyes.
"What? What happened?"
Trembling, the Chief hunkered down in the dirt once again and scrawled a crude skull-and-crossbones on the ground in front of her.
"Um… pirate attack?"
The Chief sighed wearily and gave her a look of mingled exasperation and disapproval.
"Poison, then?"
The Chief nodded.
"Something's poisoning the tree?"
Another shake of the head; the Chief was pointing downwards now.
"Something's poisoning the land, or something under the ground is poisonous?"
Once again, the Chief nodded vigorously, this time pointing at the mask.
"And you think that Lorraine has something to do with it?"
The Sasquatch hesitated. Eventually, he nodded.
"Okay, great: we're both worried about the same person. Maybe we can help each other out. Question is, what are we going to do about this?"
This time, the gesture was almost too complicated for Mabel to make much sense of. It wasn't until she recognized that the roots of the tree stretched far across the clearing that she realized what the Chief was trying to tell her.
"You can… um… see through the roots?"
Another nod.
"And you can use that to find Lorraine? If she's gotten anywhere near the roots of this tree?"
Nod, nod. A strange hooting noise, seemingly directed at the crowd of Bigfoots behind her.
Mabel took a deep breath, a hesitant smile creeping back across her face at long last. "Great! When can we start? I mean, this is probably going to take a couple of hours at the very WHOA!"
Without warning, one of the Sasquatches behind her had abruptly grabbed Mabel by the sweater and hoisted her into the air, tucking her under one arm. The next thing she knew, they were running, galloping out of the clearing and back into the depths of the forest…
Outside the holding pen, the makeshift compound was abuzz with activity.
When he'd heard that Utterson's men had found Lorraine, Stan had been hoping to step out and find Lorraine being dragged into the fort with Dipper by her side, but it seemed that whatever sighting had kicked this particular hornet's nest, it was far away from here.
All around him, soldiers were being loaded onto troop transports, heavy weapons were being prepped, and vehicles were lurching out of formation. Most of the fleet appeared to be scattering in all directions, with most of the troop transports and heavy vehicles rumbling westwards, the motorbikes heading to the north, and the boats being slid southwards into the ocean. Before long, the command centre truck was the only thing left, and even that was being prepped for departure.
Utterson was waiting for him in the back of the truck, still puzzling over the viewscreen – but now wearing an obscene-looking smirk. "We've just picked up a trace of Lorraine just a few miles southwest of here," he said smugly.
"What kind of trace? Blood? Sweat? Tears?"
"Nothing as visceral as that. When she's moving at her absolute top speed, she leaves faint traces of anima in her footprints; at this time of night, you can see them glowing in the dark pretty easily. We've followed the trail, and with our scouts maintaining watch on all the roads and passageways in the area, there's only one place she could possibly be."
He tapped the map on the screen with a gloved finger. "Black Goat Woods, just east of Miskatonic River."
"That's only about five minutes away from the Overlook Motel," Stan remarked. "Why's Lorraine doubled back so close to her starting point? Isn't she worried about getting caught?"
"She might not have a choice: we've got scouts and drones on patrol in every other safehouse she could conceivably reach without seriously endangering her hostage. Black Goat Woods is all that's left right now, and that's because it's infested with monsters; she'll be hiding up in that rat-infested treehouse at the centre of it all… and it'll be up to you to lure her out of there."
"And how the hell am I supposed to do that when the woods are infested with monsters?"
Again, that obscene-looking smirk. "You run, of course. There's a rope ladder: once you get as far as that, you'll be safe… well, as safe as you can be when you're in Lorraine's company. As long as she doesn't suspect that you're there to recue your grandnephew, you'll be in the perfect position to kill her."
Stan blinked. "Kill her?" he echoed. "An hour ago, you said I'd just be luring her into a trap, and now you're telling me that I'm going to have to kill her myself? I'm not exactly a match for a magical Bee-woman who can come back from the dead, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Relax: you'll be on a treehouse about forty to fifty feet in the air, and the surrounding woods are infested with Ak'Ab. All you need to do is get her as far as the outer perimeter, and then give her the old heave-ho over the railing." The shock must have shown on Stan's face, because Utterson hastily added, "Or, if that doesn't sound feasible, then just trick her into leaving the forest. Charm her, get her to think that you've found safe passage off the island, and have her escort you out of the woods; as soon as she's in range, we'll hit her with everything she's got."
"And then what? She can still come back from the dead, remember?"
"True, but if her body's been damaged beyond repair, she won't return to it like she did back at the Overlook. Instead, her soul will just wind up right back at the nearest Anima Well, and by now, we've pinpointed every single one that exists on the island."
"You're sure?"
"They're a little hard to miss: they're wellsprings of golden light, non-stop energy geysers about seven feet tall, and they're always surrounded by plants – even if one's sprung up in the middle of a parking garage."
"Oh."
"Now, once you've dealt with Lorraine, everything's going to be nice and simple: all we've got to do is calculate where she'll end up if we kill her in a certain area and then surround that Anima Well with as many troops as we can manage; they kill her as many times as it takes to wear her down, then capture her. We bring her back to Venice for treatment, you get your grandnephew back, and you go home. Worst-case scenario, Lorraine can't be treated and has to spend the rest of eternity locked up in the Hive. Either way, no loose ends, everybody's happy."
There was a rumble from the cab, followed by the muffled clunk of doors automatically shutting all over the command centre; a moment later, the truck lurched into life, and Stan was forced to take a seat in one of the bolted-down chairs, or risk being flung to the floor as the command centre began thundering down the road. Infuriatingly enough, Utterson kept his footing without so much as putting a foot wrong.
"What about Nick Winter?" Stan asked, raising his voice over the roar of the engine.
"What about him?"
"If all this is as simple as capturing Lorraine, why are we keeping him around? What's some disenfranchised rich boy and the abandoned amusement park that his old man built got to do with Lorraine?"
"That's classified."
You asshole, Stan thought, furiously. I knew you were going to say that.
"Has this got anything to do with the ritual Lorraine was working on back at the Overlook?"
"Again, strictly classified."
Stan took a deep breath, counted to the highest number he could possibly reach before he finally exhaled, and tried again. "Is this ritual business going to put Dipper in any danger? I think I'm entitled to know that much."
Utterson gave him a look – the same look that Stan had seen on the face of every teacher, cop, or federal agent that he'd made the mistake of questioning in his short but colourful life, a look of withering contempt that seemed to say, "I don't have to explain myself to you; you have to justify yourself to me."
"I don't know," said Utterson at last, and Stan knew at once that the colonel was lying through his teeth.
But what I want to know, he thought feverishly, is why? What is your agenda, you old bastard? I don't doubt for a second that you want Lorraine under wraps before she spills your secrets, and I'm pretty sure you want her working for you again like a good little soldier. But what's your interest in Atlantic Island Park, and why is that place so goddamn important?
And in the uncomfortable silence that followed, there was a buzz of static from the radio, and the truck's driver let out a nervous-sounding cough. "Uh, Colonel Utterson? We've just picked up a priority report from the scouts on duty around Black Goat Pass: someone else has entered the woods from the western approach, and if they maintain current speed and trajectory, they're going to be at the treehouse in a matter of seconds."
The colonel's brow furrowed in consternation. "Is it another one of Gaia's Chosen?"
"No, sir, it's… um… a little difficult to describe. One of our drones was able to record a few seconds of footage as the intruder entered the area…"
A moment later, the map on the viewscreen abruptly dissolved into a grainy monochrome shot of a lonely stretch of Solomon Road, bordered on one side by a Draug-infested stretch of beach and on the other side by a small house tentatively identified as "Red's Bait And Tackle"; however, the house was backdropped by a dense patch of forest, and as the camera panned across the road, a huge figure came galloping out of the darkness of the nearby road and stopped right on the edge of the woods. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking one of the most jealously sought-after cryptids in American history, not after all the effort Stan had put into faking it at the Mystery Shack.
"…is that Bigfoot?" he asked.
"It's a Sasquatch," Utterson clarified. "But what's that under its arm?"
As the two of them watched, the Sasquatch set down the tiny figure it had been carrying and then pointed eastwards into the depths of the forest; the Bigfoot's miniature associate appeared to jump up and down excitedly, and then, to Utterson's open-mouthed astonishment, shook one of its gigantic hands. As if struggling to make sense of the scene, the drone zoomed in slightly, but Stan could already tell who the little figure was.
"Mabel," he breathed.
Utterson eyed him with undisguised suspicion. "You know this girl?"
"She's my grandniece."
"And when were you going to tell me that she was running around and making a nuisance of herself?"
"Are you really going to make an issue out of this right now?"
"I will if your idiot grandniece ends up putting Lorraine's wind up and ruining this operation."
"First of all, Mabel is not an idiot, and second, what makes you think she's going to ruin anything-"
"I've got reasonable enough proof of both by the fact that she's rolling into a monster-infested forest of her own free will and with only a flea-ridden animal for help!"
As Stan watched, Mabel waved goodbye to the Sasquatch, then pressed a button on the backpack-like shape strapped to her shoulders; instantly, a segmented mass of Perspex erupted out of the pack and began to take shape around her, forming a collapsible transparent sphere around her. Then, as soon as the hamster ball was complete, Mabel took off at a brisk jog, rolling onwards into the depths of Black Goat Woods.
"Well," Utterson grumbled. "That puts a distinct crimp on our plans."
Stan took a deep, shuddering breath. He'd honestly thought that the situation couldn't have possibly gotten any worse, but somehow, it had. Back at the start of this nightmare, he'd at least been halfway assured that Mabel had the guts and the skills to survive in a place like Solomon Island, at least enough to keep herself out of trouble… but now she was headed straight into the lion's den: a monster-infested forest was bad enough, but there was a crazy, unkillable witch right in the middle of it. What would happen if – or when – Lorraine caught Mabel trying to help Dipper out of there? Back before she'd gotten superpowers, she'd broken a cop's fingers and nearly kicked her way out of a patrol car, and that was just because the unlucky sheriff had said the wrong thing. When she'd first caught Stan outside the motel, she'd pointed a gun in his face in a paranoid frenzy and stopped just short of blowing his head off. And as soon as she'd gotten Dipper mixed up with Callum, she'd killed her way through a roomful of demons in a matter of seconds, and back then, she'd only been acting in her "son's" defence. She hadn't been enraged beyond reason. Was Lorraine violent enough to harm another child just to prevent her from being separated from Callum? He didn't know; there were still too many gaps in his knowledge, and he didn't trust Utterson's account… but right now, Stan wasn't willing to take chances.
"…what are you going to do?" he asked.
"Absolutely nothing."
"What?!"
"If we head in after her, we risk alerting Lorraine. And if Lorraine realizes that we've got the forest surrounded, she'll get defensive; you know what they say about cornered rattlesnakes, and I know from personal experience that the demented bitch can be very dangerous if she thinks that there's no way , that treehouse is studier than it looks, and she'll have the perfect vantage point to attack as long before we get in range; with the forest infested with monsters, any force we send into those woods will be at a significant disadvantage."
"Then don't head into the woods at all! Just siege the place, keep her from breaking out; she'll have to surrender eventually to get some feed. I mean, she might not care about dying of starvation, but she'll want to keep Dipper from going hungry, won't she?"
"Won't work either, I'm afraid. Lorraine doesn't need to eat anywhere near as much as the average human being, and she might just be desperate enough to use her own flesh to save your grandnephew from starving. The most we can do is to get you into the forest and intercept Mabel before she makes a mess of things – or lure Lorraine into our sights."
Stan's heart sank. "How soon until we reach Black Goat Woods?"
"Five minutes, not counting the three or four extra it'll take to force obstructions off the road. For your sake, Mr Pines, I hope you're a fast runner, because if this operation goes south, I doubt you and your family will be getting off this island alive…"
A/N: Care to guess what happens next? Feel free to theorize!
Or, if that doesn't work, try the code:
Gsv Szmtvw Lmv hgroo szmth rm gsv yzozmxv:
Slkv/wvhkzri, hzmrgb/nzwmvhh, olev/olhh.
Blf nfhg hsld svi gsv dzb, hdvvgormt. Blf nfhg yivzp gsv hszxpovh.
Blf nfhg gvzxs svi sld gl Ovg Tl.
Ivnvnyvi, mlg zoo Low Nvm ziv gsv hznv.