Camo spent most of the first day inside.

Actually, she spent the first couple hours inside, humoring her crippling pressure on herself and beating herself up for something that she knew that, logically, she probably couldn't've stopped.

But this was Weirdmageddon, where logic wasn't logical.

How could she have been so stupid? If she'd gone along with Dipper and Ford (who had run off to play hero), then maybe Ford wouldn't've made the offer. Maybe they would've found what they were looking for faster. Maybe, if she'd stayed for the confrontation, she could've helped diffuse some of the tension. Maybe she could've chased after Mabel and stopped the rift from breaking in her backpack.

Maybe, if she'd trained harder and worked harder and not taken a stupid stop for her stupid emotions, she could've found another way to fix it. Maybe, if she hadn't been so self-centered, she could've helped out. Maybe, if she'd focused on someone else's, or even the world's, problems, she could've actually done something useful before being trapped in a town, in the middle of nowhere, ten years in the past, experiencing the end of the world.

Stan came back and into her room. He sat down next to her, and for a while, neither of them said anything. He didn't mention her silently crying her eyes out. He didn't mention the waves of weirdness crashing into the Shack while they were protected by the unicorn voodoo. He didn't do anything except sit there.

She scooted closer to him and put her head on his shoulder, sniffling. He tensed up a little bit, but after a moment, he relaxed again, putting an arm around her. They sat like that for a couple more minutes, until she eventually whispered, "It's my fault."

"What?" Stan asked, looking down at her in shock.

She pulled away from him and looked up at him, wiping her eyes. "It's my fault. I—I could've done something to stop it, I was supposed to stop it, it's what I was sent here for, I failed—it's all my fault." Her silent tears deteriorated into full-on sobbing, and she turned away, hiding her face.

Stan seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, after a minute, he softly told her, "It isn't your fault, kid." She turned back towards him, looking over her shoulder. He was looking down at the floor. "Maybe you could've done something, but I could've, too. We all could've. There's no way you could've known this was gonna happen because you took some time for yourself."

"But I did know," she protested, feeling like a wimp for crying so much. "I—I knew that Weirdmageddon could happen if Ford's mission failed, and I didn't go on it. I could've helped, and instead, I went with Mabel to do stupid party planning."

"Hey. Hey." His heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and he forced her to meet his gaze. "This is not your fault. You took some me-time. So what? You didn't do anything wrong. Heck, when I monumentally screwed up, it was my fault, back when I got myself disowned. You didn't do anything wrong. There's no right answer here, Camo."

She rubbed her eyes again. She noticed the tears getting on her glasses, and she felt a stab of annoyance at herself. "I'm such a wimp," she murmured, not fully registering that she said that aloud until Stan sighed loudly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked her, and she bit her lip.

"About what?"

"About you!" he exploded. "About how you were holding back what's clearly some kind of complex. Come on. Tell me. What's wrong?"

She sat there, frozen in time, as the world burned around her. Everything was chaos, everything was horrible, and yet . . . he cared. He was sitting here and spending time with her and trying to help her through it, even though she was sure he was uncomfortable about it. She didn't want to share, but at the same time, she did. She wanted to talk about herself. Didn't everyone?

"I just . . ." How was she going to say this in a way that didn't sound selfish?

Then she felt another burst of annoyance with herself. She'd been selfless all day! She hadn't taken a single moment for herself, hadn't demanded attention, all day! If anyone deserved to be selfish right now, it was her.

"I don't want to be the role model," she admitted, and all of a sudden, it came rushing out of her. "I don't want to be in charge, I don't want to be the person people look to for answers. Yeah, I can do it. Yeah, I might be pretty good at it. But that doesn't mean I want it."

She took a deep breath, then continued at a slightly slower rate, emphasis on slightly.

"Everyone calls me confident, independent, like I know what I'm doing. I take the lead on situations, I figure out the best approach a lot of the time, and even if I don't, I'm still there. I'm always the support. I'm always there to help people, to keep them standing. I act like I know what I'm doing, but a lot of the time, I don't."

She took another break, this time for a sob.

"I don't want to be independent. I don't want to have to stand on my own. I want someone else to take control, someone else to be the support, but every time I try it, someone else screws up. I just . . . do it, since I'm the best at it. Or one of the best. I might be strong, and I might be able to take care of myself, but that doesn't mean I want to.

"I just want to be able to trust someone else to take some of it. I hold other people up, but who's holding me? I can't keep doing this, Stan. I can't . . . do it."

She leaned against him again, holding onto him like he was her lifeline. He hugged her, and she cherished the feeling of it. She relaxed about as much as someone could when they were in the apocalypse, the tension releasing from her shoulders, the tiniest of smiles forming on her face.

When she pulled back next, she was significantly calmer. "Thanks," she said, a little embarrassed, rubbing her eyes for the third time. Scuff, her nose was really red. "It feels good to get that off my chest."

"You can talk to me about that stuff," he reminded her. "I might not know anything about feelings, or lovey-dovey-emotion-y stuff, but . . . I'll do my best, okay? Don't keep it all to yourself. It's all right."

She exhaled, focusing on those words. It's all right. She didn't have to be stressed, and she didn't have to repress it.

It was all right.

She took another deep breath, then looked up at Stan. "How's about we make some apocalypse weapons?"

The rest of the day was calmer. Well, not really. Several waves of weirdness crashed over the Shack, and they had to hide from the eye-bats, and generally life was horrible and bleak, but for her, not having the piles of stress and guilt on her was amazing. She felt lighter than she had in days.

"And stay out!" she told the eye-bat. She gripped her weapon in her hand, a "spear" created by removing the head of a rake and gluing, taping, stapling, and otherwise affixing a knife to the tip. It was really good for poking pesky eye-bats who came by, because of the reach. She watched with grim satisfaction as it flew away, into the messy sky.

Giant Gompers came back over, and she backed up a couple steps, inside the unicorn voodoo's jurisdiction. He wandered away after a moment of sitting there, eating trees like they were clumps of grass. She sighed in relief and walked back inside.

Stan was making more of those monster stuffies, as Camo had taken to calling them. Her idea. Basically, he'd shove together a bunch of random taxidermy parts as realistic as possible, and they'd stick them in windows and on the porch so that it looked like the Shack had been abandoned. He looked up at her, then held up his latest crime against nature.

"I call it the platyraffecat," he said proudly, showing her the mix of a platypus, giraffe, and cat, with some of Mabel's glitter attached, as well as a massive tentacle sticking out of the top of the head.

She nodded appreciatively. "That looks like it came out of a weirdness wave. It'll fit right in."

"So, how'd it go?" he asked as she sat down next to him. She shrugged.

"I got rid of this wave of eye-bats," she informed him, "but there'll probably be another one soon. Also, do you have anything to sharpen a knife with? My spear is getting duller than I want, and a dull spear could mean a stone Camo."

He nodded and gestured to a general section of the house. "Think I've got a whetstone in one of the closets."

"Why do you have a whetstone?" she inquired curiously.

He gave her a flat look. "Why did you decide to make a spear?"

She shrugged again. "Fair enough." She went to go look for it, and eventually, she found a rectangle that, after a couple moments of confusion, she realized was said whetstone. She pulled it out and walked back into the main room with Stan to sharpen her spearhead.

There was the usual sounds of growling and distant screaming outside. She'd learned to ignore all that. With Colonel Forrest by her side and Mabel's sweater on, she had everything she needed to stay positive.

About half an hour later, and some major difficulties with the whetstone, her spear was sharpened. And just in time, too, because another batch of eye-bats came by. However, this group was a big one, with fifteen of them, so they both agreed to hide it out for this one, huddling under the table.

They passed the time by telling stories.

"This one time, the people in my group project totally bailed, and I had to do everything," Camo told him. "Which isn't that unique in a group project, but anyway. I didn't complain, and did it all on my own, but when it came time to present, they didn't know any of the material, so I stood up there, presented our project, and I totally implied the truth. I ended up getting an A, but the three of them barely squeezed in a C."

Stan grinned at her. "Ha. Serves them right. That's a victory for everybody ever screwed over by a group project."

"Which is basically everybody."

"Yeah."

"Including my brother," Stan added. "I always paired up with him and totally bailed, 'cause, y'know, him being a genius and all. I picked up on it when nobody else did."

She gave him a look. "So you could be a horrible human being."

"Yeah, exactly!"

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and peeked out from under the table. "Okay, I think they're gone." So, Stan went back to making his monster stuffies and Camo, once again, checked their supplies. It was only the first day of the apocalypse, sure, but she didn't want to run out. They had a lot of brown meat in cans, and they were trying to ration out the other stuff, so they weren't in a ton of trouble there.

They had a small pile of weapons, too, though none of them were very good quality. Her mind drifted to the secret place in the graveyard that had held Quentin Trembley. There were some weapons there, and those tranquilizer darts would be handy. She could probably go out and scavenge for weapons there, and be back in an hour or two.

They had toiletries, for, you know, hygiene, and since she was apparently the only one using them, those would last a while. (What? Deodorant was important, even during the apocalypse.) They didn't use the running water, though, because last time they tried it, this laughing pink goo came out of the tap. The Shack was safe, but the plumbing was not. They also tried not to use things that used electricity, like lights, because it was like a beacon to the eye-bats.

Considering the fact that this was the first day, they had a routine that was likely to keep them alive. But . . . she still felt empty inside. Yeah, they could survive here and live in relative comfort, but by staying in the Shack, she was leaving everyone else to fend for themselves. And she did know what she said about not wanting to be the one to help people . . . but someone had to do it.

She really hadn't learned anything, had she?

She made her way back into the main room, where Stan was surrounded by monster stuffies. She sat down next to him, her spear in hand, and she took a deep breath. "Stan, I . . . I want to leave the Shack to pick up weapons and maybe help some people."

"Didn't you just say how you didn't want to be the one to help people?"

She rolled her eyes. Of course he brought that up. "Yeah, I know, but . . . I can't just stay here. I'd rather live every day in a way that I'd be proud if it were my last than hide indoors and be ashamed when I die or get caught by an eye-bat."

He stared at her. "When'd you get into wisdom?"

She sighed.

Stan grinned at her, though it looked like there was a bit of concern behind it. "You . . . you can go. Just stay safe, okay?"

"If I see anyone when I'm out there, I'll send them here," she warned as she grabbed her emergency bag (of course she had an emergency bag, this was the apocalypse). "Be ready for that."

"Ah, great."

And, with a sense of trepidation, she stepped out of the Shack.

It was late afternoon. She found it hard to believe that almost an entire day had passed as she hid inside. Still, she dove into the trees and moved as stealthily as she could manage. She stayed within the cover of the tree line, but she followed the edge of what used to be the road. The usually fifteen-minute walk elongated into forty-five minutes of slow moving and pausing when something big moved past.

A weirdness wave passed over her during that time span. She survived that by clinging to a tree like it was her lifeline. Yeah, it might be on fire, and yeah, it was slick with blood from the blood rain showers, and yeah, it came alive and smacked her off, but at least she didn't get blown away.

Then, she saw the town.

It was in shambles. Most buildings were completely crushed, leaving a couple smoldering bits of debris laying around. The graffiti that had collected was the least of people's worries. The sky was a confusing, swirling mass of light, with a massive pyramid floating in the sky. She guessed that was Bill's hideout. More eye-bats flew around, a couple carrying people turned to stone, and she tightened her grip on her spear.

First off, she was going to the graveyard to pick up some more weapons. That meant taking a right and going down this road, past Greasy's Diner, and at her current pace, that would take another hour of movement. Well, the sooner she started, the sooner she finished. She set off along the tree line.

At first, it was as monotonous as a trek through a burning forest in Weirdmageddon could be. She bumped into a couple people, but most of them were being chased by monsters, and her heroic instincts weren't enough to make her go save them at her own expense. In fact, the first interesting thing happened when she was pilfering stuff left inside Greasy's Diner.

The diner had been mostly spared as of yet, though the roof had caved in and a bunch of opossums had started to live there. She managed to find a plate of abandoned food without too much ash in it, so she hid under the table and ate it, prison-style. A gnome crawled up to her and looked at her with a begging expression, but she just glared at it, annoyed, and kicked it away.

Once she was done with her meal, she grabbed her spear again, then she looked at it, uncertain. It was getting annoying to have to hold it all the time, and her hands could be useful for other things. She couldn't rip up her survival bag to stick it in there, because that held her sweater, since she was being all nostalgia-y about that until she found Mabel again, and all her food (and a stick of deodorant). At the moment, she was wearing a boring t-shirt and jeans, because there was no way any of her good clothes were being wasted.

She spotted a jacket laying on the ground, and she had an idea. She ripped a couple holes into it, on the backside of the shoulders, and tied it around her like a sash so that the arms were knotted in front of her, one going over her shoulder and the other falling by her side. That left her free to stick the spear through the holes and hold it on her back, though not without difficulty.

Then she could slide her backpack back on, so she had a feeling she looked really epic, with the spearhead sticking next to her head. She smiled at the thought of her doing a superhero pose with the fire in the background.

But she'd wasted enough time already. She got back to her feet and dove back into the forest, moving with renewed speed. She was barely five minutes into it when she heard something running. She froze and backed up, hiding behind a tree, managing to pull out her spear without ripping the jacket or smacking herself in the back of the head.

It was one of Bill's henchmen, the Henchmaniacs (she figured that out from someone screaming it in the distance). A strange demon that seemed to be made of interconnected squares, some with eyes. All the squares were different colors, too.

"Hey, hey!" it said in a dumb, mildly feminine voice. Maybe it was a she? "It's a funny human! Look, look, it has a poky stick!"

"Yeah, it is poky!" she agreed with a fake smile. "You want me to show you?"

It laughed. "Nah! I'd rather get ya turned to stone by an eyeball bat!" It made some kind of whistling sound, and an eye-bat came flying over. Camo cursed and prepared her weapon. As it flew towards her, she stabbed up and dodged out of the way at the same time. It worked, though she fell on the ground roughly. "Aw, what? You aren't supposed to win!" the Henchmaniac pouted. "You're feisty, though! I bet Bill will like ya! Come on, human!"

She rolled onto her stomach and looked up at the interlocked squares with an alarmed expression. "Uh, what?"

Before she knew what was happening, she was floating, no, being floated up to the giant pyramid in the sky. She tried to use her air-swimming tactics, but it didn't work, since the Henchmaniac was the one controlling her flight. She floated through an entrance in the pyramid after the demon, apparently crashing the party going on in there, but not by her fault.

Bill floated over. Scuff, she had not wanted to see him again, though she knew that that had been a futile wish. "Well, well, well, what have you brought us now, Amorphous Shape?" he asked, inspecting her. "Hourglass! Good to see you! How's life been?"

"Burning in blood rain and laughing pink slime," she deadpanned.

He seemed to find that hilarious, as he laughed maniacally. "Oh, yeah, so you like it, huh? Your dimension has finally learned how to party!" A couple Henchmaniacs danced in the background, but they stopped immediately after he turned his eye on them in annoyance. "You wanna join?"

"Uh . . ." She blinked. "Are you joking?"

He held his hand up to his eye like someone would hold it to their chin in thought. "Hmm, you're right. You're not dressed well enough." He snapped his fingers, and her dirty t-shirt and jeans were replaced with a yellow, brick-patterned suit. Half of her vision went black, and she mentally groaned at the thought of having the eyepatch problem. Again. "Much better! Now do you wanna join?" He went big, red, and distorted with the last words.

"I'll party out there instead, thanks," she said, jutting her thumb back through the exit.

He shrugged, which looked strange on his triangular form. "Suit yourself." He made a dismissive gesture, and she was thrown back outside. She landed roughly in a tree near the graveyard. Well, at least he'd been helpful there.

After she climbed down (well, it involved a lot of falling and groaning, but you get the idea), she looked down at herself. A suit, which was not the kind of apocalypse-outfit she'd been expecting, all gold and brick-y. There was an eyepatch on her right eye, and, just like way back when in Stan's mind, when she lifted it up, she couldn't see out of that eye.

She groaned. Now her depth perception was skewed! Great. She ran her hand through her hair and frowned, feeling above her head, with one hand, then two. There was a . . . a top hat, floating above her head. Really? Really? She sighed. This obsession he had with putting her in clothes similar to his appearance was ridiculous.

Well, she had her bag, and her spear, though her makeshift sheath had vanished with her other clothes. She'd just have to make do with what she had. She continued onward, toward the graveyard.

There it was, with zombies in neon colors roaming around. Well, she'd dealt with zombies before, so this would probably be fine. How did you get to the bunker place again? She felt at her memory, and then it came to her. The angel statue! The finger on the angel statue! She glanced around and spotted it.

With a grin, she made her way forward, into the graveyard.

The zombies didn't actually seem interested in eating her, since they were a little busy vomiting up unidentifiable substances or screaming with their eyes glowing with colors, just like spotlights. So, with, like, no resistance, she walked up to the statue and pulled its finger.

It didn't move. Maybe it only . . . ? She sighed again, and she stuck her nose on the finger. It bent into the right position, and the basement place slid open. She walked down the stairs and stepped on the tile which shot out tranquilizer darts (obviously that was intentional. Definitely not a mistake right there.) Then she collected the ones now on the walls and floor and shoved them unceremoniously in her bag before leaving.

Well, that was awfully quick, after an hour and a half of effort. Her stomach rumbled. She had two cans of brown meat in her bag, but she'd neglected to bring a can opener, plus, the Yumberjacks was just across the way, so she sprinted across the road, hoping nothing saw her. Giant Gompers stomped relatively nearby, but otherwise, nothing.

Inside, she found people, and ones who weren't even running from monsters. She recognized them, too: Candy and Grenda. Her eyes (well, eye . . . stupid eyepatch) lit up when she saw them, and she ran forward. "Guys!"

The two girls looked over defensively, but they relaxed as soon as they recognized her. "Camo!" Grenda said in her deep voice. Then she looked her up and down. "What are you wearing?"

"It's a long story," she admitted. "But I'm pretty sure Bill's using me as some creepy narcissism doll, or something. I'm not part of a Bill cult, I swear."

Candy giggled, and the world felt somewhat normal.

There were other people there, too, Manly Dan and the rest of the Corduroys, except Wendy. Well, of course they were here. They were lumberjacks, and this place was called Yumberjacks. However, she was more focused on the girls at the moment. "Where's Jason?" she asked urgently.

Their faces fell, and her heart rose into her throat. "He is gone," Candy said sadly. "He protected us at his own sacrifice."

Camo looked away. Don't think about that. She could grieve later.

"Well, have you seen either of the twins?" she asked, somewhat hopeful but mostly scared of the answer.

Grenda shook her head. "I'm worried about Mabel," she said loudly, but when was Grenda's voice not loud? "I haven't seen her anywhere!"

One of the Corduroy boys piped up. "I heard something about the boy twin almost stopping Bill." Camo perked up and looked at him expectantly. "He and the old guy went to go fight 'em—"

"FIGHT!" his family screamed.

"—but they musta got caught or something, because it didn't work. Haven't heard anything else."

She nodded, and she was about to tell them about the Shack when Giant Gompers munched the roof. A passing swarm of eye-bats spotted them. Camo jumped to action, pulling Candy and Grenda out of the way. The eye-bats got the Corduroys, but she had reacted fast enough to save the girls. She ran them across the parking lot and into the forest, where she dragged them onto the ground and waited.

"What are we—" Grenda started to ask, but Camo shushed her with a finger to her lips. The three of them waited in absolute silence for about five minutes before she finally relaxed and let the girls get up. "What was that?" Grenda finally asked.

"You can never be too sure with the eye-bats," was her response. "Look, get to the Mystery Shack. It's protected by a magic spell using the unicorn hair you guys got that one time, remember?" They nodded together. "Go. It's protected from the weirdness, so you'll be safe inside. Stan will help you."

Candy asked, "What about you?"

She looked into the distance, at the wreckage of the town. "I'll figure it out," she promised. "I'll get there eventually, but for the moment, I need to help other people. But you two, get to safety."

After a moment of silence, Grenda said, "Bye", and the two of them left. Camo collapsed, sliding down the base of the tree. She was already worn out, and this was just the first day of Weirdmageddon. Still, she had more stuff to do, so she got back up to her feet, took a deep breath, and started moving through the trees again.

Time to go play hero.