A/N: Aaaaaaand we're back!

I hope you're enjoying the story so far, because things are only going to get weirder; a huge thank-you to all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters and followers. You fine folk give me the strength to get out of bed in the morning. Feel free to theorize, postulate, and point out any typos or errors that have crept in at 3:00 in the morning. After all, there are thoughts that can only occur to the human brain at 3:00 AM - not all of them good...

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls, The Park, The Secret World, et all are not mine.

This chapter's soundtrack is Nash Descends Into Parcher's World, by James Horner.


Leaving the compound wasn't going to be easy. After all, with the sheer number of zombies that now surrounded the building, Stan wouldn't get far without being ripped to bits.

"It's usually not a problem for the out-of-towners," Bannerman explained. "All we have to do is open the gate and they can blast their way to freedom. Plus, even if they do get clawed at, they can just come back to life and go back to blasting."

Worse still, the Sheriff's office didn't have any vehicles to spare. Over the last few months, the fuel had all been siphoned off to burn zombie carcasses, the only way that any of them could stop the walking dead from coming back to life. Also, the survivors had been scavenging bits and pieces from the cars in order to reinforce the compound, or to make close-quarters weapons for use against the zombies, so even if they had gas on hand, the cars wouldn't have been much use anyway. The last usable vehicle in the compound had been a motorbike belonging to the compound's mechanic, and it had been given away to one of the Bees over a month ago - after all, it wasn't as if any of the townsfolk were going anywhere, was it?

As such, Stan was left waiting around while Moose Johnson – the aforementioned mechanic – tried to figure out a way to get him safely out the doors and as far as the nearest CoV guard post without getting him caught between the teeth of the horde.

With precious little else to do, he decided to ask some further questions – this time about what had caused the Fog currently surrounding Solomon Island. Frankly, there wasn't much to tell: last October, a local fishing ship called the Lady Margaret had returned to the docks with a cock-and-bull story about being swept into an uncharted region of the Atlantic, a place shrouded in Fog, layered with noxious red seaweed and infested with the hulks of dead ships.

There were all kinds of stories about the fishermen bringing something back from this mysterious region, but so far, nobody knew what had become of the damn thing (if it ever existed) - though the most common story seemed to involve then trying to sell it to Innsmouth Academy. Whatever they'd done, the fisherman had gotten very quiet following their return. According to Sheriff Bannerman's husband, the town doctor, the men of the Lady Margaret had been stricken by a rapidly-advancing wave of mental illness; one particularly unfortunate case had started cutting himself in an effort to remove "the new skin," and had even begun rambling in Old Icelandic - a language the man hadn't spoken beforehand.

There hadn't been much of an opportunity to learn more about what had happened to the fishermen, unfortunately, for all of them had vanished after their final appointments. Weeks later, the Bees had eventually confirmed that one, Joe Slater, was still alive and capable of speech... though according to the testimony of the Bees that had found him, he'd been sporting more tentacles than usual and probably wouldn't be joining the townsfolk for Thanksgiving that year. The rest had been killed in the disaster that had swept Solomon Island.

Not long after the Lady Margaret had returned home, the Fog arrived around Kingsmouth.

Roughly half the island's population had died that day, lured out to sea by whatever lay beyond the Fog. So far, it seemed as if survival had been a mixed blessing, for in the hours that followed, everyone who'd been drowned by the Fog came back to life, followed closely by everyone who'd ever left a corpse on the island. By the sounds of things, Solomon Island had seen a lot of death and bloodshed in its history, and now all those bodies were up and about, serving the fishmen that were now amassing on the beaches.

This had been the point when Stan's credulity had waved a little white flag. He'd almost dismissed the whole thing as baloney, but then Deputy Andy took him up to the highest parapet of the office and allowed him to peek through a pair of binoculars at the things roaming Main Street: fish people, dead folks with tentacles, giant zombie crabmen standing fifteen feet tall, hovering jellyfish the size of tractor trailers… all part of a strange race of monsters that the out-of-towners supposedly called Draug.

Worse still, nobody had been able to leave the island ever since. Anyone who'd tried to escape via the causeway or by boat had never been seen again, and because they still had a working internet connection, they knew that none of the escape parties had made it through to the other side of the Fog. For all intents and purposes, they were trapped.

And Lorraine said that Agartha and the secret roads were the only way off the island, Stan thought. What the hell are they, though? I'm guessing that the locals can't get at 'em, otherwise they would've been outta here months ago. Bad news is, that leaves us stuck too unless we can find that interdimensional portal.

Stan also went out of his way to ask about the interdimensional invasion at the motel, but so far nobody knew what the hell was going on at the Overlook. After all, the motel had been closed since the eighties, and with the arrival of the Fog and all its monsters, nobody in the compound had been able to get anywhere near it for the last few months.

"What about Atlantic Island Park?" he eventually asked.

Bannerman shrugged. "What about it? That old place didn't have anything to do with the Fog, and it hasn't got anything to do with what's happening now. I mean, it's close to a mile away from here, and there's only a handful of zombies on the grounds, and none of 'em seem interested in taking a shot at us down here at the office. The out-of-towners have been checking the park out for anything magical, but they keep coming up empty." She shook her head. "Atlantic Island Park's been closed for thirty years: we haven't had a single murder or disappearance tied to it in all that time, and right now, it's one of the few sites on the entire island that isn't spitting out monsters or drawing them in. Way I see it, whatever hoodoo Old Man Henderson put on that place to kill all those workers and guests, it's as dead as the rest of the park."

"Old Man Henderson?"

"Local legend. Nothing to worry about."

At that point, the first Molotov cocktails had been dropped into the horde outside the gates, cutting short any further questions.

Once the rotting crowds had cleared enough for the survivors to safely open the gates, Stan had been unceremoniously handed a map and escorted outside as quickly as possible – before new zombies arrived to replenish the ranks.

According to the well-revised tourist map, the nearest CoV post was southwest of the compound, next to a small house on the very outskirts of Kingsmouth, teetering right on the border of the forested hills surrounding the town. But as bad luck would have it, the white uniforms were nowhere in sight: whoever these CoVs really were, they'd long since packed up their things and left the house behind. Fortunately, Bannerman had marked down another sport further north, not far from Kingsmouth airport: "lots of white uniforms seen here recently", the note had claimed

Charitable folks that they were, the survivors had also marked down a safe route that would lead him as far away from local monsters as possible, even highlighted certain areas to avoid if he ever had to take shortcuts. Apparently, there were zombies clustered on every other street, Draug patrolling the beaches, wendigos prowling the local woods, strange mechanical monsters loose in Edgar Stone's scrapyard, mud-monsters loose on the outskirts of the airport, and things apparently left unexplored among the local pumpkin patches. For good measure, the note advised running like hell if he got the attention of any local monsters: except for the wendigos and some of the faster zombies, none of them could hope to keep up with a fleeing human.

But as he made his way north along Fletcher Road, off the main crawl and into one of the safer routes through the decrepit forests, Stan couldn't help noticing something rather odd about Kingsmouth. By itself, the town wasn't all that remarkable: a nervous huddle of homes, businesses and tourist attractions clustered together on the coast, surrounded by dozens of lesser settlements scattered across the island. In his time on the road, Stan had seen so many small towns it wasn't funny, and his home in Roadkill County topped most of them anyway.

However, the more he looked at the map and its helpful cluster of notes, he found himself struck by the unusual similarities to Gravity Falls: first, there was all the magic and monsters loose on the island, most of it pre-dating the Fog by decades if not centuries; there were dark, rocky islands just offshore, supposedly haunted by legendary monsters; there was supposedly a community of giant hairy monsters living somewhere in the forests around the Blue Mountain; there was supposedly a psychic running a very profitable tourist trap somewhere in the middle of the town's suburban sprawl; there was a haunted mansion somewhere in the foothills of the mountain, supposedly with a sordid history of bloodshed and violence; there was a scrapyard just outside Kingsmouth, supposedly infested with mechanical monsters and owned by a crazy hillbilly type with an unlikely genius for technology; there was an author visiting the island, some crazy old man with a gift for writing about supernatural activity. Lorraine had even hinted that there was something hidden under the island, just like Gravity Falls had been unwittingly built over a flying saucer.

And what was with those strange triangle shapes that kept cropping up in local architecture?

Sure, it was probably just coincidence, but what if all these weird little similarities actually meant something? What if they'd arrived in this town for a reason?

I wonder if this island has a mini-golf course, too…

Stan shook his head despairingly. He really wasn't meant for this sort of thing: he was good at making a good mystery, at planning, building, improvising, and scheming, but he was lost when it came to research and theory. Frankly, he considered himself lucky enough to have been able to reactivate the old portal with the help of the journals, and only then because Ford had gone to the trouble of figuring out how everything worked well in advance. This, to put in mildly, was not in Stan's repertoire; were they here in his place, Ford would probably be having the time of his life and Dipper would probably be bouncing off the ceiling with excitement… but right now, Ford was a mile away with a busted knee and trapped in what looked like hell on earth, while Dipper had been kidnapped. And it was up to Stan to save the day.

He needed to focus on what was important: he needed to keep his mind on finding his way to the airport, and then hopefully locating the leads he needed to track down Lorraine… and while he was at it, he needed to keep an eye out for monsters on the path.

Uphill work, in other words.

But just as Stan was feeling the first shivers of anxiety work their way up his spine, there was a muffled trilling from his coat pocket: it was the communicator that Ford had given him. Surprised, he hit the reply button, and was immediately rewarded by the sound of his brother's voice – exhausted, jittery and more than a little bit on the demented side, but unmistakeably Ford.

"Stanley, are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm north of where we started: I've learned a bit about Lorraine, but I still haven't found her. I'm heading to the airport now; by the sounds of things, there might just be some kind of clue up there. What's going on in your neck of the woods, Ford?"

"Still hurting. Thought I found a decent lead, and it led me as far as Innsmouth Academy… but seems I've hit a dead end."

"Innsmouth Academy?"

"It's a local private school, exclusively for gifted children."

"So you're feeling nice and comfy there?"

"Hah-hah. By gifted, I mean 'magical.'"

"…you've found a wizarding school."

"In as many words, yes. It's a pity Mabel isn't here: she'd bust a gut laughing." There was a note of pain in Ford's voice, now. "Dipper would love it here, too."

Stan reached up and very gently pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that the oncoming headache could be massaged away. "Do you mind explaining what the hell you're doing at a wizarding school? I thought you were looking for clues up at the Overlook."

"I ran out of clues, and someone mentioned that Lorraine might have been seen down at the academy. Anyway, this place still has a few people in residence: two faculty members and one student… and I've learned a bit about this island. Truth be told, I've been learning about it ever since you left – it seems like every time I turn my back, I keep running into people with information to share."

"Same here. What else have you learned?"

"First of all, I know why we ended up in this reality: ever since the 1980s, the Overlook Motel has been a weak spot in the fabric of reality – all because some genius occultist came to Kingsmouth and sent himself into the Hell Dimensions – and that's why we ended up here: we were drawn to the interdimensional soft spot and all the traffic that's been passing through it."

Once again, the similarities were too blatant for Stan to ignore: an expert in his field coming to a small town in search of the supernatural, only to end up getting flung into another dimension… this could be the occultist's story, or it could be Ford's. Leave it to good old Poindexter not to notice the commonalities.

But why was Solomon Island so similar to Gravity Falls? What was it about this dimension that had made this monster-infested rock off the coast of Maine so damn similar to a town in the middle of Roadkill County Oregon?

Stan shook his head; once again, he was getting bogged down with questions he wouldn't be able to answer, and he needed to stay on point. "What about Lorraine?" he sighed. "You said you went there to find out more about her, right?"

Ford coughed sheepishly. "Er… I did ask around, but it turns out that none of the faculty saw her. Everyone's been barricaded in the offices for the last few months, so there's no security around the library and archive; plus, there's been so many Bees visiting the place that she didn't get much attention. Miss Usher thinks that Lorraine might have been studying books on portal magic, but that's all we can figure out."

"Then why the hell haven't you moved on yet? I'm out here jogging down midnight roads and dodging zombies, and you're having the time of your life in a magic library? Doesn't exactly sound like a fair division of labour, Poindexter."

"Unless you're suggesting we unionize, there's not a lot we can do about it."

"Ford, stop trying to be funny. Why are you still at Hogwarts, or whatever it is?"

"As bad luck would have it, we're under siege."

"You've got zombies, too, then?"

"No. Familiars and ghosts."

"What?"

"Familiars; flesh golems used as magical assistants by the students here. They've gone feral and started attacking the surviving students and staff… and by the looks of things, they're capable of self-replication. As if that isn't bad enough, we've got the ghosts of old faculty and alumni trying to hijack the academy's defences. It's a mess over here, Stanley: no matter how many familiars we kill, there's always just enough left over to start rebuilding the survivors into another horde, and the ghosts are just about impossible to exorcize."

"Oh."

By now, Stan had learned that there were some things you just couldn't find a rejoinder to, and when Ford brought this sort of thing up, the best possible response was to smile, nod, and make the appropriate noises.

"But it's not all bad news," Ford added brightly. "I've had a lot of time to talk with the faculty between massacres, and I've learned the source of Lorraine's powers. Apparently, there's a lot of her kind around the world and a lot of them have been visiting the island. Some call them Gaia's Chosen, but most just call them Bees."

"Yeah, I've heard all about them – seen a few of 'em too – and Sheriff Bannerman said that Lorraine was probably one of them. Tell me something I don't know, Ford."

"By the sounds of things, the Bees are literal protectors of the planet, a kind of magical immune system for the world. They're supposedly bonded with these… entities from deep within the Earth; bonding gives them access to magic that most people in this world can't access without some really spectacular genetic gifts or years of dedicated study. In exchange, these members of Gaia's Chosen are bound to stop existential threats to the planet… and for some reason, their numbers have exploded in the last few months, around the exact same time that the Fog arrived around Solomon Island."

Stan furiously massaged his temples, hoping that this wasn't going to end in a migraine. "So, why's Lorraine one of them?" he asked. "You'd think a kidnapper and a maniac wouldn't fit the bill for a protector of the planet."

"I don't know either, but from what the faculty tell me, Gaia's Chosen are being snapped up by secret societies all over the world: the Templars, the Illuminati, the Dragon… all of them want to get their hands on a soldier that can't be killed. Whatever's caused this big upsurge of their population, the secret societies are moving to exploit it – all of them except for Lorraine's faction."

"The white uniforms, you mean – the CoV, I've heard them called. I'm looking for them right now-"

"The Council of Venice."

"Venice?" Stan echoed.

"I can confirm that much: remember that winged lion symbol on Lorraine's belt? That's the Lion of Saint Mark – it's been a symbol of the city for centuries on end. About the only thing differing from the classic variation is the fact that this one is surmounted by a sword-"

Stan coughed loudly. "Ford, I get that you're having fun with the chance to wade through all this weird occult junk, but we really need to focus on what's important. What did you learn about this council?"

"Sorry. Got a little carried away. Supposedly, the Council of Venice is meant to be like the United Nations for the magical community; it's their job to stop all the conflicts between secret societies from spilling over and hurting normal people."

"I gotta ask, Ford: how did you hear all this from a bunch of teachers at a wizard school?"

"Apparently, they've got ties to some of these societies. I, uh, I'm pretty sure the academy might be owned by one of them."

"Oh."

"Anyway, with this Council of Venice trying to keep everything under wraps, it'd make sense they'd want to acquire at least a few of Gaia's Chosen to work for them, but for whatever reason, they've been keeping their hands clean of this business: nobody's ever seen a Bee working for the Council, and nobody's ever seen Lorraine in the field before."

"Brilliant. Just what we needed: another mystery. Is there anything else you've been able to find out?"

"I've found some interesting papers in Lorraine's bag, but I haven't had the time to read through all of them. One of them looks to be a psychological assessment on Lorraine itself."

"Let me guess: she's crazier than a bedbug and should be locked up in a rubber room with a boatload of tranquilizers and a stick between her teeth."

"Not the words I'd have used, but… I don't know, Stanley, I'm just dipping my toes in this. Something tells me that there's a lot more to Lorraine than what I've read so far. Some of these documents look to have been partly destroyed and recovered at the last minute, almost like someone was trying to hide it."

As Stan digested this information, the path ahead happened to drift past a rather dense patch of bushes, and at the very moment he got within ten feet of the undergrowth, there was an ominous-sounding rustle from a few yards ahead.

Stan took a deep breath, hands instinctively straying to the assorted weapons he'd stashed in his pockets.

"Can this wait until later, Ford?" he asked nervously.

"Just a minute: I still haven't told you the really interesting thing. You see, I found some old newspapers, and there's stuff here about Gravity Falls. Apparently, Gravity Falls doesn't exist in this world: a fire in the early 1900s wiped it off the map."

By then, the rustling had begun to subside, so Stan felt just safe enough to consider the matter deeply.

"In that case," he mused aloud, "what the hell are we doing in this dimension? I mean, what are the other Stan and Ford Pines up to right now? Gravity Falls was the one town weird enough to get your attention, and I wouldn't have gone there if it hadn't been for you. So what happened to us in this world? Come to think of it, what happened to Bill Cipher?"

"As far as Bill goes, your guess is as good as mine: nobody up at the academy's ever heard of him, and they've apparently dealt with eldritch deities before. And if he was planning on invading, that dimensional weak point at the Overlook would be ideal, but instead, it's the forces of Hell that are breaking in. Either this world hasn't been touched by him at all, or… something very weird is going on."

"Then what's with all the weird triangle symbols around Kingsmouth? It seems like every other manhole cover in town has a triangle on it; then there's the church, the town hall… if Bill wasn't here, then why has he got his signature all over the place?"

"Like I said, something very weird is going on. But here's one thing I know for certain: Gravity Falls isn't the only town to be destroyed in this reality. In New Jersey…" Ford coughed. "Uh, in hindsight, just springing this on you could be a bit insensitive. You might want to sit down, Stanley."

Stan heard the rustling again, this time much closer.

"I really don't have that option right now," he remarked. "You might want to make this quick, Ford."

"Er… do you remember that housefire down on Verdegris Lane back when we were in high school?"

Stan considered this for a moment, covertly reaching for the gun in his coat pocket. Hopefully, as long as he went on talking, whoever was tailing him wouldn't realize that he was gearing up for a fight.

"Yeah, sure," he said loudly. "We watched the place burn to the ground from our bedroom window. Pretty sure you were bummed out about it, too: I remember you always wanted to explore that old place when you were little, but we never got a chance before they shut it down for good. If I remember rightly, you thought it was haunted or enchanted or something like that – even gave me a big speech about lines and forces and Stonehenge or whatever the hell it was. But why bring that up now? Why's Verdegris Lane so important all of a sudden?"

"Well…"

There was a muffled click.

Suddenly, Stan was surrounded by stern-faced men and women in stark white uniforms, and even in the gloom of the moonlight forest, it was impossible to overlook the fact that the blue-bereted figures were armed.

On the upside, Stan no longer had to look for the Council of Venice's army: they'd found him.

On the downside, he was now wilting in the harsh red glow of several dozen laser sights – again.

"Come with us," one of the Council agents barked.

"But-"

"You can follow us, or we can shoot you in the head and pick you up at the nearest Anima Well. It's all the same to us. We're giving you a choice to come with us and be useful of your own accord. My advice: take it. You might not be able to stay dead, but we can make sure that every death hurts more than the last. Now, do you wanna make this easy on yourself, or do you wanna see how painful this can get?"

Stan took a deep breath. Once again, he'd been mistaken for one of the Bees, and this time, the mistake might just result in him getting killed. These guys probably weren't going to take no for an answer, and they didn't seem as if they'd wait for an explanation before putting a bullet right between his eyes.

Better to play it safe.

"I'll call you back," he muttered into the communicator, and hung up.


Ford stared at the communicator in growing alarm.

On the one hand, this was a positive sign: he'd heard the sound of guns being cocked and a human voice giving orders, so he had to assume that Stan was up against a threat that was sentient enough to take prisoners, so he was at least safe so long as he didn't resist them. On the other hand, he was still clearly in danger… and on the other, other hand, Ford was still trapped in the academy with no way out until Montag decided that the situation was dire enough to let Carter off the leash again.

He looked over at the two remaining faculty members currently on watch, eventually deciding that the morose-featured Annabel Usher – Montag's deputy – might be his only source of reassurances.

"Is there any chance of sending help to my brother's last coordinates?" he asked.

"None. The Bees might be willing to give it a go, but none of them have stopped by in the last twenty-four hours. Pure shame, too: if they were still around, the roads might not be so dangerous. And the siege probably wouldn't be as bad, either."

Ford sighed. "When's Carter going to be ready to take on the familiars?"

"Could be anywhere from an hour to three: until we're properly equipped to survive her powers, she's not going to be comfortable unleashing hell with us trapped in the killzone. Last time she cut loose, she had a Bee to chaperone her – and unfortunately, people like us don't have the luxury of just coming back from the dead. I'm sure there's other ways, though-"

Headmaster Montag coughed loudly and entirely without subtlety.

"But I'm pretty certain most of them involve equipment and personnel we don't have," said Usher, without missing a beat. "You ask me, you're better off waiting until the Bees come back: as long as your brother isn't in any immediate danger, you can afford to go on studying."

Ford's eyes narrowed.

From what he'd seen so far, Montag wasn't known for his subterfuge: the man was almost nightmarishly open about the things that took place at the academy, hence why he had been officially banned from speaking to grieving parents; normally, it was Usher telling Montag to shut up and not the other way around. So why was the headmaster getting so cagey all of a sudden? Was he trying to keep Ford at the academy? Was he just trying to preserve the only example of a dimensional traveller he'd ever me… or was he in league with whoever had abducted Stanley?

More importantly, could he outfight Montag if the worst came to the worst? The headmaster was younger and a dab hand with a spade, but Ford was reasonably certain that even with his wounded leg, he was the more adept in hand-to-hand combat. Plus, he had a blaster weapon more advanced than most technology available in this universe… but unfortunately, Montag was a skilled magus with experience that outweighed any of the spellwork that Ford had dabbled in. All in all, Ford gave himself 50/50 odds of success; it all depended on who shot first, really.

The same rules applied to Usher – provided he could avoid tackling her at the same time as Montag; together, they'd probably mop the floor with Ford.

Attacking Carter directly would be suicide: she was only teenager and not all that physically imposing, but she was easily the most powerful human being on campus; she'd incinerated an entire crowd of familiars with a low-strength pulse of magic, hence why Ford was even here to reflect on these matters, and Montag's notes suggested that unregulated use of her powers could result in "a thaumonuclear explosion." If all three of them were conspiring to keep him trapped in the academy while their allies outside held Stanley captive, then-

Ford shook his head. He was getting paranoid again; the situation was bad, but it was impossible to tell if the faculty were trying to keep him from being reckless or if they were actually conspiring against him. Until he was in full possession of the facts, he needed to keep his head down and learn more. Hopefully, Carter would be able to burn a path to the exit soon… but even then, he'd still need to work out a way of tracking Stanley's communicator – which would take even longer and waste even more precious time…

Ford groaned, closed his eyes, and furiously massaged his face. For now, it looked like the only thing he could do was go on researching.

Prising open his eyes, he stared gloomily down at the laminated newspaper article that had prompted him to call Stanley in the first place, hoping that the whole thing had been a ghastly misunderstanding on his part.

But, of course, the headline was the same.

The date was still the 1st of July, 1972.

And the awful truths were still on display.

FIRE DEVASTATES GLASS SHARD BAY! HISTORIC LEAD PAINT DISTRICT IN RUINS!

Glass Shard Bay is now reeling from what experts believe has been its single most destructive fire in over fifty years; at this time, the cost in property damage is still unknown, and though the death toll is estimated to be edging towards a triple-digit figure, bodies are still being uncovered.

According to witnesses and survivors, the blaze started on Verdigris Lane in the city's Lead Paint District, beginning as a simple house fire before rapidly spreading to the rest of the street in what was described as "a deafening explosion." The speed at which the fire advanced has led fire officials to suspect that there may have been a ruptured gas pipe within the area, for the flames spread so quickly that one of the fire trucks on the scene was incinerated on the spot. With the summer heatwave, most of the houses in the surrounding area were dry enough to act as kindling, spreading the fire even further.

Though many residents were alerted to the danger and evacuated before it reached them, other victims were asleep at the time of the disaster and could not be roused in time to escape. The hardest-hit were the business owners of the Lead Paint District, many of whom lived above their shops and died trying to save their homes and livelihoods: most prominent of these include the Juke Joint, Knuckles Sandwiches, Hot Belgian Waffles, and Pines Pawn. Tragically, the destruction of Pines Pawn not only led to the death of Filbrick Pines, but also his wife Caryn, and their two eldest sons, Stanley and Stanford; their youngest son, Sherman, is in a critical condition at the Glass Shard Beach Hospital, with burns to over 70% of his body.

Stanford's death has been a particular blow to Glass Shard Beach High, as teachers believed that he was due to be offered a place at the highly prestigious West Coast Institute of Technology (known informally as West Coast Tech), attention that would have given the beleaguered high school a much-needed boost in prominence…

Ford sighed. Why had he even tried to tell Stanley this? Quite apart from the fact that it would have only added to the stress and confusion, there would have been no way he could have possibly voiced as a positive factor – as Ford had originally intended.

In hindsight, it would have sounded ridiculous.

Yes, this was technically good news: if their alternate universe counterparts were dead, none of them were at risk of causing a dimensional paradox by meeting their alternate selves… and if Shermie had died or been left incapable of passing on his genes, then it meant that Dipper and Mabel hadn't been born in this dimension, so they were safe as well. But still… the other Stanley and Stanford had died horrible deaths, and if Shermie had survived his stay in the hospital, it wouldn't exactly have been an easy life to return to.

Why had he bothered to call Stanley about this, and why had he been so excited to do so? Was he just anxious to talk to his brother?

(You're not likely to get that chance again, are you, smartass? sneered a poisonous voice in the back of his head).

Groaning, Ford looked down at the page in a desperate attempt to distract himself… and as he did so, he found himself staring down at a paragraph at the very end of the article.

Up until now, it had gone overlooked in the wake of the earthshattering revelation of what had happened to the other Stanley and Stanford, and from the looks of things, it was only there to pad out the wordcount… but for some reason, Ford found himself staring down at this lone paragraph in dawning fascination.

Verdegris Lane recently became the subject of controversy a month ago when real estate developer and industrialist Nathaniel Winter briefly relocated to the area for reasons unknown. Having recently cancelled all prior commitments and business in New York, Winter's stay in Glass Shard Beach was regarded with much confusion by his business partners, and some suggested his "seaside visit" may have been prompted by serious concerns. For nearly two weeks, he remained at Verdegris Lane in a number of rented properties as part of what he referred to as "a sustained program of gentrification and profit maximization," until increasing hostility from residents prompted him to leave without completing any work on the street. Embittered locals have suggested that Mr Winter may have unwittingly damaged a gas main during his stay, though fire department officials state that this is unlikely at best. Winter could not be reached for comment…

Nathaniel Winter.

Where had he heard that name before? He was reasonably certain that it hadn't been back in his own reality: there'd been no mention of anyone by that name visiting Glass Shard Beach in the early 1970s, if only because any mention of a millionaire developer visiting the town would have prompted a grunt of "I'm not impressed" from dad. So where had Ford heard the name? And why did he get the feeling that it was somehow connected to the mess they'd found themselves in?

Muttering feverishly to himself, Ford reached back into the box of laminated newspaper clippings and began his research anew…


"You know, you don't actually have to shove me; I can actually walk by myself, thanks-"

"Shut it."

"Do you actually have anything else in the old lexicon, pal, or is the only thing out of your mouth gonna be 'shut it'? Because I swear to god, the only thing I've heard you say since we started marching has been 'shut it' and nothing else."

"Shut it."

"See what I mean? I mean, could any of you people just tell me where the hell we're going and why? Would it really hurt you that much to explain that much to me? It's not too much to ask that – ow!"

"Shut it."

"Oh… for the love of Christ, just tell me where we're going and what we're doing – and stop hitting me! I'll shut up if you just explain that much to me, okay? Actually, you don't even have to do that much: where are we going? I'll be satisfied with that much… if. You. Tell. Me. Where. We're. Going."

"No point."

"So you can say something other than 'shut it!' Great! We can mark it down on the calendar! Public holidays for everyone! Okay, okay, don't give me that look. I'll bite: why would there be no point in telling me where we're going?"

"Because we've just arrived."

"Oh."

As it turned out, the Council of Venice's current base of operations on the island was little more than a fleet of armoured vehicles parked on a sandy field a few hundred yards south of Kingsmouth Airport; the biggest transports had been lined up in orderly ranks to form improvised fortifications, and as one of the jeeps rolled aside to admit him, Stan found himself greeted by the sight of dozens upon dozens of troops being prepared for war. There were no tents, no latrines, no mess halls and no armouries, certainly nothing that Stan recognized from the few occasions when he'd had business inside military encampments, so he could only assume that the Council of Venice wasn't intending to keep their soldiers here for very long.

Crude though this setup was, it wasn't anything to sneeze at: there were motorbikes, trucks, a couple of APCs, a few speedboats, and judging by the distant rumbling, even a helicopter. Plus, judging by those glowing symbols scrawled in the sands that bordered the encampment, vehicles weren't the only defences in play. As nasty as these Council soldiers were, Stan had to admit they certainly seemed to know what they were doing, for the surrounding area had been virtually cleared of all potential threats. From the moment Stan and his escort had arrived in the area, there'd been no sign of the usual monsters that he'd had to avoid from the moment he'd left the sheriff's office. Unfortunately, this temporary measure hadn't done much to improve his captors' collective bad mood.

In short order, Stan was roughly escorted through the encampment, checked for weapons, disarmed at length, and unceremoniously tossed into an improvised stockade at the far end of the compound. It was really just a corner patrolled by the meaning-looking soldiers the Council had on offer, but Stan wasn't willing to push his luck by trying to escape. So, he sat still under heavy guard as the chaos and waited as the confusion of the camp played out around him, trying to work out what the soldiers were up to – without much success; quite a few of them were speaking in Italian, with a smattering of Spanish here and there, and the rest spoke English with such thick accents that Stan could barely make sense of any of them. He was halfway hoping that they would let him go once they realized he wasn't one of the Bees, but even after one grim-faced lieutenant recognized that Stan didn't have that distinctive honey aroma, the soldiers didn't seem interested in even allowing him the freedom to stand up.

After about half an hour of silent incarceration, Stan was hoisted upright by a pair of glorified legbreakers in uniform, then frogmarched across the compound and into the back of a truck – the largest in the fleet. From the looks of things, it was being used as a makeshift war room, for one wall of the truck's interior was occupied by a huge screen displaying maps of Solomon Island, profiles of various islanders, and other salient data.

The man standing in front of his impressive display could only be the leader of this little army, judging by the impressive array of medals pinned to the front of his stark-white tunic and the beautifully filigreed ceremonial sabre dangling from his belt. Also, unless Stan's eye for quality had finally failed him, the man's blue beret appeared to be made of velvet. Other than this remarkably ostentatious show of rank, the man looked refreshingly normal: he was somewhere in the ballpark of about fifty-five to sixty years old, sported greying blond hair and the kind of reassuringly boring face you'd usually see behind a counter at the DMV, and apart from his neatly trimmed moustache and piercing blue eyes, there didn't seem much to draw attention to him beyond the trappings of rank.

"Colonel Utterson, sir!" one of the legbreakers barked. "The prisoner, as ordered, sir!"

The colonel turned, eyeing Stan with undisguised scepticism; for nearly thirty seconds, he studied his captive in total silence, as if looking for some hidden clue that only he could discern.

"Do you have a name?" he said at last.

Unlike the others, he was clearly American, or had learned to fake the accent so well that his soft, reedy voice could belong to a local; Stan didn't find this reassuring, though, for though the man hadn't even raised his voice or spoken a single threatening word, there was a subtle glimmer of emotion in those dulcet syllables, a ripple of something that sounded uncannily like contempt.

"Uh, Stanley Pines."

"You have a voice. Good to know. It's clear you're not one of the Bees, and alas, this little hunt for a functional assistant is turning into a wild goose case."

"Then why don't you just let me go? It's obvious I'm not what you're after."

"No… but your presence here still raises far too many questions for my liking. You see, I have up-to-date records on all current residents of Solomon Island: the citizens Kingsmouth, the students and staff of Innsmouth Academy, the members of the local Wabanaki, the visitors known to be operating here, and even some of the more… obscure entities. You, Mr Pines, aren't among any of them. Surveillance records indicate you weren't present on the island until this evening; you haven't demonstrated any aptitude for magic, you aren't carrying any technology more advanced than that gun on your belt, you aren't affiliated with any of the secret societies, and you obviously aren't a Bee… so how did you get past the Fog and onto this island? Why would you be crazy enough to travel alone along Wendigo-infested roads without the skills necessary to survive? Oh, and one other question…"

He took a deep breath. "My men overheard you talking while you were out on the road, so perhaps I should put this one a bit more bluntly: why were you looking for us?"

Stan was suddenly very aware that the soldiers at the door were studiously checking their weapons. Were they about to fire, or were they just messing with him? Either way, he couldn't afford to take chances, not when he had two kids to rescue: this colonel already had enough evidence to shut down his most extravagant lies, and more to the point, he might be the only man on the island who might be able to help Stan track down Lorraine. So, for the moment, he'd answer this overdressed prick's questions… if it meant getting closer to saving Dipper.

"One of your soldiers kidnapped my grandnephew a couple of hours ago," he said, trying not to let the fear show in his voice. "Her name was Lorraine Maillard and I've been trying to catch up with her ever since then. I was looking for you because I was hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction."

The colonel's eyes narrowed. "Is that right? Hrm. That does make this significantly more complicated. You still haven't explained how you or your grandnephew happened to arrive on this island – or how you met Lorraine. In my experience, she's not exactly open to trusting strangers long enough to get close to her." He produced a chair from behind one of the desks at the back of the truck and slid it across the floor to Stan. "Tell me everything," he said. "Omit nothing."

So, Stan sat down and told him everything…

…or, at least, everything the colonel needed to know. He admitted that a random portal had deposited them just outside the Overlook, but he didn't tell Utterson that they were from another dimension, nor did he explain the events that had led to the interdimensional rift opening, and he did his best to give the impression of being almost completely mundane. After all, it wasn't as if this pompous old bastard needed to know about the portal, or about the family's many, many bargains and encounters with the supernatural. Frankly, he didn't trust Utterson – or anyone else who decided that waving a loaded weapon in his face was an effective means of saying hello.

Other than that, though, his explanation was largely by the numbers: the arrival at the abandoned motel, the first meeting with Lorraine, Lorraine turning up dead with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the skull, Lorraine coming back to life and grabbing Dipper before hightailing it out the door.

"And do you know where she might have gone?"

"No – not that it's stopped me from looking."

Colonel Utterson took a deep breath and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You say Lorraine seemed… comfortable around you?""

"I guess."

"And what about now? Do you think she would still trust you if she were to meet you again?"

"What makes you think she'd stick around long enough to do that? As soon as she had Dipper in her arms, she was out of that parking lot like greased lightning up the backside of a bat outta hell; she was trying to get away from us, remember?"

"Or maybe she was trying to keep her son – well, the boy she thinks is her son – away from the demons still infesting the area. You ever think of that?"

"Where are you going with this, colonel?"

"I'm just saying that Lorraine's delusions may be more extreme than even you believe. It's possible that she's become so convinced that Dipper really is her son that she simply can't fathom the fact that the two of you might be related. I mean, you say that the first person she saw when she awoke would have been Dipper – and as you've established, she only had eyes for him. She might not have even seen you as she left, certainly not clearly enough to imagine that you might be chasing her down." A slow, cold smile began etching itself across Utterson's face. "If so, you might still be of some use to me."

Oh boy. I don't know if I should be glad for the opportunity or worried that he'll probably screw me over.

Out loud, Stan asked, "What's your plan? More importantly, what's actually going on here? What do you want with Lorraine?"

Utterson hesitated.

"Come on, pal. You want my help, you've gotta at least explain what you need it for."

The colonel sighed. "Fair enough. Agent Lorraine Maillard has been a covert operative of the Council of Venice since the 1980s, unknown to any of the other factions. She's seen more years of active service than most of the Bees working today, and she's single-handedly kept my organization from losing ground in an increasingly difficult struggle to maintain influence over the Secret World. But unfortunately… well, you've seen what she's like. Even in the beginning, she was never completely stable, but she could at least be trusted to keep a lid on things long enough to do her job, at first. Over the years, she only got worse – unexplained absences, screamed outbursts, paranoia, psychotic episodes, mistaken identities, and her growing believe in this imaginary son of hers – but we were forced to overlook the problems. You see, we don't have too many Bees working for the Council, and Lorraine knew it; she exploited the circumstances, used her position to access confidential files, even pillage top-secret occult information. Then, a few months ago, she went AWOL, deserted Council service entirely."

"And you haven't been able to find her since then?"

"Only traces. She never stayed in the same place for very long, and on the one occasion she came up for air, the only witnesses were members of the other factions. We're not sure how much they learned, and most of it would have been officially inadmissible anyway, but it was a very embarrassing situation. After that incident in London, she dropped off the radar completely for the next few weeks. We couldn't have her spilling Council secrets to the other secret societies; so, when one of our operatives on Solomon Island happened to see her breaking into Innsmouth Academy… well, I had to take drastic steps: I recalled as many agents as I could and replaced them with my own handpicked operatives, then ordered in a security taskforce to recapture Lorraine."

Stan stared uncomprehendingly at the twenty-strong fleet of trucks, APCs, and motorbikes surrounding them, at the orderly-ranks of soldiers lined up outside the command centre. From here, there looked to be about fifty to sixty troops in total. "All of these people for one woman?"

"One extremely valuable woman; I've already told you she has far too much power and far too many secrets to be allowed to roam free. And I suspect that she may have been up to something very unpleasant out here: supernatural sites all over the island have been going haywire in the last few hours, and so far, she seems to be the only reason why. You mentioned that she was conducting a ritual at the Overlook, yes?"

"That's right. Well, there was a circle drawn on the ground and lots of candles, anyway."

"I can only assume that you and Dipper accidentally interrupted her work… and if she hadn't mistaken Dipper for this fictitious child of hers, she might have started again. I suppose I have that much to be thankful for. But you see why it's so important that we recapture her before she comes to her senses and realizes that your grandnephew isn't really Callum? Quite apart from the fact that she'll just return to enacting her mad rituals at the Overlook, there's no telling what she'll do to the poor kid once he's no longer under her protection. And that's why we need your help, Stan."

Utterson drew himself up, unconsciously straightening his uniform with a loud clink. "We're almost halfway through our sweep of the island, and there's only a handful of places where Lorraine and Dipper could be hiding. I was originally hoping to get my hands on another one of Gaia's Chosen so we could flush her out of her lair and into the trap we've been setting up; after all, a fellow Bee would be the only opponent that could possibly match Lorraine in a fight… but unfortunately, they seem to be making themselves very scarce at the moment – fallout from that incident in Tokyo, probably. Right now, I'm prepared to settle for the one man who might be able to get close enough to her without being suspected of anything. It's a longshot, but it might just be your only chance of ever seeing Dipper again. So…"

He held out a hand. "What'll it be?"

Stan eyed the outstretched hand, doing his best to keep the suspicion from showing on his face. Right now, he knew even less about Colonel Utterson than he knew about Lorraine, but he didn't trust either of them as far he could throw them (or in Lorraine's case, as far as she could throw him). Lorraine was undeniably out of her mind, but Utterson clearly wasn't telling Stan everything… and if the colonel was desperate enough to order in so many troops just to capture his prize and keep all those precious secrets under wraps, then he probably wouldn't have any qualms about ordering Stan to his death if the need arose.

But unfortunately, Stan had no other choice.

Like Utterson had said, this might be his only chance of seeing Dipper again.

So, he reached out and shook the offered hand, trying not to feel as if he'd just signed his own death warrant.

Trying and failing.


A/N: Yes, I know, I'm a horrible person for pivoting to other characters when so much was promised in Dipper's storyline... but I needed to give our beloved two Stans a little bit of attention before we take the plunge into the nightmare.

Anyway, what do you think so far? Any idea what might happen next? Any thoughts on Solomon Island? Theories on interdimensional connections?

Feel free to share!

And if all else fails, check out the code for more information:

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Hsv dzmgh zm vmwrmt. Kviszkh blf gsrmp hsv wvhvievh rg, hdvvgormt?
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