A/N: (deep breath) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

(gasps for air)

Argh.

(deeper breath)

Sorry for the month-long delay, gentle readers, it has been hell on wheels in this neck of the woods: I've barely had time to spare a word on anything that wasn't strictly work-related.

It doesn't help that I'm currently on the last two or three chapters of this story, and at this stage, the writing process is like pulling teeth: it's been this way with every single story I've ever written, and the long, slow, foot-dragging march to the ending doesn't get any easier even after all the years I've been doing this fanfiction gig. I don't know if it's because I find it hard to end the story or because I've been having so much fun writing it that I honestly don't want to - possibly both.

Either way, it's been uphill work, and the only thing that's kept me from going completely insane has been you wonderful people: a massive thank-you to all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters, and followers, and a huge apology for neglecting you for so long.

Like deja without vu, I am nothing without you (to quote Bill Bailey).

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter of this bewildering crossover! Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

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

This chapter's soundtrack is Still More Fighting by Nobuo Uematsu.


Nicholas was still searching for the baggie when the scream echoed through the building. He barely spared it any attention, lost in his anguish as he was; as far as he was concerned, screams were natural and expected in this horrible place. Given enough time, he'd be screaming too, either over everything that he'd just learned or simply because the zombies had finally caught up with him… but first, he needed the little baggie.

He'd finally made it back to the car, and now he was checking every last corner of it for wherever he'd hidden those few special grams. He should have remembered easily enough, of course, but after Christ only knew how many months he'd spent marinading in the hellish atmosphere of the park, it was hard to focus on the little things. However, Nicholas knew for a fact that he'd have left it somewhere extra-secret, somewhere the cops wouldn't check if he was ever pulled over, but he couldn't seem to find it. He'd tried all four of the wheel wells, the trunk, under the mats, under the hood, under the visor mirror, under the steering wheel, under the seats, inside the seats, in the briefcase where he'd been keeping the deeds to the park, even in the box of tissues he'd left on the floor.

Out of ideas, he checked the glove compartment – and there it was, clear as day: a small baggie containing a few precious grams of top quality Columbian marching powder.

I am no damn good at this subterfuge bullshit, Nicholas mused silently.

What had he been thinking when he'd bought this stuff? He'd bought it to give him some much-needed confidence for that first meeting with the buyers, but what kind of impression would he have made? He'd never tried cocaine before. Beforehand, his drugs of choice had been restricted to scotch and vodka, and his only real experience with actual drugs had been a few experimental puffs back in college. He'd have been jittering out of his skin if he'd actually been stupid enough to try it before the meeting… but then again, it didn't matter much anymore, did it? Right now, these grams of powder were the only thing that could save him from having to face the nightmare sober; he was probably going to die soon anyway, but with this, at least he'd feel a little better about the situation. At least he'd be able to fool himself into being happy in whatever time he had left.

Gently pouring out a heap of cocaine across his briefcase, he used a now-useless credit card to shuffle into a line, braced himself for the jolt, lowered his nose to the powder, and inhaled deeply. There was a pause, as he waited for the surge of energy, waited for the euphoria that would wipe away the pain.

But when the surge energy finally arrived, there was none of the expected happy buzz attached. Instead, what he ended up with was the peculiar notion that he was sitting on the rim of a volcanic crater and things below him were starting to heat up… and more he thought about it, the more he felt like he was the volcano, and he was beginning to heat up. And for some reason, he seemed to be making a low humming, growling sound for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

"Hnnnnnrrgh," he growled, his voice slowly building in volume. "Hnnnn. Hnnnnnnnnnn. HNNNNNNNN."

On some dim and distant level, Nicholas was aware that he wasn't depressed anymore.

On the downside, he wasn't happy: if anything, he was furious. Either the stuff he'd just rammed up his nose wasn't actually cocaine, or it had been cut with something quite exotic; one way or the other, his inhibitions were going out the window even quicker than expected, and after all those months alone with the park, he wasn't sure if he had many inhibitions left to begin with.

"HHHHHHN," he roared. "HNNNNNNNNN! HNNNNNNNNNNNN! HNNNNNAAARGH! FUCK! FUCKING FUCK!"

Oh yes indeed, angrier than ever before. And he was angry about…

"HHHHNNNN… DAD… HHHHNNNYOOOUUU HHHHMMMMOTHERFFFFFUCKERRRRRRRRR!"

Whatever had been in the coke, it was obviously doing very odd things to Nicholas Winter's brain, because he found himself watching himself as if through a monitor as he flung himself into the driver's seat, put the car in gear, and accelerated ahead with a loud crunch of splintering wood and another scream of "HHHHHHHNNNNNNNN!"

He was vaguely aware that this probably wouldn't have been even plausible if dear old dad had kept up with building regulations, but the House of Horrors had always been the least sturdy of the buildings in the park, and after thirty years of decay, it was just a pile of rotting timbers and rusty nails held together by the will of… whatever his father had become. So, to his rational mind, it was no surprise that once he'd built up enough steam, it didn't take too much effort to send the car smashing through the interior walls and into the mouldering guts of the House of Horrors.

Of course, if it was this easy to force the car through the interior walls, there was no guarantee that the place would even remain standing while he went smacking through walls; for all he knew, the entire building might come crashing down on top of him before he found his way to wherever he was going. However, this was the kind of thing Nicholas knew only an intellectual level, and right now, his rational mind had retired to watch the fireworks from a safe distance.

Right now, his mind was blank except for "HHHHNNNNNNNN KIIIIIILLLLLL YOOOOOOOOOOU DAAAAAD!"


Auldman Northwest reared backwards in surprise, hands flying to his punctured throat in a panicked flurry, blood spurting from the wound in his throat. It wasn't a mortal wound by any measure, certainly not to a being of his power, but the shock and disbelief it brought with it was enough to send him crashing spine-first into the nearest wall, where he promptly slid to the floor.

Worse still, the wound hurt – actually hurt. In all thirty years he'd spent as a Bogeyman, he'd only known real physical pain once or twice, usually thanks to one of the fucking Bees who'd managed to uncover a few of his secrets and followed him in here. But they'd always been fobbed off with a few decent illusions before they could inflict any serious pain; none of them had ever cut him this deeply, had ever gotten close enough to actually break the skin… and none of them had ever been able to embarrass him like this, no matter how quickly he'd been forced to hide.

None of them had humiliated him like Lorraine had.

He was distantly aware that the brat's sister was hobbling over to the slab and was now gently removing "Callum" from the sacrificial altar; though Dipper's magical transformation was still intact, boy was slowly regaining consciousness even as Mabel helped to carry him away. Normally, this would have been the exact point where Auldman intervened to ensure the sanctity of the ritual, but it was all academic right now because the principal player in this ritual drama was refusing to play her part!

Snarling, Auldman rose from the floor and turned to face his fallen puppet. Right now, Lorraine was clambering to her feet, icepick still in hand, a look of dawning hatred stamped on her pallid face. Undeterred, he reached out to her mind, getting ready to yank on her strings until she bled… only to find, to his horror, that the strings had been cut. The carefully cultivated array of psychic commands and compulsions he'd sewn into Lorraine's mind were gone, and though he could replace them, that took time – hours at best and days at worst; right now, his best means of controlling the intruders in his realm were the emotional siphons…

…and emotional siphons didn't work on Bees.

Auldman had just enough time to take a nervous backwards step right before Lorraine put her head down and flung herself at him, her body suddenly shrouded in golden light as she cleared the space between the two of them. As a Bogeyman, Auldman was tall and far stronger than his spindly frame suggested, but he hadn't been anticipating the full force of an Anima-fuelled charge: it was like being hit by a train, the impact sweeping him off his feet and emptying his lungs. Dazed and winded, he was left helpless as Lorraine grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him along for the ride.

He tried to retaliate, to ensnare her with illusions, to crush her with all the stored energy at his command, but he couldn't concentrate. He was in too much pain to focus his powers, the Anima of Lorraine's charge scalding his flesh and quickly bringing his very blood to a boil until his veins stood out on his hide like mountain roads. In all his years as the Bogeyman of Atlantic Island Park, nobody, not even Lorraine's fellow Bees, had ever inflicted enough pain to make him lose control. In fact, he was in so much pain that he didn't realize that the galloping charge was leading them straight for the sacrificial altar until Lorraine slammed him right through it, shattering the entire stab into concrete shrapnel and sending a fresh wave of pain rippling up Auldman's spine.

In desperation, he tried to power through the sensory barrage as best as he could, fighting with all his willpower to channel his energy despite the riot now raging across his nervous system. At last, a tiny atom of strength flickered into his grasp, and Auldman lashed out with all the power he could muster, sending a bolt of searing black lightning up Lorraine's outstretched arms. He was immediately rewarded with a yowl of pain and a distinct whiff of charring flesh, but Lorraine refused to let go; next thing Auldman knew, he was being rammed squarely into the wall behind him with another bone-splintering jolt to his spine. He tried to continue attacking, tried to fry Lorraine's flesh and crisp her bones brittle, but Lorraine beat him to it: one gesture sent a curtain of white-hot flame racing across his body, searing his skin to simmering meat and ruining what was left of an otherwise perfectly suit. As if to add insult to injury, the blast wave also knocked his hat off.

Screaming – actually screaming aloud – in mingled pain and humiliation, he brought his staff down on Lorraine's right arm with all his might. The reinforced head of the cane hit her like a sledgehammer, striking her on the elbow hard enough to send a muffled crack echoing across the basement; on instinct, Lorraine yanked her arm away, and Auldman let out a triumphant roar as he saw the whole arm limply flopping backwards, useless and shattered at the elbow.

Pausing only to extinguish himself and retrieve his hat, Auldman lunged at her, swinging his cane around in a deadly arc and catching her hard across the cheekbone with another welcome crunch of splinting bone. Lorraine dropped to one knee, barely managing to keep herself from toppling over, and Auldman moved in for the kill: once she was dead, he could contain her for as long as he needed to reset the ritual, long enough to bind her brain again with any luck. With a cackling shriek, he brought the cane swishing down towards her, ready to crack her skull open like rotten egg-

And then a deafening report split the air, accompanied by a fresh needle-sharp jab of pain to his undefended back. He'd just been shot, he realized – not with magic or with an Anima-infused round, but with an ordinary bullet from an ordinary handgun; again, the real pain was in the insult.

He turned, scarcely able to believe that anyone could have dare to take a shot at him, and realized that in all the excitement, he'd lost his grip on the restraining magic around the room: the chains that had been keeping the two great-uncles subdued had evaporated, and now they were already taking aim with their own collection of weaponry.

Of the Council agent, there was no sign; presumably the little rat had already taken to his heels and was now running for his life across the park. Annoyingly enough, the same went for Dipper and Mabel.

Seeing the two men taking aim, Auldman gathered all the power he could muster without causing property damage and brought his cane slamming down point-first, sending a shockwave of energy sweeping out in all directions: Stan and Ford were immediately toppled like ninepins, while Lorraine crashed chin-first to the concrete. For the next few seconds, the three of them were left sprawled helplessly on the floor, struggling to get their breath back, and in the silence, Auldman took the opportunity to pounce: another set of glowing shackles erupted from the air, fastening around the trio's arms and throats, dragging them to the ground.

Auldman took a deep breath. "Alright then," he said wearily, "perhaps I should make things abundantly clear for everyone in this room: you can't win. You don't have a hope in hell of defeating me in my own domain, much less killing me. Even if you could deal serious injuries, I've got more than enough leftovers from my past meals stored up to keep me going until you either run out of ammo or lose the will to live… so I suggest that you acknowledge the inevitable and accept that my new kingdom will be born with or without your consent. We can begin the ritual again soon enough, once we've found out where Callum's been taken-"

"He's not Callum," said Lorraine; her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the iron in her tone.

Well, if there was any doubt about her perceptions of reality, they're definitely out of my control now. Dammit.

"Interesting delusion, Lorraine," Auldman hissed back. "But I won't be thinking that once I've had time to correct whatever that little shit did to your grey matter. Now, as I said, you can't kill me and you can't stop me-"

"Because of the power you stole from the Dreamers," gasped Ford as he struggled with the chain around his neck. "Because of your machines. But what happens when the machinery breaks down, I wonder? What happens to your ritual if you lose the only way you can harvest more power from the Dreamers?"

Stan chuckled in between gasps for air. "And what happens to you if you run out of leftovers? Do you starve to death or just die of your injuries?"

"And what makes you think that there's any danger of that happening?" Auldman sneered. "The three of you are captive here and now, so who does that leave? An unconscious five-year-old, an adolescent with no Anima left to resist the siphoning, and a clapped-out old Council agent with no interest in damaging my machines. I'd say that the odds favour me."

"The odds favoured Bill Cipher as well," said Ford archly. "He had all the power in the world on his side, he had Stanley and I in chains, he'd left our friends helpless, and he'd pretty much won the day. Care to guess what Mabel did next?"

Auldman hesitated. For a moment, he thought he heard the roar of an engine somewhere in the distance, but with his nerves still reeling in pain, it was hard to magically focus his senses on what was happening outside this room… but perhaps it had just been his imagination. After all, he had all the recognized threats here with him. More to the point, who the hell would be stupid enough to be driving a car indoors?

Thanks to the minds of his annoying captives, he knew exactly what Mabel had done next, and while it would have been easy to dismiss her as irrelevant in the face of emotional siphoning, he couldn't deny that she possessed unusual willpower. He couldn't afford to let Mabel run loose around the House of Horrors, even if it would be impossible for one unarmed twelve-year-old to do much good against hidden machines she wouldn't even be able to find, much less destroy… but at the same time, he couldn't afford to take his eyes off this little trio of nuisances. Calling upon his army might be a bit inefficient in dealing with one lone child… but he needed to focus on suppressing Lorraine.

He raised his staff, ready to throttle his newest captives into unconsciousness…

…and then he heard the roar of the engine again, this time directly above his head – accompanied by an uneasy creaking sound.

Auldman Northwest had just enough time to realize the danger – right before the basement ceiling gave way with a nerve-jangling crash, unleashing hail of rotten timbers, shredded cables, bits of old scaffolding, and meteoric lumps of crumbling concrete. Shocked but refusing to be deterred, he raised his cane high into the sky, ready to repel the avalanche with one almighty flex of magic-

-and was promptly hit by a car.


Of all the things that Stan Pines had expected to fall from the ceiling, a Cadillac was the last on the list.

Nonetheless, down it plunged, hammering into the Bogeyman like the proverbial ACME anvil, crumpling the hood into a tired accordion shape, shattering the windshield, puncturing both front tyres, and pinning Auldman to the ground under a ton of grumbling metal – leaving him screaming in pain and alarm, but somehow still alive.

There was an awkward pause, as the chains restraining Stan, Ford, and Lorraine evaporated.

Then, with an almighty howl of "HNNNNNNNNNNHHH!" a bedraggled-looking figure with a heavy nosebleed jumped from the driver's seat, drew a battered walking cane from the wreckage of the car, and began repeatedly smacking Auldman about the head with it.

"HNNNNNH!" the figure screamed. "HNNNNNNN YOU BASTARD! YOU SON OF A FUCKING TRAMP!"

"Nicholas?! What the hell are you-"

"HNNNNNN SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP YOU LYING OLD FUCK I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU HNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"

"Reminds me of the last time I went to a golf course," Ford muttered.

"Tell me about it later, Ford, we've got to get out of here; we need to make sure that Dipper and Mabel can make it to safety."

"We'll need to complete the sabotage on the way – it's the only way we can guarantee that Northwest won't be able to try again!"

"Fair enough – Lorraine, can you hold this guy off while we-"

But Lorraine had already seized the initiative and was now blasting the fallen Northwest with all the lightning she could harness, pausing only to allow Nicholas Winter enough time to repeatedly wallop the Bogeyman in the face with his increasingly-splintered cane before assaulting Auldman with enough electricity to light up Kingsmouth for a month.

A few moments later, the Bogeyman flung the wrecked Cadillac aside with a yowl of exertion and staggered to his feet, ready to resume the fight – but Stan could tell that he wasn't as spry as he'd been a minute ago: quite apart from the chunks of twisted metal embedded in his chest and the bumper wrapped around his waist like a novelty belt, he wasn't moving as fluidly as he had a few minutes ago; his movements were clumsy and slow, and when he reached out to counter Lorraine with his own magic, his reactions weren't quite as well-timed as they had been. Maybe he was getting weaker, or maybe he was just in a lot of pain; either way, it wouldn't be too long before the Bogeyman would need a snack to refuel and regenerated – in other words, it was their cue to leave.

In the confusion, none of them noticed Stan and Ford running for the exit.

For the next few seconds, the two of them were silent as they hurried through the corridors, trying to put as much distance between them and the Bogeyman as they hastily searched the building for any sign of where Dipper and Mabel had fled to. Eventually, the sounds of the battle faded away, and they were able to slow down enough to get their bearings.

"Where's the nearest of Auldman's machines?" Stan panted.

"Just a few yards away; it's one of the main siphons, and it connects directly to the main Anima capacitator. I think it's currently idle, though, so we should be safe."

"What gives you that idea?"

"I don't feel the siphoning effect anymore; I think Auldman must be too distracted with Lorraine to have it switched on. Of course, that still leaves us dealing with-"

There was a muffled click from somewhere behind them. "Alright," hissed a voice from the shadows. "One more step and I'll kill you both. Turn around slowly and keep your hands behind your heads."

Stan and Ford obediently turned around to face their newest captor, but Stan could already tell who it was; there was no mistaking that cold, bitter voice.

Colonel Utterson had recovered from his capture and restraining with impressive speed, but he was still looking worse for wear: he was missing his beret, his uniform had been torn open at the left shoulder, he was short a couple of medals, and he was sporting a spectacular bruise on his left cheek. But no matter how battered he was, he clearly wasn't in the mood to give up now, especially not with a handgun pointed squarely at Stan's head.

Ford hung his head in despair. "Oh god," he sighed, "not this again."

"We were interrupted before we could finish our work last time, and now that you twits have alerted Winter to my plans, I can't afford to be quiet or careful anymore. We're going to be seizing the Anima-harvesting equipment for ourselves, but for that, I'm going to need Winter's cooperation… and for that, I need your idiot nephew. You're going to help me recapture him."

"The hell we are," said Stan automatically.

"I'm not playing games, Pines."

"Neither are we," Ford shot back. "You nearly helped kickstart the apocalypse a few minutes ago. These machines-"

"-are the only thing that might be able to restore the Council of Venice to its rightful place in this world!" snarled Utterson, his voice rising to a scream. "Do either of you have any idea how much we've done for you people over the centuries? Do you know how long we've been holding back the tide without a hint of a reward for our labours? There wouldn't be a Secret World if it wasn't for us – there wouldn't be a world at all! Humanity as you know it only exists because we were holding it together, uniting the secret societies against eldritch threats, maintaining the rule of law, and keeping the secret wars from spilling over onto the public! We were the ones saving lives and keeping the peace, and the other secret societies repaid us with nothing but disrespect; they made us into jokes, siphoned off our political power, reduced us to impotent referees in their endless power struggles. I set out to change that thirty years ago, and all I got for my hard work was some self-pitying bitch who thought her personal problems were more important than preserving the Council's authority! I finally have a chance to set things right and put us back where we belong… and this time, I'm not wasting another minute on people too low and too petty to recognize the value of my work." He took a deep breath. "Now move it. We have a child to catch."

"Utterson, even if you weren't threatening our family, what makes you think either of us would help you do something so stupid when you don't even know how to operate the-"

Without another word, Utterson swung the Desert Eagle around and shot Ford in the head.

As if in slow motion, Stan saw his brother's head recoil from the impact, saw the spray of blood arc across the corridor, saw Ford tumbling forward, a look of surprise stamped on his blood-streaked face as he fell to the ground.

In that moment, Stan's mind was all but blank except for that one horrible sight replayed endlessly, and the same shocked, disbelieving train of thought – repeated like a mantra: no, this isn't supposed to happen; he can't be dead, not after everything we did to save him; I'm supposed to be one who dies first, not him! No, this isn't supposed to happen…

There was a deathly silence, as the echoes slowly died away.

"Now," hissed Utterson, "with that nuisance out of the way, you and I have a brat to catch." He tapped his earpiece. "Airport control, I'm going to need that attack helicopter right now; we need maximum firepower at Atlantic Island Park."

Stan could only stare at Ford's body, at the ragged gash that had been torn in his left temple, at the blood that was slowly dyeing his hair crimson. It didn't seem real to his horrified eyes; he half-expected Ford to be back on his feet in the next few seconds, ready to dive into the fray and be a hero again. And when that didn't happen, Stan could only pray that this was a nightmare, that he'd wake up back in the field hospital to find Ford alive and well next to him, ready to save Dipper from the park.

But no: Stan was wide awake, and the world was stubbornly as real as ever.

"I don't care who's landed on the island!" Utterson was yelling. "You are the only thing that might guarantee the Council a victory today: get the goddamn helicopter ready! I want it here in the next ten minutes, ready to rain down hell on whoever tries to stop us." He tapped his earpiece again, and advanced on Stan, coldly stepping over Ford's body as he did so. "Now, Pines, it's time you and I found that bargaining chip-"

In all honesty, Stan didn't know what had shocked him out of his reverie. Maybe it was the utter callousness shown to Ford, maybe it was the fact that Utterson had called Dipper a bargaining chip. Whatever the hateful bastard had done, it was enough to work an impressive alchemy on Stan's emotions.

One minute he was standing there, staring uncomprehendingly down at Ford's body, feeling hollowed-out and dead inside; the next, he'd catapulted himself at Utterson in a howling fury. Too enraged to even notice the Desert Eagle, he slammed into the Council agent at high speed, smacking the gun out of his hands and hammering at his undefended face with his bare fists – too angry even to reach for his brass knuckles.

Caught completely off-guard, Utterson could only lurch clumsily away from the assault. He tried to reach for the fallen handgun, but Stan kicked it away and flung him aside, sending him crashing through a pile of decomposing furniture. Spitting dust, Utterson tried to reason with him, to get him to understand that you couldn't let emotion get in the way of something this important – but Stan was practically deaf to anything except the sound of blood rushing past his ears.

In the end, all Utterson could do was turn tail and run, retreating deeper into the House of Horrors – and Stan gave chase, bellowing incomprehensible expletives at the top of his lungs.


"Grunkle Ford!"

Mabel had been hiding in the rafters with a semi-conscious Dipper when they'd heard the gunshot, and as soon as they'd seen the body lying on the rotting floorboards below, they'd hastily lowered themselves down on the grappling hook to investigate.

For one awful moment, Mabel was certain that Ford was dead, that this day was going to end in tragedy after all.

Then, Ford groaned and very gently rolled over.

"Grunkle Ford!" Mabel gasped. "You're alive!"

"Owwwwwwwww. Am I? I suppose I am: dead people probably wouldn't be in this much pain."

"But how is this even possible? You got shot in the head, didn't you?"

At this, Dipper laughed drowsily. "It's the metal plate again," he said. "It keeps everything out."

By way of an explanation, Ford sat up, plucked a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and mopped away a large patch of coagulating blood to reveal the gleaming metal behind the wound in his skull. Even in the dim light, it was impossible to miss the flattened slug jutting from the cranial plate like a squashed bug.

"Remind me to buy Jheselbraum dinner and some really nice wine when I see her next," he said wearily, flicking the squished bullet aside. "If this had been a normal surgical cranial plate, I'd probably be dead right now. Extradimensional alloys are incredible things…"

"Aren't you still bleeding, though?"

"That I am." He groaned, retrieved a roll of bandages from his coat, and began hastily patching up the wound. "Also, I'm pretty sure I'm concussed, so make sure I don't fall asleep, okay? In the meantime, we've got work to do: if we're going to stop Auldman Northwest for good, we need to destroy his machines."

"What about Grunkle Stan?" asked Mabel.

"Well, he's up against an unarmed opponent with nowhere near the level of hand-to-hand combat experience; I think it's safe to have some confidence in Stanley's talents as a bareknuckle boxer. Besides, he's keeping Utterson from trying to stop us – the last thing I'd want to do right now would be to distract him."

"What about Lorraine?" asked Dipper.

"I'd say she's got the situation in hand: as long as she keeps the pressure on Auldman – and that guy with the nosebleed keeps helping her – she should be okay."

There was a low, guttural moan from somewhere nearby, and all eyes turned in the direction of the nearby staircase. There at the landing, the distinctive shambling figures of a zombie horde could be seen lurching towards them, with the human and wendigo carcasses in the lead and the animated Ak'ab husks bringing up the rear.

"On the other hand, we could be in a lot of trouble if we don't get moving, so let's not hang around any longer, shall we? Hup-one-two-three…"


At first, the Bogeyman had the upper hand.

Once he'd recovered from the initial surprise of Lorraine rebelling – and then from the second surprise of being hit by a car driven by his estranged son – he'd drawn them out of the basement and up onto the first floor, where the House of Horrors stretched to accommodate him as he half-fled and half-fought his way through the corridors.

There, he threw everything he had at the two of them.

He blasted them with freezing blizzards that left them rooted to the spot, summoned up oozing shadows to gnaw at their flesh, he sliced at them with blades of pure darkness drawn from the very fabric of his realm… and if all else failed, he resorted to pure brute force, telekinetically ripping up floorboards and windowpanes and furniture and even beams from the roof and hurling them at the two defenders. More than once, Nicholas hit the deck with a length of wallpaper wrapped around his legs and heavy floorboard pinning his arms to the ground. More than once, Lorraine dropped to one knee, sliced across the leg right down to the bone by a razor-sharp length of shadow, frantically buffing herself with healing magic before the next missile could arrive.

Finally, the Bogeyman spread his arms wide and hit Lorraine with everything at once, hammering her with the combined force of his magics – a blizzard of corrupted energies that practically sliced the knees out from under her and sheared off most of her right arm – before reaching out with his mind and bringing down an entire chunk of the ceiling on top of her, snapping her spine just below the shoulders under the weight of a massive beam. Pinned down, she was left helpless as Northwest waved a hand and immolated her from the inside out.

For one terrible moment, Lorraine thought she'd find herself outside the park – probably at the Anima well just across from the parking lot – that the portal to the Bogeyman's lair would have shut fast by now, leaving her cut off from the others and unable to help.

Instead, when she opened her eyes, she found that she'd been reconstituted right outside the House of Horrors: there was a trickle of Anima pouring through his realm after all, something that Northwest hadn't been able to feed on… and that meant that the Bogeyman didn't have complete control of his kingdom any longer. There were holes in his pocket dimension, and life was beginning to seep through…

Feeling that terrifying sting of hope once again, Lorraine flung herself into the House of Horrors, dodging falling timbers and flying furniture as she charged across the building. By now the building was barely in a position to support its own internal walls, for the battle was beginning to slowly tear it apart from the inside: zombies were now punching their way through plaster and drywall in pursuit of the intruders, while the distant fight between Nicholas Winter and his father rapidly beginning to eat away at the ceilings. Lorraine barely spared that any attention, instead sprinting onwards towards the distant hubbub of the Bogeyman's current duel.

She barrelled through the ranks of the undead blocking her way, scattering their desiccated bodies like ninepins.

She rocketed across the ruins of a corridor, narrowly missing Ford, Mabel, and Dipper – all three of them hurrying to the nearest of Northwest's machines with makeshift weapons at the ready.

She stopped in brief surprise as Colonel Utterson burst from a door to her left, screaming at the top of his lungs as he frantically hared it down the decomposing hallway; a split-second later, Stan galloped out after him, bellowing like an enraged bull as he zeroed in on the fleeing Utterson.

Finally, with one almighty flex of magic, she shot up a flight of stairs, blasting through the landing above her, to land amidst the wreckage of the House of Horrors' attic.

By that point, Nicholas Winter was losing the battle very badly: after all, he was an ordinary human pitted against a Bogeyman and armed only with the splintered remains of his walking stick, and by now, he was quite badly bruised from his father's retaliation. The only thing keeping him going was the powder that was a) still caked around his nostrils and b) probably not cocaine, judging by the howler monkey-like screeches issuing from his rotten-toothed maw.

But even with the odds ridiculously stacked against him, he still fought on, leaping and limping around Auldman in a frenzy, battering him from all angles; even if it didn't actually hurt the Northwest patriarch, it was certainly doing its job in keeping the old bastard distracted.

And as the Bogeyman finally pinned Nicholas beneath the decomposing remains of an old couch, Lorraine summoned up her blade and pounced.

Auldman Northwest was so surprised he barely had enough time to bring up his cane to defend himself before Lorraine brought the sword crashing down on him. He barely managed to parry the first swing, narrowly warding off the next four or five strikes through sheer adrenaline, and in the confusion, he actually blurted out, "How the hell did you get back here?!" only to be cut short by a blast of fire to the face; snarling, he readied another blast of magic, but Lorraine beat him to the punch this time, diving under his onslaught and hacking at his undefended legs. Beforehand, she'd been exhausted from a marathon fight and recovering from the revelation she'd experienced down in the basement; this time, she was still fresh from being resurrected and ready to go on fighting – and for all his strength, Auldman needed to feed to replenish himself.

The tide of the battle very slowly began to turn.

As soon as he was able to get some distance between the two of them, Auldman summoned up all the power he could muster and squished Lorraine like a bug under a steamroller – no doubt hoping he could buy enough time to find and recapture Dipper so he could stack the deck in his favour… but once again, Lorraine beat him to the punch: this time she didn't even bother opening the House of Horrors' front door – she just launched herself through a second-story window with one explosive leap, landing less than ten feet from where Auldman was searching.

This time, he had even less time to recover and re-manoeuvre; she immediately began blasting him with a searing cascade of lightning bolts, sending Auldman tottering helplessly backwards as the voltage washed over him in a wave of eye-scorching blue light, filling the air with the stench of ozone and roasting meat. In desperation, he darted forward and cracked her across the skull with his staff hard enough to splinter bone; Lorraine didn't see what happened next, thanks to the head wound, but she could feel Auldman hitting her across the head again and again – no doubt looking a lot like Mickey Mouse frantically trying to put down the animated broomstick in Fantasia, and the comparison actually made her gasp out a laugh even as Auldman bludgeoned her to death.

Coming back for a fourth round, Lorraine punched through the floor and tackled Auldman from beneath, slashing him up the middle, gashing his throat open, and lacerating his shoulders. For ten exhilarating seconds, she hacked away at him, easily dodging his increasingly desperate attacks – until at last he managed to recover and pin her under a worm-eaten table while he crushed her head under a support column.

In round five, Lorraine found Auldman anxiously scanning the windows for any sign of her, totally unaware that she'd punched right through the wall on the other side of the building. He was scared, she realized: up until now, he'd been confident that nothing could stop him on his home turf, that his control over Lorraine would never fade, and if all else failed, that he still had a hidey hole to retreat to. But now, it had all gone horribly wrong: he was in the hidey-hole he'd hid from every other Bee-imbued agent who'd tried to kill him; there was nowhere else to retreat to… and now he was facing his worst nightmare: one of Gaia's Chosen, unbound within his realm, beyond his control, and for once, unable to keep at bay. Judging from the dawning look of terror on his goitred face, he'd never imagined what might happen if Lorraine had ever slipped her leash, and the uncertainty was eating away at his nerves… and the more fearful he became, the clumsier he got, pain, shock, anger, and terror all undermining his ability to focus his powers.

If he hadn't turned around at precisely the wrong moment, Lorraine would have had him: she'd had a clear shot at his throat and enough of a run-up to decapitate him with a single swing of her blade. But at the last second, he spun around, raised his staff and-

Suddenly, Lorraine was no longer standing in the House of Horrors, surrounded by withered furnishings and collapsing beams; suddenly, she was standing by the window of a house she hadn't seen in decades, basking in the sunlight as she took in what had once been her home. The last time she'd seen this place had been on the night of Callum's death, when Auldman had left her trapped in a loop of all her failures as a parent made manifest in the worsening state of her house, a labyrinth of dank corridors connecting lifeless, joyless rooms strewn with empty bottles, half-eaten meals, mountains of bills, endless letters of rejection, and Lorraine's own desperate, maddened scribblings. That night, it had been a vision of hell, just as it had been ever since Don had vanished from her life – no, just as it had been ever since her father had turned to drink.

But here, the house was brightly lit and furnished with all the warmth and comfort that Lorraine had never been able to afford, a vision of what her life could have been if only Don hadn't died, if only that terrible emptiness hadn't taken over her life, if only she'd been a better mother. And as she stared across the living room, she saw Callum looking up at her in adoration, saw Don smiling at her as if to say, "I told you, every day will be better than the last," and knew that she was looking at a vision of heaven. And in that moment, with the blood slowly draining from her face, Lorraine came to one very specific conclusion:

"Not going to work a second time, Nathaniel," she said softly.

And with that, she lashed out with her magic, shredding the illusion to nothingness – and sending Auldman Northwest toppling over in surprise. And with a howl of sudden rage, Lorraine pounced on him.

It had been quite a while since she had been this angry.

For thirty long years, she'd kept her rage bottled up until she was in the field and able to take it out on her official targets, knowing that Utterson would have her sent up the river if she so much as answered back to him. But always, there'd been that tiny core of bitterness and anger slowly building in the back of her head, unable to find an outlet anywhere except in herself – not that she'd lacked for self-loathing beforehand. And so, she'd gone on hating herself, quietly channelling all her anger into her quest to finally die, exorcizing a little of that rage every time she pulled the trigger, kicked the chair away, jumped from the bridge, or slashed vertically. For a moment or so, she'd found release in that vast outpouring of hatred against Utterson and his cronies, but that had faded away in seconds, leaving her feeling even worse than ever before – after all, the only reason why she'd had the chance to pummel Utterson senseless was because she'd been stupid enough to walk right into a trap and had nearly lost Callum all over again for good measure.

Now, after the dream and everything she'd seen there, it seemed as if all her anger and misery and pain had finally found their rightful place – in being inflicted on Nathaniel Winter, or Auldman Northwest, or whatever the hell his name was. Now that the strings were cut and she could finally fight back, her rage wasn't as immediate, wasn't as uncontrollable, wasn't as poisonous to the soul; instead, it gave her drive and clarity of vision, burning just slowly enough to spur her own. It wasn't a flashfire that would consume whatever was in front of it and burn itself out in seconds, but a flow of molten metal – slow to move but no less deadly as it grew hotter and hotter.

Fuelled by that slow, calculating rage, she was moving quicker than ever – and with Auldman beginning to slow as his stamina ran dry, she seemed even faster; in any case, she moved too swiftly for Auldman to retaliate, offering him no opportunities to defend himself, deliberately stoking his fear to the point of incineration as she carved him up finer and finer. One moment, she'd be electrocuting him with a barrage of lightning from her outstretched hands, the next she'd be right in front of him, slicing his hide to ribbons with the blade; when he lashed out at her, she was already gone, leaping over his head to batter at his undefended spine with gouts of flame – and as he turned to retaliate, a newly-conjured cudgel hammered into his face hard enough to splinter bone, pulp flesh, and send teeth flying in all directions.

For thirty seconds, Lorraine matched him move for move, slowly whittling away at the Bogeyman's defences, shedding more and more blood, forcing him to expend more energy, driving him a little further back.

Finally, with his piggy little eyes boggling in disbelief and his ghastly grin contorted into a horror-stricken gape, Auldman's composure finally cracked.

Ducking the final thunderbolt, he turned tail and ran for his life.


He wasn't beaten yet.

Now that he was away from the pain and the fear, he was recovering his sense of awareness: reaching out with his mind, he could sense the interlopers closing in on the power conduits of his machines, sense the helicopter zooming towards the park, even sense that Stanley Pines was between him and his larder. He could afford to risk any more contact with them, not when he was still reeling from Lorraine's assault and barely able to focus.

What he needed was more energy from the prisoner below. He'd never be able to get enough fuel to unlock the might of the Dreamers from a single non-ritualized source, but if he could just find the right kind of emotion to feed to the siphons, he might be able to get enough power to win this battle and suppress Lorraine – long enough to recapture Dipper, reinstitute the brainwashing, and start the ritual anew.

But who could he get it from? Nobody had the fear and despair he needed to fuel the harvesting machine: Lorraine, Stanley, and Nicholas were too angry to siphon; Dipper, Mabel, and Ford were becoming progressively harder to influence as they got closer to their goals, and Utterson was still clinging doggedly to his hope for winning the day even as Stan beat the living piss out of him – a symptom of insanity if ever there was one.

Then he felt another consciousness stirring in the cellar – the one called "Grey" – and it was absolutely brimming with despair: not a single, solitary hope for the future could be found there. Such a depth of failure and defeat in a single mind! And there were memories streaming in, information that Auldman could barely make sense of, but all of them focussing on moments of inadequacy and failure.

Forcing the crumbling matter of the House of Horrors to shift, Auldman flung himself back down towards the basement, zeroing in on the unconscious body of Grey – directing all the power of his siphons towards the strange gestalt creature lying just a few feet from his altar.

"Grey," he chortled. "Little Grey. Not a boy, nor a girl. Neither one person nor two. A freak to top all freaks in this benighted 21st century. I don't know where you came from, but you've just become my path to victory…"


Not too far away, the Pyramidion surveyed the scene.

Already he could sense the rising power levels across Atlantic Island Park, and he could tell that something momentous was about to happen… but he could also tell that the dimensional bubble in which the Bogeyman's kingdom was held was beginning to degrade: Auldman Northwest was losing control of his kingdom, and if it meant what he thought it meant, then the once-private domain might not be so private any longer.

He had been keeping tabs on the Tokyo situation ever since his drone had been destroyed. His operatives in Kaidan District were reporting success: Lilith was gone, the

and the Orochi Group's looted property was ripe for the taking, though the CEO was still making himself a lamentable nuisance for any agents caught on CCTV. That could be dealt with later. For now, one overriding point remained: all those Bee-imbued agents who'd attacked Orochi Tower – be they Illuminati, Dragon, or even Templar – were now free to focus on more mercenary pursuits until they were needed again.

Reaching out into the telecommunications networks, the Pyramidion sent a carefully-written official statement to the mobile device of every single one of Gaia's Children within reach.

EXTRA, EXTRA: RAID BOSS RISING ON SOLOMON ISLAND, LOTS OF XP AND SHINY LOOT YOURS FOR THE ASKING, OR YOU'RE ALL FUR COAT AND NO KNICKERS, BITCHES.


A/N: Up next...

Guess.