A/N: Well, I picked a bad time to come down with a cold, ladies and gentlemen. I originally meant to post this about five days ago, but I've been too busy staring at the wall going "uuuuuuurgh" to even think coherently. For now, I can only apologise for the delay, and hope you enjoy the latest chapter.
HouglassCipher: Yeah, I had a lot of fun writing that one. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Kraven the Hunter: You're on a roll with the pomposity-puncturing nicknames; do I have your permission to use them? I can just imagine the reactions of the recipients! Also, love the theory - but of course, only time can tell. One thing I can say is that the situation here is a lot less dire than anticipated...
Northgalus2002: Well, there's another character who was slated to change...
Carcer14: Well, Robbie's been on the streets for quite a while, and after so much time spent running and hiding and being beaten up, he's accumulated quite a store of rage that he's never been able to act on. Now that he actually has eyes to see with and realizes the potential his powers grant him, he's definitely not going to be the same person anymore.
OMAC001: I know, I hope you enjoy this one!
Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls still isn't mine, and neither are the crossover elements. The only things that are truly mine are the typos; feel free to report them.
Also, this chapter contains some coarse language from a certain crossover character... and those of you who like prophecies might want to keep an eye out for an uncoded example around the middle...
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It was the cold that finally roused Stan from his sleep. A sharp gust of icy wind that chilled him all the way to the marrow, it was enough to shock him into full consciousness.
Eyes creaking open, he sat up, arms flailing aimlessly about for a blanket of some kind. Immediately, several realizations occurred to him at once: firstly, there were no blankets to be found. Secondly, he wasn't lying in a bed as he'd previously thought, but on a hard stone floor with only a rolled-up old coat for a pillow.
Thirdly, he was currently sitting in the middle of a vast shadowy chamber lit only by a handful of guttering torches hung from the walls, most of them far away and barely producing enough light to see by.
Ah well, he thought, I've woken up in worse places than this. Compared to jail time in Colombia, this is actually pretty cushy. Question is, how did I get here?
Stan reviewed his memories of everything that had happened prior to losing consciousness. So far, most of them had felt like they'd been taken straight from a dream: the museum, Self-Loathing, the dream of meeting Ford, and the moment where Self-Loathing had pummelled him unconscious. Next thing he knew, he'd woken up here, freezing cold and with no idea what had brought him here.
Was this another part of the Museum? Was this another one of Bill Cipher's games? Or had it all been a dream that he'd only just awoke from?
And assuming that the museum had been real, then why wasn't he injured? Stan clearly remembered breaking several bones during the beatdown from Self-Loathing, and yet he was completely unharmed. Even his clothes were practically untouched; not a drop of blood on them or on the pillow he'd been lying on-
Stan's heart skipped a beat.
The "pillow" he'd been asleep on was a coat, battered, bloodstained and rolled into a makeshift cushion, but still all-too recognizable once he'd unfurled it.
Ford's coat.
It took barely half a second for the implications to trickle home.
Ford had rescued him, had healed him somehow, and brought him here – wherever here was. So, putting aside the questions of how he'd managed to do any of that, where was Ford now? If he could escape whatever prison Bill had left him in and get as far as the Museum, then maybe they could find the others and kick off a jailbreak. Granted, he didn't know what they'd do after that, but it was a start.
"Ford?" he called out. "Where are you?"
No response.
Clambering to his feet, Stan looked around the darkened room, but nothing could be seen other than shadows and polished marble. Fortunately, a flashlight had been helpfully tucked into one of the coat pockets; so, tucking the coat under one arm, he flicked on the light and strode off into the gloom, hoping that wherever Ford had wandered off to, he wasn't far away.
For perhaps a minute, he tiptoed through the dark, softly calling Ford's name as he crept onwards and meeting little more than the echo of his own voice. However, as he crept onwards, he found signs that Ford had indeed been here – and for quite some time: along with the recently-used fireplace and the pile of fresh firewood stacked next to it, the floor was scrawled with calculations, designs, and whole journal entries made entirely of charcoal. And some of the larger spaces of the room were cluttered with bizarre wooden shapes, some models, some machines: there was even what appeared to be an experimental hang-glider sitting on the floor.
Yep, it's Ford, Stan thought, unable to keep the semi-bemused smile off his face. Even when he's locked up, the guy can't stop inventing stuff. Question is, w-
A loud, grinding hiss from perhaps twenty feet ahead of him sliced neatly through Stan's reverie. Someone in the darkness ahead was writing, carving something into the floor with what could only be charcoal – but without any light to guide them by; unless Ford had somehow built a pair of night-vision goggles entirely out of wood, someone else was at work here.
Not that it'd be impossible for Ford, but still…
"Hello?" he whispered.
The grinding paused for a moment, and then continued. This time, however, a voice could be heard; even with the grinding noise heard over it, even with Stan's heartbeat pounding out a Buddy Rich drum solo, there was no mistaking Ford's voice.
"The Judge was the first," he said.
"What?"
"The Righteous Judge of Souls was the first to trespass on the dominion of the Beast With Just One Eye; thus he hid his might beneath human flesh and sought to chain the Beast.
Next was the Trickster, the Haunter of the Dark, he who gambles for the fate of his masterpiece; it was he who made an alliance with the Judge, and it is he who gathers the champions under his banner.
Third was the Zero Point Pathogen, the Black Signal, he who is the emissary of the Lucid Dreamers; by his power, the Ghost In The Machine was devoured, and by his voice, the message of the Sun Eaters shall be heard by all.
Fourth was the Dragon, the Ouroboros, he who devoured his world and transcended the Curse; harken, for he is the Herald's footpad, the hunter of the Shapeless One. Fifth was… is… was… is… was…"
There was another pause. "Has this happened yet?" Ford asked. "Is it yet to come? Is it happening right now? I… I can't tell. The signs aren't clear."
For thirty long seconds, Stan could only stare blankly into the gloom, trying to work out what madness he'd blundered into this time. In the end, all he could say was a blank mumble of "…Ford?"
Ahead of him, the grinding sound of charcoal on marble stopped, and Stan had the sudden impression that Ford was peering over his shoulder; could he see something glowing out there in the darkness, or was it just his imagination?
"Oh," said Ford, his voice distant and eerily monotonous. "Hello, Stanley. It's good to see you up and about. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever wake up ever again. Please, come closer."
"Are… are you alright, Ford?"
"Never better."
"You could have fooled me."
"I don't want to be alone anymore," said Ford absently.
"What?"
"I've been alone with the Sight for too long, Stanley. I think it's trying to force me outside, but I can't stop using it: it helps me take my mind off wishing, you see. True, I can only catch a few glimpses of the world outside, but I've already learned so much from the truths nestled between the unrealities."
There was a slightly embarrassed silence, and then Ford coughed loudly.
"Oh, right!" he said, his voice suddenly back to its usual gruffly amiable tone. "Inflection, tone, register, emphasis. I'm supposed to speaking with emotion in my voice, yes? Sorry. I haven't had anyone to talk to while you were comatose, and I spent a lot of time with the Sight. I think I almost forgot how speech works."
Stan groaned. "You're doing it again, you know."
"Doing what?"
"The zero-explanation monologue, Poindexter. Every now and again, you give me a huge lecture on whatever weird thing's been happening lately, only you keep leaving holes where the actual explanations should have been, and then you wonder why I end up getting left in the dust. I really wish you w-"
Suddenly, Ford was standing right in front of him. Stan hadn't even seen him move, much less emerge from the shadows: one moment, he'd been sitting in the darkness a good twenty feet away, the next, he was dragging Stan a good ten feet to the left, and clamping an ice-cold hand over his mouth for good measure.
And now that he was standing in the beam of the flashlight, Stan realized that Ford had changed: behind his glasses, the pupils of his eyes had begun to glow an unnatural shade of cyan, shining brightly enough to cast a faint light on his wan features. And as Stan looked closer, he realized that those tiny glowing pupils were actually changing shape, their outline wavering and shifting, changing from circles to triangles, from oblongs to octagons… and then back to circles once again, two tiny sparks of electric-blue energy flickering with power in the darkness of Ford's eyes.
"Don't wish," said Ford, urgently. "Whatever you do, do not wish. You're standing right under the dome at the moment, and anything even vaguely announced as a wish can and will come true, so do not wish for anything."
"Mmmp!"
"Sorry." He took his hand away. "Instinctive response. After the first time I made that mistake… it left a bit of an impression on me."
Stan took a deep breath, blinking rapidly as he took in the haggard-looking figure in front of him. "What the hell happened to you, Ford?" he said at last. "How did we even get here? And what happened to Self-Loathing? Is-"
"He's dead," said Ford.
"What?"
"Well, I managed to destroy his physical form, but he's probably still active inside your brain – not much I can do about that, sadly. On the upside, those museum displays burn a lot better than most of the wood I've been provided with up until now."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up a minute... you killed Self-Loathing and burned the museum exhibits? How did you even get to the Museum from here – wherever here is?"
"That's… a bit difficult to explain. I remember meeting you in a dream-"
Stan's eyes widened, remembering the dream he'd experienced moments before Self-Loathing had caught up with him.
"-and when I awoke, there was a path in the Labyrinth leading into the Museum. I could be wrong, but I suspect outside intervention: there was a letter, earlier, promising that I would find "absolution in a dream" and that there would be a door. As I recall, it was from a Mr A-"
"Wait, you too? He sent me a message through one of the museum exhibits!"
"In that case, it was definitely outside intervention. Long story short, I found you and brought you back here. Trouble is, I didn't have the means to treat your injuries, so I had to take you to the dome and wish you back to health, so…" He sighed. "Well, just take a look at my eyes."
"Ford?"
"Yes?"
"Remember what I was telling you about missing explanations? You're doing it again. What is this place, why does it grant wishes, and why did it do… that… to your eyes?"
Ford sighed deeply. "This is my prison, Stanley, the Dome of Wishes. It's also the centrepiece of Bill's plan for me: once he'd locked me in here, Bill made it so that I could ask for whatever I'd need to make my stay a little more bearable – but at a price: every wish infuses me with Weirdness. It empowers me with abilities that only Bill and his allies possess, warps my mind a little closer to madness. Once I've made enough wishes, this place might release me, but by then, I'll be one of the Henchmaniacs."
He paused, and added, "You see why I didn't want you wishing? As long as you're standing under the dome, it's listening for anything that might be voiced as a request."
Stan glanced up at the dome, recognizing for the first time that he'd been standing directly under it just before he'd found Ford.
"So how many times have you… wished?" he asked.
"Twice. First by accident, the second to heal you."
"So what's the problem? Apart from the eyes, you haven't changed much, and… no offence, but you don't seem any crazier than you usually do. I mean, you were a little out of it back there, but now-"
"I can See, Stanley."
"What?"
"My eyes no longer perceive the mere visible spectrum of reality. I can see beyond this prison. I can see the Weirdness hidden behind the walls, the power linking the playgrounds, even the power of the Henchmaniacs. It's like having a street map made of jewelled mosaics printed on the inside of my eyeballs, and it keeps pouring into my head every time I concentrate… and that was only what I got from the first wish. Now…"
Ford took a deep breath, and suddenly flickered out of view.
A split-second later, he reappeared – right behind Stan, almost sending him leaping out of his skin.
"I'm becoming unmoored," he explained. "My being is losing its anchor to physical reality. I can only teleport myself about twenty feet away at maximum so far, but the merest presence of the ability is already starting to alter my outlook on reality. I can't tell you how many times I've caught myself just warping my way across the room because it was easier than walking – that's how it starts, Stanley! That's how I'm tempted to wish again. And my Sight…"
His eyes blazed.
"My Sight's only expanded more. I've gone from seeing energy to seeing how it's been used and shaped across time. I've gone from seeing the footprint to seeing the moment of its creation. I see into the past, further and further with every use, and every time I use it, I slip a little deeper into Oracular Insanity. That gibberish you heard back there was just a sample of how I could end up speaking: when you're using the Sight, you can't think to speak any other way…
"And that's just a taster of what I'm going to have to go through if we want to get out of here," he concluded with a sigh.
Stan paused as he slowly digested this information.
"So… there's no other way out of here?"
"None. Believe me, I've checked: there's no exits here or in the Labyrinth – and the Sight confirms it."
"And you can't just teleport your way out?"
"In a word, no. The last time I tried, it just sent me right back to the dome."
"And you can't just wish to escape?"
"Nope; I should know, Bill gave me a list."
Stanley floundered, wracking his brain for more exotic answers. "What about finding some kind of a loophole in the wishing system? I mean, don't you remember all those weird stories you read when you were a kid – the ones about evil genies and cursed wishing wells? There was always a loophole in those, like wishing for nothing, or wishing for infinite wishes-"
In spite of himself, Ford's pallid features creased into a smile. "The Doom-Wish?" he chuckled. "You actually remembered The Doom-Wish? Holy hell, Stanley, I hadn't thought about that old book for the better part of a decade…" He sighed deeply, and his smile took on a distinctly saddened look. "Before the Sight, I might very well tried that, but now I can see the mechanisms of this place; now I can see what works and what won't. Bill had plenty of time to think out the possibilities of this place, and he wasn't prepared to lose a toy to any something like that: the old loopholes are out of the question."
"Plenty of time?" Stan echoed. "How'd you mean? How long have you been trapped here?"
"Time's… a little difficult to measure without day or night to define it, but with the Sight…"
The glow in Ford's pupils expanded suddenly, growing to encompass his eyes entirely.
"Time is not what it seems," he said, his voice once again cold and distant. "Bill can distend time at will, and none of us will ever know it. Bill had a year of relative time inside the prison to work out the system, and he used it well. You have been asleep for three years, Stanley."
"WHAT?"
"Three years of external time, of real time. Internally, only three days. Now, "real" time rare, confined only to a few playgrounds; now, time means whatever Bill thinks it means. Soon, "real" time will become a fantasy, a dream of a world in which the passage of hours meant something…"
"Something tells me this conversation's gonna end with a migraine," Stan muttered.
"It does," said Ford.
"Huh?"
"It hurts, Stanley. I want to ignore it, but I can't. Even without the Sight active, I can't help but notice the warping of time across the playgrounds. I've seen how it's changed, and I've seen how it can change on a whim. I've been imprisoned here for almost sixty-four years, but only five months have passed in real time. Robbie lived on the streets for almost five years and barely perceived one, Soos walked for almost a century, Mabel served a five-year sentence in the two worlds, Dipper and Wendy roamed the wastelands for more than a year and a half-"
"Hang on, hang on, what was that about Mabel and Dipper?!"
"He's dead."
"WHAT?"
"Bill told me he was dead… he could be lying, but he could be telling the truth… my visions tell me he's at once dead and alive… oh my god, the skin, the skin…"
Was it Stan's imagination, or were those tears pouring from Ford's blazing eyesockets?
"But Dipper went onwards," Ford ranted on, oblivious to the interruption. "Or backwards. Wait, no, that doesn't make sense… I… Dipper's been asleep for thirty years, but I can't see how-"
"Uh, Ford, your nose is starting to bleed…"
"He's alive and dead and alive and dead and alive and dead and alive and dead and and and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"
Stan jumped backwards as the scream rippled out across the chamber. "Ford, wha-"
"YOU!" Ford shrieked at the top of his voice, pointing a long, crooked finger in Stan's direction. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
"I…" Stan's nerve briefly failed him, those terrifying spotlight eyes transfixing him. "You brought me here, remember?" he said at last.
"Not you, him! HIM!"
Heart hammering, Stan very slowly turned to look in the direction Ford was pointing, only to find himself staring into empty space.
"Who?"
"He's standing right behind you, Stanley! He's laughing at us!"
Nyarlathotep was impressed.
It had been a very long time since anyone had seen through his psychic shroud, and none of those sharp-eyed folk had been born of the mortal races. Bill's Weirdness was indeed changing Ford, and quite drastically so: if he could see through the shroud, even at its lowest intensity, perhaps he might be capable of greater feats than even Bill could have imagined.
Once again, the zodiac were much more powerful than anyone had originally intended… but would they be powerful enough for what Axolotl had in mind?
Would they be enough for Nyarlathotep's purposes?
Just how much of his help would these two monkeys need?
"Ford, there's no-one there."
"Yes there is! The Haunter of the Dark! The strange dark one to whom the fellahs bowed! The Black Pharaoh! Wrapped in fabrics red as sunset flame! MR CARTER! The Crawling Chaos!"
Oh, you are perceptive, little man. Perhaps you really are up to snuff.
"Look, you really need to calm down, Sixer-"
"AND HE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE! SOMEONE'S JUST OPENED THE DOOR!"
Nyarlathotep didn't need to follow Ford's gaze: he felt the new arrival ripple out across the room, and knew at once that it was what had drawn the hysterical seer's attention.
Drawing a bag of popcorn from his infinite pockets, Nyarlathotep sat back to watch the spectacle unfold; he himself was well beyond Stanford's reach, but the newest intruder wasn't. This would be an altercation worth observing…
"She's climbing across the walls! She's crawling on the ceiling!" Ford screamed, now pointing wildly upwards.
For his part, Stan could only do his best to hold him back; the last thing he needed now was for Ford to break his knuckles on the wall in his attempts to fight off whatever he was seeing. Christ, he thought, this is even worse than the day I came to Gravity Falls; at least then he wasn't hallucinating or whatever he's doing.
"Need to… need to…"
"No you don't, Ford; just take a deep breath and-"
In that moment, Ford managed to struggle free, and before Stan could make another grab for him, he managed to remove one of his shoes and throw it at the nearest column – specifically, at a point perhaps twenty feet above their heads.
And to Stan's surprise, the shoe made contact with a muffled squish – prompting a sharp yelp of "Ow!" from seemingly nowhere.
No sooner had the words what the hell was that flickered through Stan's head, something large, heavy and suddenly visible dropped from the ceiling, seemingly coalescing into a solid shape as it fell, finally landing almost at their feet with a loud thud on its back. There was a frantic scrabbling as several limbs struggled to upright the body they supported, and as the ghastly shape on the floor gradually hauled itself upright, Stan realized with a thrill of horror that he'd seen this monster before.
From the waist up, she was exactly as he remembered her: buxom, heavily-tanned, and immediately distinguished by the mass of lurid bottle-blonde hair perched atop her head, she was still dressed in the tattered remains of a neon-pink tube top, and though her makeup was absent and her colossal sunglasses were long gone, she still wore one dreamcatcher earring.
And from the waist down, she was exactly as she'd appeared in Stan's nightmares: a giant spider, seven feet wide and almost as tall; her hairy legs clicked an ear-piercing fandango across the marble floor as she took in the sight of Ford and Stan, and as she glared down at them, Stan thought he caught a glimpse of poisonous mandible sliding into position just behind her lips.
Darlene hadn't changed that much.
"Hot Belgian Waffles," whispered Stan.
In that moment, he would have liked nothing more than to run, but with Darlene less than three feet away, he knew there wouldn't be much point trying to escape – especially given that he didn't know the layout of this place.
"Jesus," the spider-woman muttered. "You again? Of all the people I gotta run into, I gotta run into you? Goddamn, this was so much easier in worlds where Delirium was a thing. And you got a twin as well? Or did you just start reproducing by mitosis when I wasn't lookin'?"
"The force of calcification!" Ford shrieked, eyes blazing brighter than ever. "The spider strangles the worm! The binding web grows and suffocates!"
Darlene blinked. "I… is he drunk or something?"
Stan laughed nervously. "He's just fine, actually!" he said loudly, as he tried and failed to drag Ford away. "Just a little bit tired! That's all that's wrong! We were just leaving, you see, and-"
"Child of Queen Ananasa! Ancestor of Order! The Wyrm cries out in rage and the Weaver exalts!"
Darlene looked from Ford to Stan, and for the first time since he'd met her, Stan saw something new in her pitch-black eyes – something a little like fear.
"Keep him away from me," she said quietly.
Stan blinked. "Why?"
"It doesn't matter why! Just keep whatever the hell that thing is away from me."
"…Are you trembling?"
"Shut up!"
In spite of himself, Stan actually managed a smile. "You are trembling!" he said triumphantly. "You're actually scared of him! What's the matter? Is the big scary spider-woman monster allergic to nerds?"
Darlene's already-soured expression turned downright bilious. "Listen up, you old fart," she snarled, "I've been looking for a decent feeding ground ever since Weirdmageddon went global; I've seen things that would make my big sisters piss their panties in terror, and I've had my exoskeleton chewed on so badly that it makes getting crushed under a Paul Bunyan statue look like a picnic. Long story short, I've had it with this armpit of a dimension: I'm getting the hell outta dodge before it gets any worse, and the last thing I want is to get within arm's reach of anything half as creepy as what's out there before I hit the road. Capisce?"
"…you mean you're not here to eat us?"
"Of course not! You really think I'd take this many risks just to eat you? Hon, you're nowhere near that appetising. I took a wrong turn on my way out of the last playground, that's all."
"Oh." Something in the last few minutes' worth of ranting belatedly caught Stan's attention, and he added, "What do you mean 'anything half as creepy as what's out there?'"
"I'm just saying, your brother has something seriously wrong with him. Seriously, I've seen Drones and Formori that weren't as messed-up on the outside as he is on the inside: that sort of energy isn't supposed to be in human veins, believe me."
"The Triat cries out in despair!" Ford ranted. "The Wyld smothered, the Wyrm fettered, the Weaver triumphant over all!"
"Aaaaaand that's another reason why I'm getting the hell out of here," muttered Darlene.
"What's another reason? What are you talking about?"
"Bill ain't the only big bad monster in town, hot stuff. His little ship's been boarded and he doesn't even know it… and there's gonna be a new passenger aboard real soon. Grandma's comin' to town."
"Your grandma?"
"The Grandma of us all, of all my kind scattered across the web of worlds! I thought she wouldn't be able to follow us from the home dimension, but she's found a way to bridge the gap between realities! The creator of my race is on her way, old man, and she's not gonna be happy when she sees the state of this place…"
Darlene let out a shudder, and began to transform – not into her human form, not into her pure spider form, but into a vast swarm of hairy-legged spiders, a colossal living carpet of glistening black bodies rippling out into the shadows of the room. As Stan watch, the spiders formed a column and began swiftly filing away into a corner of a room; there, one by one, they vanished, until all that was left of Darlene was the fading echo of a thousand arachnid feet upon the marble.
"What… the hell was that?" Stan gasped.
By way of an answer, Ford staggered and almost fell. Stan caught him just in time, but by then, that was the least of his brother's problems: the nosebleed had escalated – substantially; blood was gushing out of his nose, and unless Stan was mistaken, a few tell-tale red drops were starting to trickle from Ford's blazing eyes.
"Ford, whatever you're doing, you need to stop-"
"I CAN'T!" Ford howled, clutching his head in pain."I've lost control – it's happening entirely on its own!"
"Then what do we do?"
"You think I know?!"
"I was hoping! I mean, you can see everything now, right?"
"Not everything but still too much! I'm trying to find a handhold, but the Sight's moving too quickly for me to find them and it's too much. Too much has happened, and it keeps pouring into my head! There's not enough room! THERE'S NOT ENOUGH ROOM!"
"Try to think of something else! Think of your family, think of your friends, maybe that'll help!"
"I… I think I might… I might… oh no."
"Oh no?" echoed Stan.
Ford opened his mouth to reply, but what emerged wasn't speech, but what Stan could only describe as prophecy.
"I SEE THEM," said Ford. "I SEE ALL OF THEM, AND WHAT THEY HAVE BECOME. I CAN EVEN SEE… A LITTLE BIT OF WHAT MIGHT BE."
"Ford, you need to-"
"HEPHAESTUS WORKS THE FORGE OF HELL
WHAT HE'S FORGOTTEN, NONE CAN TELL.
CALLISTO, LOST IN BLOOD AND TEARS,
NOW LEADS THE HUNT AND RULES OUR FEARS
AND PROTEUS WAITS WITHIN HIS TOMB
TO CHANGE, TO KILL, TO BRING FORTH DOOM.
BUT THALIA LEAVES HER GRIEF BEHIND
BEFORE HER TIME SHALL ALL UNWIND
MELPOMENE EMERGES FROM HER HOME
TO REDEEM HER NAME AND CLEANSE THE THRONE
ONCE CHARON LIVED AMONG THE DEAD
HE NOW GOES ON TO RULE INSTEAD
MELAMPUS HAS CAST ASIDE HIS AGE-OLD FRAUD
TO FORESEE THE END AND LEAD THE HORDE
SISYPHUS NO LONGER WALKS HIS ROAD OF PAIN
IT SEEMS THAT ORPHEUS IS NOW HIS NAME
AND DEIMOS AND PHOBOS…"
Ford's eyelids fluttered wildly. "Who are Deimos and Phobos?" he asked nobody in particular. "Who are they supposed to be? I can't see yet, but… but…" A mad smile crept across his face. "But I could… it would be so easy… all I have to do is wish-"
His eyes widened. "NO NO NO NO! Stan, you have to stop me from thinking about it! You need to derail my train of thought!"
"I need to what?!"
"You need to find some way of temporarily shorting out my thoughts before I try to make a wish! It's the only way I can regain control of the Sight! Hit me with something! Punch my lights out! It's the only way to be sure!"
In spite of himself, Stan hesitated. A month ago, he would have jumped at the chance to sucker-punch Ford: even though they'd sworn to a truce for as long as they were still sharing the shack, the resentment between the two of them had never really gone away, and both Stan and Ford had been looking for an excuse to continue their reintroductory brawl every time they locked eyes – a point they'd proved quite soundly back at the Fearamid, Stan remembered with a fresh thrill of embarrassment. Now, though, after what they'd been through since then – Ford's grief at seeing him hurt, meeting again in a dream, the rescue from the Museum – punching Ford was the furthest from Stan's mind. Besides, the guy was already bleeding from about half the orifices in his head; the last thing he wanted to do was make the problem even worse.
So, instead, Stan did what he did best… and improvised.
"Why don't bears eat clowns?"
Ford blinked.
"Wha… I-I don't-"
"Because they taste funny!"
"Oh god almighty, not jokes!" Ford groaned. "Stanley, you need to knock me out, not practice your comedy routine! Now do it before I lose control again and start wishing!"
"Not a chance, brother; you wanted me to short out your thoughts, and that's what I'm gonna do! Either I make you laugh, or I annoy you into submission, whichever way works. Now, did you hear the one about the bread and the butter?"
"Rrrrrrrrghhh!"
"I'm not gonna tell you – you'd only spread it around! Ha-ha! Boom!"
"Just hit me! I'm not going to be able to stop myself from wishing!"
"Why did the worker get fired from the calendar factory?"
"I… I don't know."
"Because he took a day off!"
"Awful and a waste of time! You're not on a fishing trip, Stanley, you're-"
"On a roll! Now, what were the headlines when a midget fortune teller escaped from prison?"
"I… I don't…"
"Small medium at large!"
Ford almost smiled at that one.
"What did I tell ya? Now, I got a sick one for ya: a guy's being followed around by this coffin, just hovering down the street after him; so he goes to his doctor and ask 'is there anything you can do about this awful-'"
"Coffin," finished Ford, unable to hide his smile. Was it Stan's imagination, or was the glow in his eyes beginning to dim?
"Why should you bury lawyers fifty feet underground?"
Ford very quietly covered his mouth.
"Because they're good people deep down!"
"Ohohoho no…"
"Wait, I got a winner for ya!" Stan proclaimed triumphantly. "I learnt this one when I ended up in the can: a drunk guy walks up to a cop and says 'someone's just stole my car! It was right on the end of this key!' The cop takes one look at him and says, 'go home and sleep it off before I run you in, you're not even wearing pants!' The drunk guy looks down and says "THEY'VE STOLEN MY GIRLFRIEND TOO!"
And with that, Ford began to laugh, a long raucous eruption of cackling that bent him double and almost sent him toppling to the floor. For almost a full minute, he could only stand there, braced against the nearest column as he howled with mirth, completely oblivious to the world around him.
And to Stan's surprise, he began to laugh as well – not at the jokes, of course for he'd recited all of them a thousand times before. In the end, he laughed simply because after all the arguments, the jealousy, the resentment and all those stubborn refusals, after thirty years of separation and estrangement, they were finally together again and laughing at cheesy jokes – just like they had when they were kids. True, back then, they'd had vastly different interests; Ford couldn't have gotten Stan interested in mysteries and science any more than Stan could have gotten Ford interested in girls and boxing… but still they always somehow ended up laughing whenever Stan brought out the little book of lame jokes, if only because he'd worked out the fine art of pushing past the annoyance barrier and into actual comedy.
In the end, Stan laughed out of sheer relief.
And when the two of them finally stopped laughing, the light had receded from Ford's eyes, and he was back to normal – well, as normal as he could be with pupils that glowed and changed shape, but normal nonetheless.
"Stanley?" he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"…Thank you. For bringing me back through the portal. For finding me in the dream. For everything."
And in that moment, Stan couldn't have kept the smile off his face without dynamite.
"Hey, what are siblings for if not for helping? Besides, I never got around to thanking you for saving my life back at the museum… or for giving me my life in Gravity Falls. The way I see it, we're even – and always have been."
And in spite of all the things that must have been going on in his brain, Ford smiled back. "You're right," he said, almost laughing again. "What are siblings for if not for helping?"
"What do you know," murmured Nyarlathotep. "Perhaps my help wasn't needed after all. Quite a refreshing change; I think Stan and Ford Pines are more than adequate for my purposes, don't you?"
From somewhere around shoe level, something vaguely human-shaped let out an anguished squeal.
"Pipe down or I'll rip another leg off, Darlene."
"Wrr rrr yrrr dddrrng thhhrs?"
Nyarlathotep shifted his left toecap off the spider-woman's mandibles. "Beg pardon?"
"Why are you doing this? Who are you?" she demanded.
"Just a concerned businessman, really. Truth be told, I'm serving as something of a talent scout of late and… well, you said your grandmother was on the way here; just how soon will she arrive in this dimension?"
"My time measurement skills went out the window when Weirdmageddon went global… but I know for a fact that we don't have long. What's your interest in her?"
"Let's just say I've heard a great deal about your 'grandmother,' the one that the Fera of Gaia call the Weaver… and I'd be very interested in meeting her. So that's my price, Darlene: introduce me to the beloved creator of your species, and I'll spare your life. Does that sound fair?"
Darlene gave him a look that suggested that it was about as fair as juggling chainsaws in a vat of sulphuric acid under a rain of napalm. "Perfectly fair," she lied.
"Excellent! Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to make a quick phone call…"
Once again, Nyarlathotep drew his rune-encrusted phone from his pocket, and went about punching a long and complicated number too intricate for human minds to follow. For twelve seconds, the phone rang as the Outer God waited patiently for his newest possible recruit to answer.
Then, at long last, a tired voice answered, old, haggard, brusque and sporting a Scottish accent so harsh it could have doubled as a piece of sandpaper.
"Phillip Scofeld, I fuck lobsters for money," said the voice.
"Doctor!" cackled Nyarlathotep. "Good to hear from you again, Twelve, it's been far too long. Nyarlathotep here."
The Doctor let out a long, wearied groan. "Jesus Christ, can't you people leave me alone for five minutes? I'm on fucking holiday!"
"So I heard. And how's the holiday job going? Prime Minister's Director of Communications, wasn't it?"
"I just got fired, you unctuous cockslobber, and you fucking knew that already. It's no fucking fun whatsoever just being Malcolm Tucker, and the last thing I need in this clogged colon of a day is another fucking Great Old One or Outer God or Squamous Scrotum making my life a living hell. Seriously, every time I try to settle down and relax, Cthulhu appears on the horizon with half a mind to use the BT Tower as a bum dildo; and if it's not that, it's fucking Shoggoths stowing away on the TARDIS-"
"Doctor-"
"-or the Deep Ones short-circuiting K-9 or you trying to sell scrap metal to the Daleks-"
"Look, that wasn't me, okay? Well, it was me, but that was a different version of me from another dimension. But that's beside the point-"
"I can't even take a selfie without getting photobombed by Dagon!" the Doctor exploded. "Granted, I wouldn't have minded if the bastard wasn't such a committed nudist and-"
"The Axolotl sent me," Nyarlathotep interjected neatly.
"…what?"
"You heard me. The Axolotl has need of your services… and those of your earlier incarnations. Listen carefully…"
Perhaps an hour later, Stan and Ford were up and walking about the chamber. Ford had finally put his coat back on and was now doing his best to make the place a little more homely: relighting the torches, rekindling the fireplace, pulling up a chair or two, and even serving some food on hand-crafted wooden plates. Admittedly, there wasn't much in the way of soft furnishings, the only food consisted of mushrooms in whatever format they could be cooked, and at first Ford seemed a little bit focussed on keeping some of the artworks on the walls obscured, but it was better than nothing.
Plus, there was booze.
True, it smelled and tasted of well-matured turpentine, but after drinking classic prison-recipe Pruno, there wasn't much on the alcoholic spectrum that could disgust Stan anymore.
Once the two of them were seated by the fire and warming up at long last, they talked, a long rambling conversation that took them everywhere from Stan's con games in the deepest darkest corners of the United States to the far-flung dimensions that Ford had stumbled upon in his mad journey across space and time, and had them discussing everything from the fine art of pickpocketing to the customs of the lunar man-hamsters of Bezzikch XIII. And of course, both of them discussed Gravity Falls – for after all, it had been a sanctuary to both of them for a time, a place where they could feel at home after a lifetime of being either the outsider or the outcast. This wasn't just a friendly chat: this was the catch-up conversation that they'd been meaning to have ever since Ford had arrived home, a long-overdue outpouring of every experience they'd hadn't shared with each other up until today, fuelled by days of cumulative depression and fear and final relief…
…not to mention several glasses of Ford's home-made mushroom wine.
There was laughter, there was boasting, there was nostalgia, there were even more jokes than before; there were tales of past victory, there were ballads of impossible friendships and deeply questionable romances, there were horror stories of every stripe… and of course, there were the inevitable discussions of just how much the family had changed in the years since they'd spoken of it.
Eventually, once they'd almost finished off their first bottle, the conversation somewhat inevitably turned to the matter of escaping the labyrinth.
"So you can actually see the rules of the place?" Stan asked.
"With the Sight, yes: I can see the spells and enchantments that Bill's cast upon this building, and I can see how they enforce the rules."
"Okay… if we can't escape from the dome, what if you wished the others here? Sure it's not much, but maybe we could make it into a base of operations; maybe we could make it into the new Shacktron – maybe McGucket's up to turning whole worlds into robots, I dunno."
"As much fun as that'd be, it won't work. Not because McGucket wouldn't be able to make a pocket dimension on legs or anything like that – the dome won't allow me to bring anyone from the outside here. I mean, don't you think I would've wished for a bit of company if it meant bringing in outside help?"
"Alright, so what about curing yourself of the Sight? Can't you just wish it away?"
"Bill thought of that already; no dice, unfortunately."
"A bomb?"
Ford's brow wrinkled. "A bomb?" he echoed.
"I mean, what if you could just punch a hole in the wall and out into the… what did you call it?"
"The intra-dimensional reality nexus containment realm; in layman's terms, the space between playgrounds."
"Well, what if Bill didn't make the barriers here as strong as the other playgrounds? What if the only thing keeping us from leaping into the space between playgrounds is a marble wall?"
"Believe me, I'd normally be all in favour of blowing something up by now. Trouble is, Bill once again thought of that: he wasn't leaving anything to chance with the walls. Plus, I doubt we'd be allowed to wish for a bomb. Maybe the bomb's components, but that's another story."
"What about wishing for more powerful teleportation?"
"Ditto. I can see the energies around the dome and the labyrinth, and they form a cage; no matter how far I can teleport, this place won't let me leave until I've run out of wishes."
"And you're absolutely sure about that?"
"Positive. You see the dome?" Ford pointed directly upwards. "Just above the apex of that structure, there's a massive reservoir of Weirdness: that's where the fuel for the wishes comes from, and it's by channelling that energy into me that my transformations occur. The exit protocols of this place are directly tied to that reservoir; as long as there's a drop of Weirdness left there, we won't be able to leave."
"And there's no way of telling just how much Weirdness each wish actually uses, right? So there's no way of just… I don't know, calculating the number of wishes we need to get out?"
"Pretty much."
"Damn."
"Well, I hate to sound defeatist, Stanley, but maybe going crazy won't be so bad after all."
"Hang on… are you giving up?"
Ford offered another one of his trademarked mysterious smiles. "Not necessarily," he said ruefully. "I'm just saying that… well, you helped me back from madness before. Maybe, if I go all the way, you'll be able to do it again."
Stan opened his mouth to reply – to tell Ford that this was the worst possible idea, that he had to rethink, that there had to be another way… and then, something Ford had said belatedly made contact with his brain.
Once again, inspiration struck. After close to sixty years of life, Stan knew full well that he was no genius, and he understood just how precious these brainstorms were: he'd only been the recipient of that tiny thunderbolt to the brain a handful of times, and he'd learned to embrace it the moment it appeared… especially now. This was just an idea – a small idea, microscopic idea, a flea of a detail… but it was a detail that Ford had missed, and as the old cliché went, the devil was in the details.
"About the reservoir up there," he began tentatively.
"Hmmm?"
"You say it's drained every time you make a wish?"
"That's right."
"And we'll only escape once we've used up every last drop of it."
"Yes, yes. Where are you going with this, Stanley?"
"Does it really have to be you?"
"What."
"I'm just asking, Ford: do you really have to be the one who makes the wishes? Do you have to be the one who takes the fall? Is there any rule about this place that says it can't be me?"
Ford's expression froze.
"You can't be serious," he said quietly.
"I am, Sixer, believe me. I'm more serious than I've ever been in my entire life."
"But… how…"
"You were worried about the dome granted one of my wishes earlier, remember?" Stan reasoned. "Bill didn't think there'd ever be two prisoners here, so maybe – just maybe – when someone makes a wish here, it doesn't automatically go to you. What I made a wish, and the Weirdness went to me instead?"
"No! No, you can't! Why would you even… No!"
"Just listen, Ford: this makes perfect sense if you just think about it-"
"No it doesn't! It what universe could this possibly make any sense?! Why would you want to even think of doing this?"
"Because it's the only thing we can do."
"NO!" Ford bellowed, now firmly in 'angry scientist mode', but under the furious roar, Stan could easily hear the plaintive note to his voice; as a child, Ford had only used that tone of voice when he was hurt and was trying valiantly to hide it – valiantly but unsuccessfully. "I just got you back!" he continued desperately. "I thought you'd never wake up! I've only just gotten to know you again, and now I've got to risk losing you? You want to destroy your own mind, all because I balked at taking my medicine?!"
"Oh don't be such a drama queen, Ford. Also, this isn't just your 'medicine' anymore-"
"Yes it is! I'm here because of everything I've screwed up over the course of my life: summoning Bill, building the portal, fighting with you, and – for all I know – getting Dipper killed! Because he followed my example, because he joined me in trying to stop Weirdmageddon, Bill tortured him, maybe even killed him and it's all my fault! And yes, maybe Bill lied to me… but that doesn't change the fact that everyone ended up in this situation because of me! This was supposed to be my punishment and mine alone-"
"And like I told you back in the dream, Ford, you don't deserve to be punished. If Dipper's alive out there somewhere, we're going to find him and rescue him; the same goes for Mabel and Soos and Wendy and McGucket and everyone else Bill's captured. Besides, I'm not going to destroy my mind; I'm just going to share the load."
"How?"
"Well, can I make wishes? If I make a wish under the dome, will the Weirdness be pumped into me instead of you?"
Ford's pupils glowed vividly as he opened his eyes to the Sight for the second time that day. For five minutes, he studied the world with his new vision, his expression on the edge of desperation; eventually, the glow once again receded, and Ford replied, "Yes."
"Okay then, here's how it'll go: I'll make a wish for something small, something unimportant, and I'll get my share of power and madness out of it. Once I've recovered and caught up with you, you make a wish; then I make a wish; then you make a wish, and so on. We keep making small wishes until we've exhausted the reservoir of Weirdness, and we can get out of here. By the end, we'll both have powers and we'll both have a little bit of madness, but hopefully we'll have shared it out just evenly enough to stop us from turning into blood-drinking potato-heads or whatever. How's that sound?"
For almost thirty seconds, Ford could only stare in astonishment. "That… actually sounds feasible," he eventually admitted. "But… couldn't I just take a bit more than-"
"No, Ford. It has to be equal."
"But this isn't fair," Ford all but whimpered, and by now he sounded so much like he had as a child it almost hurt to listen to him. "It shouldn't have to all be on you. You've got a family, remember?"
"They're your family, too, Sixer. We're in this together now: we keep each other stable, just like you said, and this way… this way we win."
A minute passed in silence, as Ford visibly tried and failed to think of some kind of opposition to the idea; after so much time spent here, he was out of ideas.
"Okay," he sighed. "Okay. I still don't like this idea… but at this point I don't have much of a choice. Whatever happens please, promise me you won't take any more Weirdness than me."
"You have my word as your brother."
"Good."
Ford took a deep breath. "So… what do you want to wish for?"
A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is The Last Mariner from Fallout 4.
Anyone care to try their hand at deciphering Ford's deranged ranting back towards the middle of the chapter?
Up next - the winter march begins, allegiances are decided, and the False Prophet meets the first of the Horsemen.
Or, if you prefer...
Dsl dlfow szev gslftsg gsv uznlfh orzi
Dlfow yv gsv lmv gl ortsg gsv uriv?
Gsv lizxov xlnnzmwh gsvri nrmwh zmw svzigh
Gsvb nzb bvg gvzi Yroo'h dliow zkzig