A/N: Aaand we're back, ladies and gentlemen! A special thanks to all my viewers, reviewers, favouriters and followers, to Guest, Frosty Wolf, P. Cottontail, MrNonsense, CrownedSteven, Northgalus2002, Kraven the Hunter, Hourglass Cipher, OMAC001, Carcer14, and Blind-Eyephone! You wonderful people give me the strength to carry on!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter. Feel free to provide your lovely long reviews, theories, predictions and detailed analyses, as these get my heart started in the morning.

Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls still isn't mine. Also, there's a moment towards the very end that's based on a deleted scene from Weirdmageddon part 2. Obviously this isn't mine, but if you're up for a laugh, see if you can spot it.

Also, this time we don't have an opening code: for those of you who like deciphering them, we instead have a few incoming sentences of atbash weirdspeech for you to translate, bolded for your convenience...

Stanley was flying.

Floating high above the rotunda, he soared between the columns bordering the dome, weaving slowly but elegantly about the murals decorating the chamber that had been his prison for the last few days. Eventually, he drifted to a stop at the very centre of the rotunda, and there he hovered, eye to eye with the giant fresco of Icarus, relaxing in mid-air almost two hundred feet off the ground. It was exhilarating, glorious, and Stan would have given anything to revel in the rush of adrenaline, to bask in the sense of triumph that ensued… but he couldn't.

All he could think of were those awful migraines.

And the way his shadow seemed to move around of its own accord from time to time.

And those weird, intrusive thoughts that never seemed to leave him, the ones that told him that he'd deserved his newfound powers all along, that it was his right to use them in any way he pleased.

"Ford," he asked quietly, "Are you okay?"

As expected, Ford was upside-down, anchored to the ceiling by sheer force of will.

Also as expected, his eyes were glowing brighter than ever, the expression on his face distant and unfocussed at best, just as it had been for the last ten hours. Once again, he was still gazing in awe at something only he could see, at once marvelling at the things his eldritch senses revealed and cringing away in horror at the same sight.

"The house doesn't always win," he said at last.

"Come again?"

"Ulfigs dzh gsv Wiztlm, gsv Lfilylilh. Szipvm, uli sv rh gsv Svizow'h ullgkzw, gsv sfmgvi lu gsv Hszkvovhh Lmv… gsv Wiztlm rh gl yv xszoovmtvw, zmw gsv Hszkvovhh Lmv nfhg yv gvhgvw… "

"Ford? You're doing it again."

"I've been worse," Ford helpfully translated.

"How many wishes do you think we've made?"

"Well, it was my turn last: we're tied at 7-7. I'm not sure how many we'll have to make before the dome lets us go, unfortunately."

"I'm guessing I should have wished for more scotch, then."

In spite of himself, Ford almost managed a smile. "I think we should wish for some proper Napoleon brandy next time. It might help drown these headaches, if nothing else. Lord only knows aspirin doesn't help anymore."

"You've been having them too, huh?"

"Side-effect of cognitive incompatibility: the human brain just isn't meant to deal with having the power and sensory apparatus of a god forced on it; even at this comparatively early stage, our minds can barely cope with the contrast. I think the pain will subside given time, but the side-effects of dissonance will only get worse the more wishes we make."

"And that's on top of all the other weird mental effects we'll have to deal with," Stan grumbled. "Joy and rapture. Still," he added brightly, "it could be worse. At least we get to pretend to be superheroes in the meantime."

This time, Ford did smile. "Superheroes! I wish I had your optimism, Stanley, I really do. So, what do you think we'll call ourselves? The Amazing Flying Grunkles? The Magnificent Mystery Twins?"

"Ooh, I like that one. Still, you gotta admit having anti-gravity powers isn't such a bad deal. Matter of fact, apart from the weird sensory crap, most of the abilities we've been getting have actually been a lot of fun. I mean, I saw that smile on your face when you followed me up here: between wishes, you've been having a blast, haven't you?"

Ford hesitated, and for a moment he almost looked as though he was about to cry.

"R uvvo dszg blf wvhxiryv," he said quietly, the glow in his eyes briefly expanding. "Yfg R zn horkkrmt zdzb. R uvvo gszg gll. Nb nvnlirvh ziv yvxlnrmt… wrhzhhlxrzgvw: R xzm hgroo ivnvnyvi nb kzhg, yfg R xzm'g urmw nbhvou zmbdsviv rm rg. R'n hvvrmt gsilfts gsv vbvh lu zm rwvmgrxzo hgizmtvi, ollprmt zg z ivuovxgrlm gszg wlvhm'g yvolmt gl nv."

"Uh, Ford?"

"Zmw rg'h lmob tlrmt gl tvg dlihv uiln sviv. Dszg szkkvmh ru, yb gsv grnv dv urmzoob tvg lfg lu sviv, R'ev olhg nb zyrorgb gl ivxltmrav Wrkkvi zmw Nzyvo? Dszg ru R hglk hvvrmt blf zh nb yilgsvi, Hgzmovb?"

"Ford, you're talking in Weirdspeech again."

"Oh, sorry. It's becoming a bit compulsive by now. Anyway, you're perfectly right: it's been fun… but sooner or later, we're going to have to make another wish and deal with whatever power this place throws at us next."

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Fine, fine. It's just that…"

Ford paused, eyes glowing brighter than ever. "Something's changed," he said at last. "The House is in a shambles and the gamblers pray for luck, because there's a wildcard on the table and nobody can guess the hand in which it might appear…"

And even Stan couldn't help but shudder, as he, too, felt the sudden change in the world around him and sensed the faint presence rippling through reality – almost as if a ghost had tapped him on the shoulder…

"…I think we're going to need another apple."

"Aw, I was looking forward to that."

"It wasn't even edible, fathe- Preston. Now, the sooner we get this right, the sooner we'll have something fresh to eat. Mabel, do you want to give it one more try, or do you feel like canned salmon and caviar for dinner again?"

"Right now, I don't feel like anything other than a big jug of Mabel Juice with extra sugar lumps and a third can of soda thrown in along with the plastic dinosaurs… but I'll stay awake a little longer if it means something other than caviar."

"Ridiculous! Diplomats and heads of state have vouched for the quality of meals served at our annual soirees!"

There was a long and distinctly embarrassed pause, as Mabel, Pacifica and Mr Northwest sheepishly regarded the wide-eyed figure sitting on the other side of the campfire.

"…you really should lie down for a while, Mrs Northwest," said Mabel soothingly.

Waddles oinked, apparently by way of agreement.

By now, it was almost night, and the five weary travellers were huddled deep in a vast forest of giant, animated coatracks. After a long afternoon spent marching through the crooked shoe-tree undergrowth, hacking their way through the bootlace creepers, crossing streams of shoe polish and warding off attacks by ravenous bat-winged ulster coats, they'd decided to give their attempts to find the border of the current playground a miss until next morning. Unfortunately, that left them with nothing better to do but train.

Technically, Pacifica and Mabel had been training themselves in the use of their powers for the better part of three weeks, and because neither of them had anything in the way of an instruction manual, most of it was infuriatingly ad hoc.

Mabel's training sessions were easily the most frustrating. The first and biggest obstacle had been the simple fact that she couldn't quite get the hang of using her time powers at short notice: she knew that she could stop time by fearing that might never see Dipper again, but it seemed to work best in the middle of combat. Try as she might, Mabel just couldn't summon up the same desperate, terrified sense of impending loss, not while she was safely huddled by the campfire, and Pacifica refused to let her go out and willingly put herself in harm's way – to the point that she'd gone so far as to telekinetically scoop her up and drag her back to the camp.

After several training sessions, she'd finally managed to find the strength of will to activate her powers on her own and manipulate time consciously, but that in itself came with its own fair share of difficulties. For one thing, she could make a falling apple stop in mid-air, but getting it to start moving again was another story entirely. Slowing down time could only work at a certain speed, at least at first; getting the thrown apple to move any slower or faster proved immensely challenging, and Mabel had usually ended up accidentally beaning Mrs Northwest in the head with it.

Tonight's training session was concerned with rewinding time, which was currently among the hardest techniques to master – a shame considering it might be the most useful. After almost an hour of watching Mabel sending leaves back onto the branches they'd fallen from, Pacifica had eventually hit upon the idea of rewinding their increasingly rotten stock of apples until they were edible again, if only to add some variety to their evening meals. It took a lot of time and effort before Mabel could get to grips with actually reverting their practice fruit at a reasonable speed, slowly progressing from hours to days until she might be able to undo the weeks of decomposition. Then she'd hit another brick wall: fine-tuning wasn't her strong suit, and she accidentally reversed the apple all the way into inedibility – and her attempts to fix the problem resulted in her fast-forwarding it into a heap of rotting pap.

Eventually, though, another apple was surrendered for practice.

Gathering all her willpower, Mabel imagined her power as a mental copy of herself – a MindBel, as she called it – reaching deep into the fabric of the world until she could almost feel time itself shifting between her psychic fingers like strands of seaweed in a lagoon. Then, she began to shift the flow of time backwards, drawing it back inch by inch, almost as if she really was dragging some immensely heavy weight up a hill. Time was moving, to be sure…

But the apple didn't appear to be any fresher than it had been a moment ago.

Frowning, Mabel applied more power.

But nothing happened.

Grinding her teeth in frustration, she applied all the force she could muster without accidentally wiping the apple out of existence.

Still nothing.

There was a nervous cough from the opposite end of the campfire. "Ahem," said Preston, in an all-too-distinct tone of dawning terror. "I don't want to bother you, but-"

"What's wrong?"

"Your aim's a little off: you're making me even younger."

Mabel looked up, and realized with a thrill of embarrassment that Preston Northwest had indeed regressed – not by much, but even in the fitful glow of the campfire it was obvious that he'd lost almost inch in height. There was an awkward pause, as Mabel very sheepishly deactivated her powers and tried not to look the seven-year-old Preston in the eye.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"No, it's okay," said Preston sulkily. "I wasn't planning on sleeping tonight anyway. My teeth were keeping me awake already, so it's not as if I'd be bothered by the prospect of accidentally being de-aged out of existence the next time your aim slips."

"I'm really, really sorry; I mean, I know it doesn't mean much right now, but if it makes you feel any better, I promise you I'm not going to do anything like that. I mean, I can't-"

"-yet. I mean, you didn't think you were up to rewinding time by months, but somehow you just managed it, didn't you? Oh well, I guess it won't be too hard to get used to this sort of thing. I mean, I spend most of my time tripping over things, so it won't matter much when I lose the ability to walk, and it's not as if there's any decent solid food around, so I probably won't miss the last of my teeth when they get sucked back into my gums. I'm betting I won't even notice the sticky end when it-"

"That's enough," said Pacifica icily. "You've stopped shrinking, she's apologised, and as far as I'm concerned that's the end of it."

"But I can age you back!" Mabel plunged onwards, unable to hide the guilt and desperation in her voice. "I mean, if I took a few months off you, maybe I can give them right back-"

"Oh, even better! Now I can look forward to be aged to death! Oh well, I guess if I'm lucky, I'll be too senile to even notice the flesh rotting off my bones the next time you screw everything up, because as far as I'm concerned it's practically guaranteed-"

"That's enough, Preston!" Pacifica roared.

Without a split-second of hesitation, Preston fell silent; suddenly unable to make eye contact, he bowed his head and stared at the ground. "Sorry, P'c'fica," he mumbled contritely, the adult tone gone from his voice.

"If you want to apologise to anyone, apologise to Mabel; you insulted her, as I recall."

"S'rry, M'b'l."

"I can't hear you."

"Sorry, Mabel."

"That's better. Now," the doll continued, "We can sit here arguing all night, but-"

"Where did all this grass come from?"

"-I really think we ought to focus on… I'm sorry, what?"

"There wasn't any grass here a moment ago," said Mrs Northwest. "Now it looks like a golf course."

As one, the three listeners looked down: sure enough, the barren ground was now layered with a thick coat of emerald green grass, much of it still regenerating from the patches of dead bristle it had been scant moments ago. For good measure, a cursory glance at Preston's gold wristwatch revealed that the hands were oscillating wildly between twelve-thirty and eight o'clock.

"My fault," said Mabel. "That happens sometimes when I'm upset."

Pacifica put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Nobody's blaming you for anything," she said gently. "Right, Preston?"

"No, no, it's not that, it's…" Mabel's expression clouded. "Something's happened," she whispered. "I don't know how I know, but I just get the feeling that something's changed in the world."

Pacifica hesitated. "I feel it too," she said, eyes widening in astonishment. "My senses are going crazy all of a sudden – I can almost hear it as well. I can't tell what it is but… there's something almost familiar about it…"

Robbie couldn't say how long he and the others had been wandering the unreal landscape beyond his original playground; because day and night was so rare among Bill's weirder kingdoms, the only way to measure time was by the procession of pit stops.

After all, he might be a necromancer now, but he still needed sleep, food, water, and regular bathroom breaks. On the upside, with so many zombies under his control, scavenging the ruins for supplies wasn't as difficult as it sounded: all he needed to do was sit back and let a few of his gang explore the derelict shops. Granted, it wasn't a perfect guarantee against night attacks, and it did feel a bit weird having to watch himself using the bathroom through someone else's eyes, but it certainly beat being blind. To Robbie's surprise, the biggest danger out here was boredom: wherever he'd ended up, nobody seemed to be interested in it; no refugees, no bandits, no monsters, no Henchmaniacs – just a wide, flat plain, broken only by the crumbling remains of abandoned towns and the occasional lake made entirely of dead squid.

And because the journey was so monotonous, and because time was so difficult to measure in this particular stretch of wasteland, Robbie didn't notice the figure striding across the horizon until he was standing right in front of him.

"Hey, dude!"

Robbie stopped short, and slowly took in the rotund shape that had appeared before him.

"Soos? What the hell are you doing out here? I thought everyone was locked up!"

"I got out, dude! Someone helped me break out, and I've been on the run ever since." There was a pause, as Soos took in the crowd of zombies and the distinctly empty state of Robbie's eyesockets. "Dude," he said at last. "What happened to your eyes? And who are all these-"

"That's a really long story," Robbie sighed. "Long story short, I got blinded, got a bunch of zombies to see for me, then I broke out too. And," he added, unable to hide the suspicion in his voice, "Someone was helping me as well. You've met Mr Carter?"

"Mr who?"

"Mr Carter. Tall guy, red coat, tailored suit, red tie – sometimes calls himself Nyarlathotep. Is this ringing any bells?"

"Never met anyone like that, dude. All I got was a letter from a guy calling himself Mr A."

"You too?"

"Yeah, he told me not to answer a phone. Then I met GIFfany and Melody, only it wasn't the real Melody, and GIFfany answered the phone and she got taken over by this weird black goop that calls itself John, and then…"

Robbie took a deep breath and allowed the monologue to wash over him like a tsunami. If his time with Wendy had taught him anything at all, it was that Soos could ramble for his country: if he'd seen something exciting, complicated or both, nothing in the world could stop him from "bringing you up to speed," god only knew Robbie had tried; nothing could shut him up short of forcing a pillowslip over his head and running away. Frankly, there wouldn't be much of a point in following the rambling, directionless narrative, because Soos backtracked so often over the course of a single rant that trying to keep up with the topic would have been an open invitation to go completely insane. So, he simply stood back and waited for the chattering to stop.

"…and I've been walking ever since then. I would have gone further, but then that last crab monster ripped me in half. Oh, by the way, dude, have you got anything to eat? I am starving."

"Hmmm. I think I've still got some canned peaches back here, and-"

Robbie stopped, suddenly realizing that Soos had mentioned something unusual. "Hang on, what was that part about the crab monster?"

"It ripped me in half, dude. Killed me almost instantly."

Robbie blinked. "What."

"Yeah, that's been happening a lot these last few weeks. Every now and again, some monster comes along and eats me alive before I even know what's happening. If I'm lucky, I can get the drop on it while it's still eating my guts, but usually the safest thing to do is just walk away. Live and let live, that's what I always say."

"What."

"It got really bad when I ran out of water back in the desert, too: every couple of hours, I'd just drop dead of heatstroke or thirst, and I'd have to walk right back over my own body. It's a total drag, dude."

"What. Soos, what are you even talking about? And…"

Robbie hesitated, suddenly aware that all the hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention. "What was that?" he whispered, shivering despite the warmth of the sun.

Soos looked around in consternation. "Dude, did you feel that too? It's like… I don't know, it's almost like someone I know just tapped me on the shoulder…"

"Reach out with your thoughts again: feel the minds of others around you; don't struggle against the current, but move with it. Let your inner eye encompass them. Don't be afraid of their thoughts, Gideon: you won't be washed away by the storm, I'm right here with you. Good. Now, you should be able to distinguish specific minds amidst the storm of thoughts. Focus on the one closest to you. You know she's there, you can still feel her holding you in her arms. Reach out. Feel a connection form…"

Caught somewhere between the mental realm upheld by the thought transmitter and reality, Gideon reached out towards the nearest mind, weaving gently through layers of mental construct until he was interlinked with the perception centres of the brain. Then, at last, he spoke.

Amanda? Can you hear me?

I… I can! Oh my god, how did you do this, Gideon?

It's a simple telepathic link. Jheselbraum just taught me how to make it. I thought it might come in handy the next time the walkie-talkies ran out of batteries.

And she's teaching you all this?

She's teaching me a lot of things, Mandy, things I'd never thought possible. Truth be told, I wouldn't have thought I'd actually need a mentor up until now, after all the time I spent working alone, but now… well, it's been an eye-opener.

You're getting all this just from that pendant you're carrying around? One of these days I'm going to have to meet this Jheselbraum in person, because you've made it sound like she knows just about everything.

"She's adjusted quite swiftly, wouldn't you say?" said Jheselbraum airily. "Humans often react badly to first-time unexpected telepathic communication, but she seems to be taking it in stride. She cares for you a great deal, Gideon."

"I kinda gathered that by the fact that she's still carrying me around like a baby. Um, I hate to change the subject, but when do you think we can move onto predicting the future? It's just that we're still in choppy waters right now, and Wendy could catch up with us at any time… and I guess precognition would be a big help."

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that: when it comes to psychic training, you can only take one step at a time. Train in too many directions at once, and you risk overloading your mind, even suffering permanent brain damage. You have a great deal of potential strength, but you're not ready to delve into foresight just yet."

Gideon sighed deeply. "I thought you might say that."

"All things happen in their time, Gideon. Don't lose heart just because you can't access the best things immediately. Besides, you still have access to my foresight as long as you're still using this talisman. Now, see if you can expand the link to encompass the rest of the group..."

Gideon paused, as he felt his roving third eye sweep out across the people surrounding him. But just as he was about to begin the link, he stopped, suddenly noticing something rather strange. By now, he could recognize emotions at a glance, reading the texture of feelings like braille and discerning their meaning in the space of a second: he could sense the mood of the crowd almost without trying, and the emotions he was sensing…

"They don't hate me," he whispered.

"Of course not," said Jheselbraum. "You're their saviour after all."

"But that doesn't make any sense! They were there when they heard me confessing; they know I was a con artist. Why would any of them still like me?"

"I think you'll find it's a bit more than "like", Gideon. They adore you."

"But why?"

"Because you're their only hope, and against all expectations, you've proved that their trust in you is justified: you've led them to shelter and supplies; you've armed them with devices powerful enough to combat even the monsters roaming the wastelands; you've given them an opportunity to actually take the fight to Bill. And as for your confession, that just gives you a stamp of legitimacy: the idea of a criminal seeking atonement has particular appeal to the lost and forsaken. You'd be amazed at the value of redemption during an end-of-the-world scenario."

"How do you know that?"

"This isn't my first apocalypse," Jheselbraum remarked mysteriously.

"Well, even if that's so…"

Gideon hesitated. "Did you hear that?" he asked. "I… I know there's no sound here, not really, but I could've sworn I heard someone calling for a moment there. I mean, maybe I'm just imagining things, but it actually sounded like Dipper's voice."

Jheselbraum nodded sagely. "A ripple in reality," she explained. "An echo in the fabric of the space-time continuum. Think of it as a temporal signal, inaudible for most but impossible to ignore for those who share the wavelength; to those of us with psychic sensory apparatus, the signal is amplified."

"But what does it mean?"

"Salvation. Or damnation. Perhaps both. I can see all possible futures radiating outwards from this event, and this signal has thrown them into doubt. There's only one certainty at this point."

"And what's that?"

"That someone old and new has returned to the world, and everyone who stands in his way is in danger."

"People of the wastelands, rejoice! Your absolution has arrived: the Society of the Enduring are here to show you the way!"

The sermon hadn't changed much.

Ever since they'd begun finding refugees in bulk, they'd taken more-or-less the same approach: herd everyone into a single arena, block off all escapes, and let the preacher work his magic. Since Gideon and his gang of dupes had escaped them perhaps a month ago, they'd ran into perhaps four other refugee groups, and all had reacted the same way. There had been screams, of course, and there'd been protests beyond counting, and a few even tried to drive them off. But none could stand against the power of the Society of the Enduring, and after seeing what Wendy did to anyone stupid enough to open fire, surrender was inevitable.

The, the refugees would begin their own transformations, drinking deep of the blessings that the various beings of the Society could offer, until all were ready to begin the journey towards true oblivion. By now, there were almost eighty of them – men, women, children, all monsters now – and the mere sight of them was enough to force a surrender.

Wendy sat back and watched as the preacher harangued the crowd, barely paying attention to any of it. For now, she had plenty of time to plan their next move… but right then, all Wendy could think of was the past.

How long had it been since she'd lost everything?

How long had it been since she'd returned to the Drowning Lands and claimed the blessing that the Acolytes of the Deep had offered?

How long since she'd drank of the saltwater sacrament, and become one of them?

By now, it was impossible to tell: perhaps it had really been an eternity, or perhaps it had only been a year. Time meant nothing to human beings anymore. Lord only knew the process of transforming had seemed like forever. The second time she'd imbued herself with a monstrous power, it had seemed even longer, if that was possible.

Those-Who-Dwelled-In-Ruin had warned her that the gifts of monstrosity were not supposed to be blended, and the metamorphosis might very well kill her, but Wendy had been past caring by that stage. Against all expectations, she'd survived that grisly transformation and all transformations that had followed; now, she was a thousand times more powerful than any of them.

But why?

Why did she live on, when so many prospective members of the Society had died in their initiation? Why had she survived, when millions of others had died or been condemned to even worse fates? Why was she still here, with the blood of her family on her hands? Why was she alive, and Dipper dead?

Angrily, Wendy blinked away a few errant tears, scarcely noticing the acrid hiss as they hit the ground. She couldn't afford to think this way, not with so much work on the horizon: she needed to focus on what was important – and not just the simple matter of gathering new recruits. She had revenge to think of.

Gideon was still out there, still alive in spite of all the hateful things he'd done.

One day, she and the Society would find him… and on that day, they'd take their time.

And then, just as Wendy was beginning to wonder if the preacher was letting the current sermon drag on, something rippled across her senses. For almost a minute, she could only sit there, unable to account for the shiver that had rippled down her spine… and then, as she slowly recovered, she realized that the sensation had somehow reminded her of someone.

For just a moment, she'd thought of Dipper.

He's dead, she told herself. The Shapeshifter killed him. You're daydreaming, thinking of someone you've lost. Just get over it: he's never coming back. Dipper is dead.

Sighing, she looked down at the hand-stitched bag sitting in her lap, the sack of provisions she normally kept slung over her shoulder. Yes, Dipper was dead. Here in the bag was all the proof she needed:

Here was his journal, dog-eared and battered but still readable.

Here was his cap, still stained with his blood and punctured in places by the Shapeshifter's teeth.

Dipper was dead, alright. So why did she get the feeling that he'd just tapped her on the shoulder… and why did the thought terrify her beyond all reason?

There was a pause as the Ruinous Toymaker looked up in confusion, all eight of his eyes clicking softly as they focussed in all directions.

"Did anyone else feel that?" he asked.

For their part, the Rust Thralls standing guard said nothing; most of them could barely think, much less speak. The first generation had been outfitted with voiceboxes, if only so the Toymaker would have someone to talk to every now and again, but Bill had nixed that idea: none of the mechanical soldiers were to speak, and the few specialty models that would be allowed speech were only permitted a few pre-recorded statements – "yes," "no," "you are all going to die" and "enjoy the taste of your dying children, human weakling", for instance. So, the Rust Thralls remained silent except for the whir of servomotors.

As for the raw material on the operating table, it was vocal enough on its own.

"HELP! HEEEEEELP! OH DEAR SWEET LORD HAVE MERCY ON ME, I DON'T WANNA DIE!"

"I'm serious," said the Toymaker, all thirteen of his upper limbs clattering in consternation. "I coulda sworn someone just tapped me on the shoulder. But there's nobody else here, is there? Just you, me and this feller on the table. You didn't feel anything, right?"

"MOMMMYYYYYYYYY!" the raw material screamed.

"You're not being very helpful, you know that?"

This time, the raw material just sobbed helplessly and soiled itself. This tended to happen an awful lot, sadly: most forms of material brought to him began crying almost as soon as they saw the Toymaker's instruments, and the rest broke down once the first incisions were made. One piece of material had gone so far as to offer up its entire family in exchange for being spared from the operating table, which made no sense to the Toymaker. Would any of this material think he could help? Material couldn't be helped: once it arrived on his table, there was nothing that could be done for it except to operate.

The current one was still screaming, and refused to stop – even after it had been jabbed with the cattleprod once or twice. Sighing, the Toymaker extended his seventh limb – now tipped with an adhesive-protecting nozzle – and smoothly glued the material's jaws shut.

Over the muffled gurgling of the Rust Thrall-to-be, the Toymaker thought again on the feeling that had descended upon him. What could have caused that strange sensation? Could it have been another one of Kryptos' pranks, or was this something to do with that strange letter that had arrived in the forge so many months ago? Back then, he'd felt the strangest sense of recognition when he'd read the message; there'd been names that had seemed familiar, as though he'd known them back in the meaningless, memoryless murk from the time before Bill had brought him into existence.

And now there was another name this strange sensation had stirred up. He couldn't remember all of it, but he knew that it started with a D.

Could it be…?

He shook his head, his mechanical components buzzing softly as he did so. He couldn't afford to waste time daydreaming. He had work to do, and Bill wouldn't be happy if he caught the Toymaker slacking off again.

So, unsheathing his flensing blades, his frontmost limbs went to work on the skin of the material, whilst the second set latched onto the subject's eyeballs…

Mabeland hadn't fared well in Mabel's absence.

Having been upgraded extensively in the days since Weirdmageddon had gone global, it was still stable enough to stand on its own, but the pitched battle at the tower hadn't down the city or the playground any favours. More than half of the city's populace was still licking their wounds, and the rest were still hauling the wreckage away; dozens upon dozens of airships, armoured vehicles and tanks had been left in piles of contorted metal all along the road, almost all of them beyond repair. The factories hidden beneath the saccharine strata of Mabeland were already hard at work churning out replacements, but so far, none of the city's leadership could figure out exactly what they'd ever use them for, now that Mabel was gone.

And everyone left alive in the playground, from the stuffed animal trees to the giraffe bailiffs, now lived in terror of what would happen when Bill finally learned that their prisoner had escaped. But there was precious little they could do about it: by nature, the inhabitants of Mabeland were forbidden from ever leaving the playground, and none of them could transgress the boundaries of Eternal Summer. Plus, even if they could have earned permission to leave, there was that thing currently blocking the portal to the other prison.

All they could do was tidy up and hope that they would have the playground cleared of debris by the time Bill next arrived to check up on his prisoner: with a little luck, Judge Kitty had reasoned, they could claim that Mabel had left for Eternal Summer and never returned. After all, if there was no evidence of a battle and Bill wasn't inclined to look deeper, he'd have no reason to suspect anything. So, from sundown to sunset, all of Mabeland's citizens were consumed with the effort of tidying up.

In the end, it came as something as a surprise when their next visitor turned out not to be Bill at all, but a complete stranger. Tearing through the boundaries between playgrounds in the form of a beam of light, it rippled across the city as a flock of crows, before finally coalescing in the city square in its horrific true shape.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Shifty bellowed.

Perhaps a hundred people around the square looked up, but few of them payed attention for very long: after all, they had important work to do before Bill arrived, and however alarming the intruder was, he clearly wasn't one of the Henchmaniacs and he definitely wasn't Bill. So they shrugged their shoulders in disinterest and went back to their work, trusting that the guards already zeroing in on the interloper would get rid of him.

The Shapeshifter fumed silently. They journey so far had pushed him almost to the limits of his powers, even with Weirdness fuelling them, for he'd had to take microscopic forms just to weave his way through the barriers dividing each playground. Then again, even if it had been the easiest journey in the world, he still wouldn't have been happy: by nature, he wasn't accustomed to be ignored unless he wanted to be, and the sight of an entire city square turning a blind eye to him sent his blood boiling – almost literally.

Shifting his larynx ever so slightly, he amplified his voice a thousandfold until even the most powerful public address systems would have struggled to drown him out, and repeated himself:

"WHERE IS SHE?!" he thundered. "WHERE IS MABEL?!"

Just for the sake of emphasis, tentacles over thirty feet in length lashed the plaza, searing green flame erupted from gaping maws, and diamond-tipped pincers threshed through solid concrete. And for the first time in Mabeland's history, the city was silent… except perhaps for the distant rumble of the playground's inhabitants hurrying towards the plaza to get a good look at what was going on.

Eventually, two figures pushed their way to the front of the growing horde, accompanied by a small retinue of heavily-armed Waffle Guards. The first was a diminutive cat-person with magenta-coloured fur, an oversized head with a judge's wig crudely set atop it, and a set of eyes so massive they seemed perpetually on the verge of bulging out of their sockets. The other was a distressingly familiar-looking humanoid dressed in a backwards-facing cap and a battered white uniform; also, for some reason, there appeared to be an icepack strapped to his belt.

Once again, Shifty was struck by the sense of recognition he felt around place and around its people, almost as if he'd been here before. The first of these two was obviously Judge Kitty Kitty Meow Meow Face-Shwartstein, while the other could only be Dippy Fresh. And looking at the latter of the two, Shifty couldn't help but feel a distinctive ripple of anger, annoyance, and… hatred?

What kind of sense does that make? I've only just met him.

"Wiggity Wiggity Wassup, Dudebro?!" the cap-wearing apparition shrieked. "What's the trouble, man?"

Okay, it seems I have reasons to hate him after all.

"I'm here for Mabel," Shifty snarled. "Which'd you'd know by now if anyone here had been listening THE LAST THREE TIMES!"

"Dude, dude, dude! Be cool, bro! We're all pals here, bro!"

"SHUT UP AND LET ME TALK TO SOMEONE WITH A WORKING BRAIN!"

The judge very carefully pushed Dippy Fresh to one side with a trembling pause. "I'm willing to answer any questions you have," he said tentatively.

"Excellent! Finally, a bit of functional intellect at work. Alright, my questions – in order of appearance: where is Mabel, what defences have you arranged to keep her from escaping, how soon can you get her out of them, how many of you do I have to kill to make this happen, and…" The Shapeshifter's eyes narrowed. "And why has that idiot got an icepack strapped to his belt?"

"That's a very long story, dudebro-"

"I WASN'T ASKING YOU."

The anthropomorphic cat shrugged. "Can't help you there, I'm afraid. She escaped some time ago. Also, she ended up smashing Dippy Fresh here amidships with his own skateboard, hence the icepack."

Shifty took a deep breath, and began slowly counting to the highest number he could reach without breaking concentration – a bad habit picked up from Stanford Pines. "Right," he said at last. "I assume it goes without saying that I'm gonna have to take everything you just said with a huge chunk of salt."

"Dude, no, it really hurt-"

35, 36, 37, 38…

"One more word out of you, and I will not be held responsible for what happens next," Shifty hissed. "Now, you say that Mabel's escaped. I expect proof. Also, I expect to hear some idea of where she went."

"We last saw her heading in the direction of Endless Summer," said the Judge. "But there's something blocking the portal and we haven't been able to follow her."

72, 73, 74…

"How very convenient."

"It's the truth. Look, why would you be interested in Mabel to begin with? I can recognize the Henchmaniacs without even trying, and you're clearly not one of Bill's servants, so what could you possibly want her for?"

"Because-"

And here, Shifty could only flounder helplessly. What did he want Mabel for? What did he want any of Bill's captives for, and why were they all so important to him? The more he thought about it, the more his confusion grew, and the longer he found himself unable to answer, the angrier he became.

100, 101, 102…

"Because it's none of your business!" he yelled at last Now show me to the portal before I do something you'll regret!"

"You know what I don't like about you, man?" Dippy Fresh drawled. "You take everything way too seriously, dudebro. You need to take a chill pill, stay cool, stay slick – like me!"

120, 121, 122… oh to hell with diplomacy, I've got better things to do.

"And you what I don't like about you, Mr Fresh?" Shifty purred, not even bothering to hide the malice in his voice. "Your cap's on backwards."

And before Dippy Fresh could react, before the vapid cow's eyes behind those gaudy sunglasses could widen in shock, before anyone could separate the two of them, Shifty lunged. In the blink of an eye, his mismatched hands clamped down hard on Dippy Fresh's head and wrenched it a full one hundred and eighty degrees with a rich, meaty crunch of shattering vertebrae.

Suddenly wearing an even more vacuous expression than usual, Dippy Fresh let out a low, confused-sounding death rattle as he regarded his new perspective, clearly wondering why he could suddenly see the label on his collar without help. Then he pitched backwards, landing face down on the paving-stones with the brim of his cap pointed skywards – facing the right way around at last.

"THERE!" The Shapeshifter roared triumphantly. "FIXED!"

As one, the crowd backed away, several of them gibbering in blind panic.

"Dippy Fresh!" some whimpered. "He killed Dippy Fresh!"

"Now," Shifty continued, addressing the surrounding congregation, "I think it's time I made things nice and sparkling clear: one of you – preferably the least annoying – will show me the way to this portal to Endless Summer. Every second my demands are not met, one of you will die, and I. Will. Take. My. Time. Now, would you like to see how many of you I can kill before I'm forced to start butchering security forces as well, or would you like to be sensible and take me to Mabel?"

"Your prey is gone," hissed a gargantuan voice.

Shifty blinked. "Okay, who said that?" he asked quietly, suddenly aware that the entire city was once again deathly silent.

"Mabel Pines escaped Endless Summer a long time ago, along with the girl called Pacifica. The hunter sent after her did not survive; the blood of the Henchmaniac now flows through my veins, albeit not all of her soul. Her strength is my strength… and I imagine that would make me your equal in combat."

"It's that thing that was blocking the portal!" someone screamed.

"It's here!"

There was a rumble in the distance, as something huge and distinctly viscous began oozing its way between the buildings, until at last the speaker dipped into view: a slug the size of a skyscraper, its oozing blubbery hide the colour of blood, speckled with pulsing black veins.

"What the hell are you?" The Shapeshifter shouted up at it.

"I am Tzimisce."

"Shimmy-see who?"

"I am the Eldest and Greatest of all vampires, and you… are my prey!"

A/N: Anyone care to translate what Ford was saying?

This chapter's soundtrack choice is The Boogie Man, by Todd Rollins.

And of course, up next:

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