A/N: And now at last we've reached the end.

I am tired, I am sleep-deprived, and I am not sure what the hell I'm going to do from here apart from enjoy a long period of unconsciousness, but I have had an absolute whale of a time with this story. Writing has recently gotten me through some very dark times, from the current political/biological nightmare we all seem to be living with, to recent familial tragedies. I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have: rest assured, I will be eventually be returning from Gravity Falls... but first, I may have to take a hiatus to focus on my other neglected stories.

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

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine, and neither is The Secret World.

The Grey Professional left the world in a sorry state: once Ford had worked out how to open a portal with the dimensional teleporter, Grey couldn't even bring himself to walk through it with his head held high and his pride intact; he could only shuffle away like a man in leaden manacles, head bowed, half fuming with rage and half cringing in embarrassment as he vanished into the portal.

Soon after, Ford brainstormed a few ideas with the copier clones, and eventually came to an arrangement: there were dimensions out there that were naturally hospitable to paper-based life-forms, worlds where the clones could live long and happy lives without having to constantly worry about rain, snow, hail, dew and other forms of moisture; those of them who wanted to depart for this other dimension – once Ford had successfully identified – could leave as soon as they wished. But, if they wanted to remain behind and eke out a more dangerous life in Gravity Falls, Mabel and Ford wouldn't stop them; they'd be free to live in the basement, to live in a house of their own, or just to camp out in the forests with waterproof tents and rain ponchos. In total, half of the clones departed, and half opted to stay in Gravity Falls – Tracy going with one group and Quattro remaining behind with the others.

Before long, the sound of portals opening was replaced by the sounds of a small work crew in action, the soothing cacophony of hammering and sawing as the Mystery Shack gradually threw off the alterations that the Forger Wasps had made to it. Slowly but surely, the fortress was being returned to its former tourist-trap glory.

And then, just as Mabel thought the day couldn't possibly get any better, there was a tiny blip from the security monitor overseeing their two remaining patients…

Dipper's return to the waking world was slow and laboured, interrupted by nonsensical snippets of dreams that faded the moment he tried to focus on them. Time and again, he found himself being drawn back to visions of Mabel holding the rift or swatting a hornet or something similar, images that slipped through his fingers every time he began creeping back towards wakefulness, and he was left only with a fleeting glimpse or two of whatever was going on in the real world – a pillow, a sheet, a high ceiling, and maybe the notion that someone was hugging him . He was aware on some level that he wanted to wake up, but he was also aware that he was exhausted, his body weighed down with fatigue, so more often than not he just allowed tiredness to drag him back down into the pillows: on the occasions where he was conscious enough to realize it, he felt drained, battered, weary and footsore, almost as if he was recovering from being possessed by Bill again – though at least he didn't have any new collections of cuts and bruises to keep him from getting comfortable.

Eventually, he regained enough of his strength to gradually claw his way back into a state of full consciousness, slowly forced one eyelid open, and took stock of the situation: as expected he was lying in a bed, but for some reason he was now in the basement lab, wireless sensors connecting his body to all kinds of monitors and machines.

Also, someone had indeed been hugging him, their arms wrapped very firmly around his middle even as he slept.

To his surprise, that someone was none other than Pacifica Northwest.

At some point since the two of them had ended up down here, someone had joined their two beds together, allowing the sleeping Northwest to roll over to his end of the mattress and – without even waking up – instinctively hug him.

For a full minute, Dipper could only lie there, staring in bewilderment. Eventually, remaining perfectly still got too much for him, and he instinctively fidgeted – only slightly, but that was enough to rouse Pacifica from her sleep. Blinking sleepily, she yawned, mumbled a bit, and then opened her eyes to focus on the figure lying next to her.

Her eyes widened in astonishment, and a distinctly un-Northwest-like grin erupted across her face. Dipper had just enough time to mutter, "Uh, hi," before she drew him into a yet another hug, kissing him frantically on the cheek. Dipper didn't know what to do, but instinct, he hugged her back – and this seemed to trigger Pacifica's vocal chords, because the next second, she was talking at a pace that could have been rivalled only by Mabel in the depths of a sugar high.

"OhmygodImissedyouIthoughtI'dneverseeyouagainohjeezIthoughtmymakeupwouldbesomuchbetterbecauseweweregoingonaproperdateandeverythingbutthenIfiguredoutthattheForgerWaspstrickedmeandIthoughtI'dneverseeyoueveragainandohgoshI'msogladyou'reokaysoMabelandFordmusthavefoundacureafteralland-"

For almost a full minute, she ranted without making a single coherent statement or taking a single breath, until at last she ran out of energy and fell silent, still hugging Dipper as if afraid he'd vanish if she didn't maintain her grip on him. Then, from the doorway, there was a whoop of joy; a moment later, Mabel rocketed into view, hurtling through the air as she catapulted herself across the lab with one almighty shout of "DIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!"

Suddenly, there were three people occupying the bed, and Mabel was hugging Dipper and Pacifica so tightly that she almost ended up banging their heads together by mistake.

"Whoa," Dipper wheezed, as Mabel's hug began slowly constricting his throat, "I'm happy to see you too, Mabel… but what am I doing down here? And what's Pacifica doing down here?"

"You managed to find a cure for the Forger Wasps, didn't you?" said Pacifica excitedly. "That's why we're back to normal, isn't it? You actually saved everyone?"

"Hang on! What do you mean, 'back to normal?' What happened to us? And what the heck are Forger Wasps?"

Mabel took a deep breath, and as her expression shifted, Dipper suddenly realized that his sister was deeply nervous – maybe even genuinely frightened. Nonetheless, she sat down and began to explain the situation that unfolded over the last few days: the Retribution Squad, Grey, the Forger Wasps, Mabel's infestation by the Queen, and even how she'd accidentally infested Dipper in turn. She gave him every last nugget of information on the plague that had ensued, with Pacifica reluctantly chiming in to explain the parts of the story that Mabel herself hadn't actually witnessed. Finally, Mabel explained how Grey and the Wasps had been defeated, concluding with the reassurance that everything was slowly going back to normal.

"So in other words, I got possessed again," Dipper summarized – not that he needed to ask for clarification: he knew he'd been used as a fingerpuppet by yet another psychopath from another word; already he was feeling the familiar sensation of crawling nausea that crept into his stomach whenever the issue of possession came up. And then there'd been the exhaustion he'd felt when he'd first awoken, identical to the pain and weariness Bill had inflicted upon him as Bipper. He didn't need Grunkle Ford to confirm this story, not with his own body providing evidence enough.

Mabel nodded, suddenly very solemn. "Are you okay?" she asked gently.

"I've felt better. Is everyone okay?"

"Absolutely. Nobody's been hurt in the long run, and everyone's getting back to the way they were."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You put yourself through heck trying to save the world… and I've got a few memories left over from the Wasps – I mean, I think they're memories; Forger Wasps don't sound like they dream or anything like that. Point is, I keep seeing what they did to manipulate you… and I just want to know you're okay."

He also wanted to know if the vision he'd seen of her unknowing deal with Bill had been real; he wanted to know if all those scenes from the hive-mind's memories had been real, if the Wasps really had manipulated and tormented Mabel that way. He wanted to tell her that none of it was her fault, that he could clearly see that she'd been lied to, that they'd exploited her misery and made her think along their lines. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he'd already forgiven her.

But in the end, he said nothing: he didn't want to tear open old wounds.

And besides, something told him that Mabel already knew, because she immediately drew him into another crushing hug.

"It's good to have you back, bro-bro."

There was a pause, as the atmosphere relaxed and the tension bled away. Then, an odd question struck Dipper, and he voiced it almost without thinking: "So we were actually going out on a date?" he asked, eyeing Pacifica with some confusion. "Before it turned out to be a trick, I mean?"

Pacifica could only blush, suddenly unable to make eye contact.

At this point, Dipper wasn't entirely sure what was doing, but he was feeling a bit devil-may-care and giddy after his long sleep… and strange as it was to wake up to being hugged by Pacifica – a girl who'd gone from hateful to almost trustworthy within the space of a few short weeks – he had to admit, he had felt genuinely happy in that moment. There'd been none of the awkwardness he'd felt around Wendy, no sense that he was struggling against astronomical odds to get her to notice him, or that she was out of his league in all the ways that mattered: in that moment, there'd been nothing but him and Pacifica.

And so, he found himself asking, "Do you think we could go on a real date together?"

Pacifica's eyes widened.

Then she kissed him square on the lips, and for the next minute, the only sound in the lab was Mabel punching the air in triumph.

"What do you mean, my credit card's been cancelled?!" 8-Ball howled.

The communications module droned disappointedly, explaining absolutely nothing in the process.

"I thought I'd made this perfectly clear: I'm the sole inheritor of Bill Cipher's assets as per the arrangements he made with this establishment prior to his death. I've been given total executive control of all his properties, holdings and remaining bank accounts across the multiverse – and I was told nobody would contest this! The card I am attempting to enter was specifically left in order to ensure that Bill Cipher's interests would be carried out following his death! Now, unless you can give me a good reason for any of this happening, then in the interests of maintaining my spleen I suggest you REACTIVATE MY DAMN CREDIT CARD! I HAVE MERCENARIES TO HIRE!"

On the module's screen, a very tired-sounding clerk in a far-off dimension began spitting out a long string of legal jargon that amounted to "no." So far, there didn't seem to be any concrete reasons on the horizon apart from "because we said so."

8-Ball groaned, furiously grinding his foot into the swirling fundament of Weirdness on which he stood and trying to ignore the cold winds now sweeping along the endless liquid hills of madness. The Nightmare Realm was worse than usual: since Bill's death, the dimension had been significantly less vibrant than usual, its lurid colours forever dampened, its frenzied music muted by the loss of its master… but somehow, now that 8-Ball's biggest plan for revenge had failed, it seemed even duller and colder than ever.

The current spate of financial difficulties didn't help.

"Listen," he snarled, "As Bill's legally-appointed heir, I deserve answers: why can't I use this card anymore? The only reason why I would ever have my ownership revoked is for failing to serve his interests, and I've been doing everything he'd want me to do!"

The clerk sighed. "That may well be part of the problem, sir: in the last few hours, certain facts have come to light concerning your use of Mr Cipher's funds. We normally make no judgements as to the use of money or the use of power. The dimension Mr Cipher intended to invade was not a client world, nor was it in any way a potential asset, so we had no objection to his attempted takeover. However, the use of Forger Wasps in this attempt at revenge… well, OmniFinancial deplores the use of biohazards which might spread across the multiverse and therefore damage company profits."

"I wasn't the one who decided to use the damn Wasps!"

"Nonetheless, as the Grey Professional's client, you gave no objection to it: the board of directors feel that you bear at least some blame for this potential threat." An apologetic smile glanced off the clerk's pallid features. "Furthermore, the negative publicity from this social media leak reflects badly on us, and we have already received some criticism for doing business with you."

"And that's why you decided to shut me down? Just because you've gotten a bloody nose from some Twitter page-"

"Uh, no sir: technically, we don't have the authority to cancel your credit card under such circumstances – only fine and penalize accordingly. But… well, the original card holder exercised his right to withdraw your ownership."

There was a pause of about ten seconds, during which 8-Ball's consciousness tried valiantly to parse the sentence he'd just heard, without much success: it simply didn't compute on any level; even by the surrealistic standards of the Nightmare Realm, it didn't make sense. In the end, he could only howl, "The original card holder?!"

"That's right, sir."

"The original card holder is dead!"

Without saying a word, the clerk pressed a button on the keyboard in front of him, switching over to a different camera somewhere else across the multiverse. For a moment or so, the viewscreen was blank with static as the module struggled to establish a connection, but eventually the confusion resolved into…

Not for the first time that day, 8-Ball could only blink in confusion, his eyes audibly clacking bewilderedly as he took in the improbable sight before him. For some reason, he'd been switched over to a 21st-century webcam in an ordinary home… and sitting before him was what appeared to be a human child.

This kid was about the least-impressive sight that 8-Ball had seen in his long years: roughly six years of age, he was so short and scrawny he could barely see over the edge of his desk; it wasn't until a pair of gangly arms reached into the shot and helpfully added an old phone book to the kid's chair that 8-Ball could get a clear look at him. And yet there was something uncannily familiar about his muddy brown hair, something about the battered old clothes he wore that seemed to trigger a rush of déjà vu.

Then he saw the child's eyes: for some reason, 8-Ball had expected them to be dull brown to match the kid's hair, but instead, this little boy's eyes were a vivid, almost luminous shade of blue.

"Hello, 8-Ball," said the child. "It's good to see you again."

Once again, the Henchmaniac could only stare in confusion. "Boss?" he whispered.

Little Bill Cipher nodded, seemingly embarrassed by the recognition. "I'm called Marcus these days," he admitted sheepishly. "But yes, it's me."

"But how – I thought you were – everyone said you would have to be –"

"Yes, I died. But I made a deal with the Axolotl at the last minute: 'my time has come to burn, I invoke the ancient power that I may return.' As it turns out, the deal was a little more complicated than I thought it would be: Axolotl allowed me to return from the dead… but not in my old body, and not even in the same universe – or even the same multiverse. So, I was reborn in a mortal body and told to make the most of my second chance." He sighed. "And here I am."

8-Ball's heart leapt with excitement: now he knew that revenge was no longer necessary; now that his master had returned, their old goal of world domination was back on the menu and ready to be savoured. For so long, he thought he'd never be able to achieve anything

"But which dimension are you in right now?" he gibbered wildly. "Can you get us out? When are we starting Weirdmageddon again? When-"

"We're not starting Weirdmageddon again, 8-Ball," said Bill sadly.

There was another disbelieving silence as the Henchmaniac digested this information.

"What?"

"It's off the table, permanently. I've been in this new body for about six years and the longer I stay, the more pointless the idea of starting again sounds. This dimension's already experienced Weirdmageddon; it's already beaten another version of me: what'd be the point of trying all over again when the world already knows how to defeat you? What's the point when the rift's already gone and all the old starting points have been destroyed? And…"

Bill bit his lip nervously. "I've got friends here," he said at last. "I've got a family: they know who I used to be, and they still care about me. They met the other Bill Cipher, and they've got every reason in the world to hate me… but they don't. They actually care about me, 8-Ball. I don't know why, but they do. And it's happening all over the multiverse: billions of Bill Ciphers being reborn and forgiven and allowed to go on living and actually being happy. Do you know what that's like? Do you actually know what it's like to feel genuinely and sincerely happy without having to make someone suffer? I thought I'd never feel that way again after I saw my home dimension burn… but somehow, I have."

He sighed deeply. "And that's why there'll be no more Weirdmageddon. And that's why I had your card cancelled as soon as Axolotl told me what you were up to: the world I left has had more than enough trouble without you making it worse. I'm sorry; I know how much revenge meant to you – how much it meant to me… but I can't let you have it."

This time, when the stunned pause finally came to an end, the emotion that sprung to mind wasn't shock, but rage.

"Can't let me have it?" 8-Ball snarled. "What the hell happened to you, boss? What family turned you into a weak, spineless little brat, huh? Goddammit, Axolotl's done something worse than give you a new life: he's taken the fight out of you. I mean, you'd be strangling kittens right now if you had even a bit of your old self left. Since when did things family stop you? Since when did poor odds stop you? I don't care if you don't want it to happen: now that you're back, Weirdmageddon is back on! Is that clear?"

Bill cringed but said nothing. If anything, he looked almost too ashamed to answer.

"GODDAMMIT, ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!" howled 8-Ball.

As Bill flinched, a hand reached into view and snatched the webcam off the desk. "I think that's enough," said a voice from somewhere overhead, as the viewscreen's perspective juddered wildly.

Next thing he knew, 8-Ball found himself staring into the face of another human – this one a gangly young man of about eighteen: presumably this was a member of Bill's new biological family, for he had the same skinny build and muddy brown hair… and yet there was something about the square jaw and the dark eyes that immediately set off another shiver of déjà vu.

Then, as the webcam settled, a few errant strands of hair across the young man's forehead parted like a curtain – and suddenly, the Henchmaniac realized exactly who this was.

"Pine Tree," he hissed.

The Other Dipper Pines smiled. "Took you long enough, didn't it?"

"You're Bill's new family? YOU?! You of all people-" 8-Ball stopped in mid-sentence, almost too angry for coherent speech. "You did this just to spite us," he hissed at last. "You accepted him in just so you could bring Bill Cipher low, didn't you? Admit it! You did this just so you could have the last laugh!"

"You really do have a lot of trouble getting human motives, don't you? Okay, I'll make it simple for you: first of all, this wasn't the Bill I ran into back when I was twelve years old, remember? I'm not the version of Dipper you tried to hunt down and eat six years ago. I don't have any motivation to do anything to you or the Henchmaniacs because we're from a completely different multiverse. Plus, even if I did have a reason to hate you, you're locked away in the Nightmare Realm and your last bit of access to the outside world just got cut off; right now, you and the other Henchmaniacs are about as dangerous as the average chia pet, so I've got no reason to play emotional games with you out of spite. Got it?"

"Pine Tree, if you seriously think I'd accept you taking in Bill out of the so-called goodness of your heart-"

"His name is Marcus, 8-Ball," said Other Dipper coldly. "He's my little brother now, and there's nothing you can do about it: as far as I'm concerned, Bill Cipher died a long time ago."

The camera panned across the room, briefly focussing on the shaken-looking figure of Marcus Pines, who was now being given a reassuring hug by a tall, willowy brunette in a vividly-coloured sweater. Even without the braces, there was no mistaking Mabel Pines.

Not for the first time that day, 8-Ball could only wonder how the hell he'd ended up in a position to watch his ex-boss being given a cuddle by an alternate version of one of his greatest enemies. But then again, he'd been wondering that for several days in a row by now: somehow, one of the best mercenaries in the Multiverse had been outwitted by a twelve-year-old with a room-temperature IQ and a lurid obsession with sweaters, and the foolproof plan to extinguish the human race and make Mabel suffer for all eternity had long since vanished down the plughole. By all accounts, the Forger Wasps had gone in the same direction. How could this have happened? How was it possible for this to have gone so horribly wrong when he'd had every chance of victory in his hands?

"What do you hope to get out of this, then?" he demanded. "What do you want to use him for? How are you supposed to profit from being his brother?!"

Other Dipper sighed. "Have you ever heard the saying 'if you have to ask, you'll never know'? You've been a Henchmaniac for too long, 8-Ball: you're still thinking the same way even though your boss is gone forever. If you'd ever gotten out of your own comfort zone for a little while, you might have actually realized what a waste of your time this whole revenge plan was, or how stupid it was to leave all the planning up to someone else. But I guess if you don't get why we accept Marcus, you won't understand that either… so I guess it's time we said goodbye."

He reached for the off-switch, only to be cut off by a frenzied howl from 8-Ball. "DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU EVEN THINK OF DOING THAT! WE'RE NOT FINISHED YET, PINE TREE!"

The alternate Dipper Pines gave 8-Ball a pitying look. "We were finished six years ago, pal," he said wearily. "Even if you're not the same Henchmaniac who tried to kill me and eat me when I was a kid, you're still nothing to me: I've grown up since then; I've seen weirder and nastier things than you can even think of, and I've met even worse people than you. You were never that special, 8-Ball, but now you're not even that. I'd forgotten all about you up until Axolotl told us what you tried to do, and once this is over, I'll probably forget about you all over again. Goodbye, 8-Ball: it's been unemotional."

And with that, he severed the connection, leaving the viewscreen blank. As if to add insult to injury, the bank's emissary didn't reappear, no doubt having made his excuses and cut his own connection while 8-Ball had been preoccupied with Bill and Pine Tree.

For almost a full minute, 8-Ball could only stare in bewilderment at the now-inactive communication module. Right now, this was one of the few guaranteed means of reaching the outside world via the multiversal wireless, but without currency or anything to barter with, nobody would even give him the time of day: how could he convince anyone to work for him now? Who would agree to the near-impossible stakes of taking revenge on the Pines brats without the promise of a reward?

But maybe he'd been thinking too small-scale: what if he'd been wrong when he'd decided that revenge was the only possible outcome? What if Weirdmageddon had been within his reach all along? True, he didn't have the power to contact mortals in dreams or visions like Bill had, but with some creative signalling, he might be able to issue messages to primitive worlds across the multiverse – enough to communicate with him and trick them into following his orders. Yes, yes, this sounded quite possible…

And it was at that moment that, just as 8-Ball was starting to feel good about himself again, that he realized that he was standing in a rather sizeable shadow. Slowly turning around, he looked up in terror to find himself staring into the blazing eyes of Pyronica; with her body ablaze with living flame and every surviving member of the Henchmaniacs at her back, she was easily the most terrifying sight that 8-Ball had seen in a long while.

"You little bastard," she growled. "You've been hiding this from us all this time – a link to the outside world and the funds that could've broken us out of the Nightmare Realm – but instead you used it for this!"

8-Ball tried and failed to look innocent. "Uh, what? What did I do? What did I use what for?"

"THIS, YOU BILLIARD-BRAINED CHIMP!"

She drew a battered phone from her purse and waved it furiously in his face; as hard as it was for him to focus on the wildly blurring screen, it was clear that she'd been keeping an eye on social media throughout their time in exile. No doubt, she'd seen everything of Mabel's humiliating victory, including the part where she'd clearly been seen talking to 8-Ball.

This was even worse than he'd feared: up until Grey's defeat, 8-Ball had been worried sick that the other Henchmaniacs might find out about his plan for revenge and try to stop it, or worse still, to seize control of Bill's resources for their own harebrained scheme to start Weirdmageddon 2.0… but now that he'd realized his mistake and was ready to try something new, they would have different intentions altogether. Now they'd be out for revenge of their own.

"Idiot," snapped Pyronica. "You absolute gimboid cretin. You've sunk us completely, you know that? You've screwed every last one of us from asshole to breakfast."

"Look, guys, I know this seems bad-"

"Who do ya think's going to help us now, genius?" Teeth chattered angrily. "Now that you've sprayed this story all over the multiversal internet like shit through a hose, we're persona non-grata everywhere!"

"But-"

"Even if we had the money to pay for a way out, nobody'd take it! We're screwed thanks to you!"

There was an angry rumble from the crowd as they began fanning out, slowly surrounding him.

8-Ball laughed nervously. "I know I've made a few mistakes here and there, guys, but I promise you I've got something new: all we've got to do is find a way of contacting a primitive world and getting them to reach our frequency."

"And how are we supposed to do that, genius?" sneered Amorphous Shape.

"Well, all we have to do is to send the messages through advanced dimensions and bounce them off-"

From somewhere at the back of Pyronica's throat, there issued the sound of a million furnaces erupting life at once. "They're scanning our broadcasts now, asshat! You think the most advanced societies in the multiverse are just going to sit by and let us use them as signal boosters? You think Axolotl's going to let that happen?"

"Just listen to me for a sec, it's really simple: we can have anything we want this way! All we've got to do is find someone just clever enough to give us a signal booster and just dumb enough to hear us out: I mean, back when I was still free, I met a cabal of shark-people with lamprey wives who-"

"No, I think I've heard enough."

And with that, Pyronica drew her fist back and slugged 8-Ball hard in the jaw: the impact alone sent his eyes spinning in different directions, and left several teeth hurtling out of his mouth like misfired rockets, but the heat of her flame-wreathed fist nearly scorched the skin clean off his face. Dazed, he tried to retaliate, only for Teeth to charge in from the left and bite down hard on his arm with a crunch of shattering elbows; as he began the process of deboning the limb with his incisors, Hectorgon shot at 8-Ball from the right, dealing him a stunning blow to the skull, while Amorphous Shape and Keyhole pummelled him brutally in the stomach.

By that point, 8-Ball was almost managing to power through the pain, and now drew on the power of the Weirdness around him as best as he could, forcing himself to grow even taller than ever before. Hopefully, if he could make himself big and strong enough, he could force the other Henchmaniacs to cooperate with him – or at the very least to force them to back down long enough to get started on the plan.

And it was then that Xanthar put down his head and changed; though he hadn't enhanced his own impressive physique, he was still big enough to smash into 8-Ball's face like a sledgehammer, crumpling it like a empty soda can under a steamroller. Punch-drunk from the collision, 8-Ball groaned, wobbled, swayed and finally collapsed like a felled tree – landing squarely on top of the communications module, squashing it flatter than a pancake.

But of course, 8-Ball wasn't in a position to notice his last hope vanishing down the U-Bend.

He was too busy getting his head ripped off.

Early evening found Dipper and Mabel sitting out on the roof of the Mystery Shack with Waddles at their side, drinking Pitt Cola and watching the sunset as they whiled away the hours of their second-last day in Gravity Falls. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they worked on one of their many projects – Dipper his writing, Mabel her knitting; more often than not, they simply sat back and looked on contentedly as the newly-restored Gravity Falls basked in the glow of the setting sun.

It had taken a day or so for the townsfolk to return to their usual routines, but by now it was clear that Gravity Falls was healing.

It had required a lot of effort and more than a little bit of technology purloined from Grey's utility belt, but slowly the signs of the Forger Wasps' brief reign of terror were being erased. Just as they had in the wake of Weirdmageddon, the townsfolk had rolled up their collective sleeves and went to work in sweeping up what little remained of the world-destroying threat: roadblocks were disassembled, modified cars were sold or repurposed, fortifications were dismantled, broken windows and kicked-down doorways were replaced, and the clothes that had been discarded during the infestations had been returned to their rightful owners. For maybe the third time that year, the Mystery Shack had been restored to its former glory and the old tourist trap was back in business. Even the flag of the new empire had been taken down from the flagpole and ripped to shreds. Soon, it would be as if the conquest of Gravity Falls had never happened, and the events of the last week or so had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Thankfully, the memories left in their wake were limited and not immensely traumatizing, so once again the people of Gravity Falls could carry on with their lives as they always had, uninterrupted by the Weirdness they lived amongst and occasionally blundered into. Mayor Cutebiker was decreeing that this was another incident that everyone should just put into the back of their minds, and having no overwhelming reason to disagree with him, the people did so. And so far, those of them who'd seen enough of Mabel's memories to recall her deal with Bill had forgiven her very quickly; maybe being connected to Mabel's brain had made them sympathetic to her point of view, or maybe Gravity Falls simply didn't have the capacity to hold a grudge. Whatever the case, her secret was out and now completely irrelevant, and Mabel couldn't have been happier.

And if anything, the supernatural residents adjusted even quicker: once they'd returned to their usual forms, they went right back to their daily pursuits amidst the forests and corners of the town, fighting, stealing, feasting and indulging in much stranger hobbies by far, scarcely even bothering to remember that they'd been transformed into a different species for the last few days (though in the case of the unicorns, that might have been out of sheer embarrassment).

Now the final stage of recovery was ready to begin: tomorrow morning, Dipper and Mabel would finally celebrate their thirteenth birthdays, and just about everyone in town was invited. It was shaping up to be a momentous day: Soos was hoping to make the day a bit more festive with a few homemade fireworks, McGucket was bringing along some of his latest inventions to make the party even livelier, and Pacifica was going to be attending as Dippers new girlfriend. Meanwhile, Mabel could already tell that Grunkle Ford was planning to spring something special on Grunkle Stan, and given that they'd enjoyed a renewed friendship ever since Bill Cipher had bit the dust, she couldn't wait to see what it was.

It would be their last hurrah in Gravity Falls, for the two were to be sent home not long afterwards; back to Piedmont, back to their parents, back to school (high school in this case), and back into total normality. Until their next visit to Gravity Falls, all the magic and strangeness would be out of their lives… and though Mabel was a little sad to leave it all behind, she was just glad to be able to return home at all.

For the longest time, she'd been convinced that the only way she'd ever see Mom and Dad again was when the Forger Wasps finally invaded California, and the fact that she'd somehow managed to defeat the rotten bugs against all odds had left her almost levitating with mingled joy and relief; she was going home her way, and she'd be able to actually look her parents in the eye, even after all the questionable things she'd done this summer. True, it would definitely be strange for her and Dipper return to their ordinary home lives after spending an entire summer among weirdness, and given that they probably wouldn't be able to explain any of it to Mom and Dad without sounding completely crazy… but something told her that Dipper would find a way.

Already, he was jotting down the first passages of a new journal, with additional details supplied by Mabel. Maybe one day, with a little help from Mabel and Grunkle Ford, Dipper would be the one who finally introduced the rest of the world to the wonders of Gravity Falls… but until then, the stories of their adventures would remain just that, a series of imaginary anecdotes shared with mom and dad, and occasionally with the teachers when the time came for a bit of creative writing… and of course, with Pacifica – for the two of them had already promised to remain in contact via email.

As for Mabel, she was busy with her knitting, occasionally stopping to pat Waddles or exchange jokes with Dipper. By now, she'd worked out the best possible design for her new sweater, and it involved wasps: orange and black for colour, and a wasp being crushed by a flyswatter on the front. She had her own ways of commemorating their many adventures and their many victories, but she didn't need to share them with the world; she didn't need any more validation – she'd been forgiven by her brother, her Grunkles and everyone in Gravity Falls.

For the first time in what felt like years, she could look upon the future with total confidence. No matter what happened next, she'd be happy with it: she had her brother, she had Waddles, she had her art, and she had her family. As far as she was concerned, she had everything she could possibly want.

And so, it was with a sense of utter calm and unshakable peace that sat back, smiled and absently wondered what had become of the Grey Professional…

Grey sighed deeply and tried not to use any of his more diabolical expletives.

He had only been on this godforsaken rock for about a day and a half, and already he was sick of it. The weather was cold, the food was terrible, the refugees were annoying as fuck, the defenders were barely competent, the constant sound of gunfire kept him up at night, and the moaning zombies outside made him yearn for the comparative subtlety of the Forger Wasps.

Stanford Pines had been very careful in selecting the dimension that had become Grey's prison: he'd made sure to send him to a universe where the laws of physics were as hospitable as possible and set him on a planet with a breathable atmosphere and edible food. Unfortunately, though his safety had been the greatest consideration, his comfort hadn't: once the old bastard had determined that the dimensional teleporter wasn't going to drop his prisoner in an open volcano or anything like that, he'd selected the landing ground entirely at random, and by sheer bad luck, Grey had wound up in a wretched zombie-infested bolthole on some half-forgotten little island just off the coast of Maine.

Having narrowly made it to safety after a very hasty sprint out of the Wendigo-infested forests, he was currently sheltering in the local Sheriff's Office with all the other survivors from around the town, and with the shambling dead constantly besieging the place, the situation was tense even without the crab-clawed men lurching up from the beach to command the zombie hordes. Since supply runs were so dangerous, even on the rare occasions that the zombie army could be trimmed down to manageable level, creature comforts were all but impossible: his last meal had been a can of soup heated up on a camping stove and shared with two other people; his bed was a sleeping bag hidden in one of the cells; the best source of heat was a makeshift burn barrel; the only entertainment was scavenged DVDs played on a battered laptop, and the occasional Youtube video on the days when the Internets was actually working… and the less said about the bathrooms, the better.

But he could have lived with it. He could have lived with all of it – the cold, the damp, the cramped conditions, the terrible food, the looming threat of death, the incomparable smell, the annoying locals, the noise, the commotion, the zombies, the bewildering array of visitors, and the fact that he had none of his gear and a condition that only made his life harder.

He could even cope with the fact that he'd somehow ended up in yet another small town in the middle of nowhere with more supernatural activity than collective brain cells.

What he couldn't stand was the pitying.

By now, the Queen Wasp still occupying his body had learned to conserve her strength and was often keeping him in Mabel form for longer periods of time – sometimes up to five hours. She still couldn't transform him all the way, nor could it keep him that way, but that didn't stop her from trying. Every few hours or so, Grey would shrink down into the form of a child, whimpering and convulsing in pain every step of the way, and would remain shrunken until the Queen finally ran out of energy and let him revert to his normal form. It had been a nasty shock for the defenders at the Sheriff's office to see him transform for the first time, but once they had recovered from the sight, everyone wanted to reassure him: everyone and their mother wanted to give him a hug and tell him it was going to be alright, or to pity him for whatever curse they thought he'd been lumbered with, or maybe just to keep as far from the action as possible.

Time and again, he'd tried to tell them that he'd be at least somewhat useful in combat, for he could still fire a gun and fight in hand-to-hand combat if need be – after all, it wasn't as if the Queen was stupid enough to transform him when he was in the middle of battle. And it wasn't that he particularly give a shit about any of these contemptible little rats, it was just that he would rather have actually done something productive with his time; besides, shooting a few zombies would have at least made him feel better about himself. But nobody would listen: half the defenders treated him like an invalid, and the others acted as though he really was just a child who happened to spend the majority of his time impersonating an adult. It was nothing short of humiliating, and the fact that he would occasionally blurt out things that the real Mabel would have said – courtesy of the Queen trying to fill his brain with her memories – only made it all the more embarrassing.

Worse still, the Queen seemed to agree with the defenders. She hadn't fully converted to reading his memories instead of his senses, so she knew exactly when he was planning to make a break for the door; every time he tried to escape or pick up a gun, she would transform Grey just long enough for someone to subdue him and drag him back to safety.

But then again, even if he could escape, where would he go? This place was completely cut off from the mainland: by all accounts, the Fog that now surrounded the island was effectively impassable, and anyone who tried to leave by the bridge or by boat was usually found dead on the beach sometime later. No aircraft existed except in the hands of "the company men" hiding out north of the island lone airport, and they were apparently too trigger-happy to cooperate. And though there'd apparently been friendlier visitors to the island, but they had a completely method of getting past the Fog – one that apparently worked only for them.

In other words, Grey was now a prisoner of this dimension and of this putrid heap of seaweed-strewn rocks.

This was where his life was going to end: he'd started out as a nobleman of 19th-century Florence, abducted by aliens and led out into the multiverse, the first human to travel beyond his dimension; he'd been a special guest of the Retribution Squad, offered membership as a reward for his brilliance in the art of revenge; he'd been a transhuman, modified with the subtle technologies of the most advanced universes in reach and given a lifespan greater than any human of his universe would ever know; he'd been an avenger for the richest men and women and nonspecific entities of the multiverse, proving himself a thousand times over; he'd been a reformer, helping to cull the unworthy from the ranks of the Retribution Squad, even making his mark permanent by giving his the organization his family motto; he'd been the greatest champion the revengers of the multiverse had ever known.

And now he was going to be spending the rest of his life in Maine.

Fucking Maine, of all places!

Sighing once again, he sat back to watch as the latest round of "visitors" tramped into the office, ready to receive yet another welcoming speech from the Sheriff.

They were an odd bunch, to say the least, especially when it came to their clothes: they wore a bewildering array of tuxedos, ceremonial masks, industrial aprons and gloves, business suits, cowboy hats, fetish gear, military-style uniforms in all the colours of the rainbow, gas masks, ninja costumes, convict jumpsuits, hoodies, laurel wreaths, lab coats, jack-o-lantern masks, Santa costumes, battered top hats and ragged jackets, eyepatches, antique armour, scarlet greatcoats, pig masks, hazmat suits, jingasas, mascot outfits, tricorns, straightjackets, insectoid headdresses, pointed wizard's hats, gleaming black jackets with luminescent gold shirts, bell toppers strung with tentacles or swarming with snowflakes, halos, devil horns, kilts, tinfoil hats, monocles, pickelhaubes, futuristic armour plating that glowed in the afternoon gloom… there was even a man wandering around in a shimmering gold tux and top hat among the current bunch, and he'd arrived on a hoverboard for good measure.

And assuming they weren't wearing even stranger makeup for good measure, they often brought along pets: dogs, cats, birds, giant insects, flying octopi, robot spiders, miniature demons, tiny golems… once, Grey had even saw a tiny ghost kitten flitting in and out of reality as it followed its master into the office.

At first, he hadn't known what to make of the visitors, especially given that they rarely spoke and certainly not to him, but the visitors had quickly proved themselves more than prepared to survive anything and everything the island had thrown at them.

They were equipped with an impressive array of strange and otherworldly powers, throwing balls of fire, teleporting, cutting through solid steel and tossing lightning bolts easier than blinking; he didn't recognize the precise source these abilities, but given that many were armed with spellbooks, dolls and ornamental shields, he had to presume it was magical in nature rather than technological. However they did it, they were good at it. No matter the odds, no matter what errands they'd been sent on, they'd always returned alive and unharmed: they'd helped out at the local church, they'd done a bit of detective work for the local fortune teller, they'd supported the few residents who hadn't left for the Sheriff's office, they'd done a few odd jobs for the Wabanaki at the foot of the mountain, and according to a few rumours around the office they'd even been seen lending a hand at the mysterious academy to the south.

In the last few months, the odd visitors had kept this sorry little community supplied with food, medicine and ammunition – sometimes even descending into the secret paths back to the world to buy takeaway dinners for anyone wanting a change from canned soup. Nobody knew what any of the visitors wanted out of Kingsmouth, and the visitors themselves certainly weren't in the mood to explain it, but from atop the office, he'd seen them fighting off dozens of zombies at a time – and sometimes doing battle with much bigger and more dangerous foes; according to some of the sentries, there'd even been a time when a golem the size a skyscraper had abruptly lurched out of the Fog and been brought down by an army of several hundred visitors.

Today, it was a smaller group in attendance, and for some reason, they didn't seem quite as unified today: one of them, a rather scrawny woman in a dazzling white uniform and a blue beret, had immediately turned around and left the moment she realized that the other visitors had followed her into the office. Grey couldn't tell if this was out hatred or fear, for the woman's face was hidden by an imposing white mask with thick round lenses for eyes and a long, beaklike nose.

Whatever the case, the "plague doctor" had hurried out and left only confused stares in her wake.

But as the team of becostumed misfits were briefed by Sheriff Bannerman, an idea suddenly struck Grey: what if these mages (or whatever they were) could help him somehow?

They had a form of magic quite outside the realms of his experience, but whatever powered their abilities – be it a genetic feature or a supernatural imbuement – it had to be something impressive. But even if they didn't have the ability to remove the Queen from his body, they might at least have the contacts to point him in the right direction… and at the very least, they might be able to get him off this island and back to civilization, where he could carry out an investigation of his own.

Of course, before he could start making overtures to these oddballs, he'd have to learn a little more about them. After all, their motives were completely unknown, and if they were to betray him – for whatever reason – he was at a serious disadvantage: without his gear and mistifier, he'd have no way of standing up to their magic.

So it was time to do a little research.

At that point, the sheriff's gormless deputy had stopped by to pick up some new boxes of ammo for the defenders; Grey had seen how easily the dimwit had mixed with the visitors, even giving some of the missions to deal with the monsters on the beach, so perhaps he knew something about the strangers.

So, sidling up, he tapped the deputy on the shoulder and asked, "Who are all these people who keep visiting?"

The deputy shrugged. "Aw, you know how it is: something weird crops up here and folks from outta town take an interest. We still don't know the whole story – these guys keep their cards close to their chests, y'know – but there's whole teams sponsoring 'em: red team, blue team, green team… there's even a white team out there, those guys with the snappy uniforms and the blue berets."

Okay… not exactly informative, but we're off to a good start.

"But why have they got all these powers?" Grey continued. "I mean, it's gotta be magic, but how did they end up learning to use it?"

"From what I hear, it's all down to Bees."

Grey blinked in confusion, feeling the Queen suddenly writhe in disgust. "Beg pardon?"

"Bees, man. They get their powers from bees."

"…in what way."

"The story goes that they swallowed magical bees in their sleep; each one of them's got a magical bee rattling around inside of 'em, permanently bonded to their bodies the way I hear it. That's what gives them their powers."

The Grey Professional's mind lurched in confusion.

"Bees?" he echoed.

Inside him, the Queen squirmed in sudden hatred, recoiling at the very idea of Bees mimicking the Forger Wasp.

And at once, Grey knew it'd be pointless trying to make an alliance: even if there was some chance that these Bee-people could help him, there was no getting past the fact that the Queen wouldn't let him get anywhere near them. After all, wasps didn't generally get along with bees, and the Forger Wasps still maintained just enough DNA from their insect forebears to regard with instinctive disgust – not enough to attack on sight, but certainly enough to make him transform again. And that would be all the Queen needed to do to keep him away from help.

"That's right," said the deputy, clearly not noticing that his audience was beginning to lose its grip on its collective sanity. "They've got bees inside 'em."

There was a bewildered silence, broken only by the sound of Grey's well-worn credulity finally snapping clean in half and taking a sizeable chunk of what remained of his sanity with it.

After all he'd seen and heard, this was the most ridiculous revelation of them – and by far the most unwanted. Maybe it was just the prospect of being around more supernatural parasites, maybe it was the Queen's own aversion to these creatures, or maybe it was just the weight of everything he'd experienced finally squishing his composure to a pulp; one way or the other, he suddenly couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"Bees?" he repeated, laughing incredulously. "Bees? BEES?! FUCKING BEES!? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH-"

On top of the office building, the woman in the plague doctor's mask looked up in confusion at the screams from below, but just as quickly dismissed them. She had more important things to do than attend to one man's mental breakdown.

Satisfied that nobody had followed her this far, the woman in in the plague doctor's mask leapt from the roof and galloped away into the evening shadows, heading south towards the mouth of hell on the horizon, leaving the maddened screams of the Grey Professional far behind her.

In a matter of minutes, she'd forgotten all about him.

In a matter of months, the rest of the multiverse had done the same.

THE END