If only Ford were still fit.
It'd been years — thirty years, to be exact — since he'd done anything more strenuous than chasing after some kid who'd stolen merchandise off the shelves. Now, he had much worse to deal with than some obnoxious little troublemaker. Now, he was being manhandled by cult members who worshipped a being Ford had entirely forgotten about until recently.
Oh, he fought against them — being mournfully out of shape didn't stop him from trying. As they paraded down the cramped corridors, Ford struggled against his captors, attempting to throw them off him. The two who held him were strong, but if strength was the only thing that mattered, he would be a failure at his profession.
After a while, he stopped struggling, as if he'd given up. He glanced over at Mabel, who was watching him with wide, terrified eyes. The poor girl. This was exactly what she had feared, and Ford had led her straight into this trap. He'd apologize in all sincerity when they got out of this.
Ford grit his teeth. He could be all emotional about this later. Right now, he needed to escape.
He waited a full twenty seconds before bursting into motion. He slammed his head against the jaw of one of his captors, kicked the other one in the groin, and wrenched his wrists from their hold. He was free, but he knew he wouldn't stay that way for long. Brass knuckles. Where were Stan's brass knuckles?
Oh, right. The knockout patches.
He reached for his pocket to get them, but that instance of a hesitation was too much. Three or four Order members tackled him all at once. Ford hit the unforgiving stone, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He was lucky he didn't break a rib! He struggled to get up, to get out from under the Order members, but their weight was too much. He could barely breathe, much less fight.
The Order members pressed him against the floor, and the escape attempt was over as soon as it had begun.
Stan would be laughing at you right now, Ford's brain noted.
Ford kept struggling against the hands that held him, but his efforts were weaker now. The pain in his back wasn't fading. He hadn't broken anything, he could tell, but he wouldn't be surprised if he'd gotten plenty of nasty bruises from that fall.
An Order member, a dark-skinned man laced with tattoos, loomed over him. "I wouldn't suggest trying anything," he said in a deep voice. "Maybe you don't care about hurting yourself. But we wouldn't want anything to happen to your precious niece in the confusion of an escape attempt." He leaned closer. "Now would we?"
Mabel whimpered.
Ford cursed himself. Why had he brought her down here? She hadn't wanted to come down here! If he'd had the idea to force an Order member to give him directions to the library earlier, he may not even have needed to bring her. But now she was here, a liability. And if she got hurt, it would be all Ford's fault.
"Would we?" the tattooed man repeated. Oh, they were playing this game, were they? Childish, but fine. Ford would play along. And then he'd ram Stan's brass knuckles into this man's skull.
"No," he said.
The man smirked. "Good."
Ford was hauled to his feet and held fast by two new captors, a man and a woman who were equally muscular. As they resumed their march, Ford looked to Mabel and gave her a reassuring smile. She stared back, her lips quivering, like she wanted to smile back but just couldn't.
As they walked down the halls of the Order headquarters, Ford found himself getting restless. If he wasn't going to fight, what with Mabel being used as leverage and all, what was there for him to do? Sit here freaking out about what was going to happen to them? He'd learned a long time that panicking was the worst thing you could do in a situation like this.
It wasn't long before they reached their destination, though. Ford and Mabel were pushed through a doorway that led to a large, cavernous room. Not unlike the room that held the portal back at the Mystery Museum. Two underground rooms that both held obstacles to getting Ford's brother back: the portal below the Museum, and an entire cult here.
An entire cult and their child leader.
Pacifica Pleasure clapped her hands in delight as Ford and Mabel were shoved forward. She wore her usual show outfit — Ford had never seen her in anything else. Somehow, she was wearing more purple than anyone else in the room, despite the deep purple robes of her cult members. "Oh, I just love when a trap works so well," she said happily.
Ford thought back to Dipper, hiding in the library with the Journal. Not as well as you think, Miss Pleasure. Dipper might save them, but even if he didn't, he'd at least get out safely with the Journal. Ford and Mabel could catch up later.
The Order members holding Ford and Mabel brought them over to a chair in the center of the room, pushed them to their knees, and handcuffed them to the legs of the chair. As soon as they took their hands off Mabel, she curled up in a ball on the ground, shaking. Ford moved to her and gathered her into his arms as best he could with the cuff on his wrist. She trembled against him.
"How sweet," Pacifica said. "I don't think you'd want much to do with her if you knew what she was really like, though." She took Mabel's backpack from an Order member who held it out to her and rifled through it. Her head lifted as a thought struck her. "Unless you're really the one in charge? Did she get it from you, Stanford?"
Ford had no idea what Pacifica was talking about, but Mabel and Dipper had warned him about this. So he simply held Mabel close and said nothing.
"I see." Pacifica tilted her head. "You know, Stanford, I don't know much about you. I know you run that rip-off of the Tent of Telepathy, I know you're related to her" — she glared at Mabel — "and sweet little Dipper, I know you're on the Cipher Wheel, and I know your mind is protected from Lord Cipher by a metal plate implanted in your skull."
Wait. What?
"But that's about it," Pacifica finished.
Ford's head — his metal-plated head, apparently — was reeling from her words. He shook it off and attempted to pull himself together. Never let the enemy know when they've unsettled you. "Well, if you had wanted to know more about me, all you had to do was come to the Museum and find out." Though she seemed to know more about himself than he did, if she was telling the truth. He knew she was delusional, but. . . well, having metal in his skull would explain why Bill had appeared to Mabel and Dipper and Robbie, but not to him.
Pacifica gave him a simpering smile. "I had more important things to do," she said. "But now, Lord Cipher tells me you're a danger to him, and you only prove that by showing up to steal from us."
Don't show her your anger. Ford wanted nothing more than to leap to his feet and wring this little girl's neck, but he couldn't, and shouting would only work against him. "I was coming to retrieve something you have stolen from me. A book written by my own hand. It's rightfully mine. And if Bill's afraid of me, then I must be a lot more threatening than I imagined."
Pacifica drew herself up indignantly. "Lord Cipher is afraid of no one," she said coldly. "Least of all you Pines."
"Really?" Ford raised a disinterested eyebrow. "Then I see no problem with returning to me what I own."
A muscle pulsed in Pacifica's jaw. "Speaking of the Journal," she said, obviously fighting to keep her voice calm, "where is it? You broke the glass and set off the alarm, but nobody has handed the Journal to me, and it's not in Mabel's pack." She tossed the pack in question to the floor. "What did you do with it?"
Ford bit his lip, and Mabel lifted her head enough to shoot him a worried look. They couldn't tell Pacifica the truth, especially not if Dipper hadn't gotten out yet. So what would they tell her instead? They could say they hid it, but Pacifica would just send her goons to go search for it, and that might give Dipper away.
After thinking this over for a moment, Ford could find no good answer. So he once again stayed silent.
Pacifica stared Ford down for a bit, but then her eyes flicked away from him. "Oh," she said, turning to. . . nothing. "Yes, Bill?"
Ford furrowed his brows, but a look from Mabel reminded him. That's right, she'd said Pacifica could talk to Bill when she wasn't asleep. That. . . that couldn't be good.
Scrabdoodle! Especially if Bill knew where—
Pacifica whirled around to face the Pines. "You brought Dipper here?" she shrieked. "You brought him along? Have you brainwashed him into thinking that your plans are right?"
Ford and Mabel exchanged alarmed glances. No, no, this couldn't be happening; giving Dipper the Journal had been their only chance!
"And he has the Journal, too," Pacifica said. Her eyes brightened. "Well, that's not a problem. He's going to bring it to me. You may think you're so clever, Stanford, but I know where Dipper's true loyalties lie."
Ford had to fight down an incredulous look. She really thought that?
She pointed to the two Order members closest to the door. "Go find him and escort him here. Gently, or you'll regret it."
The Order members gave a slight bow and slipped out of the room.
Pacifica turned back to the Pines, radiating satisfaction. "This night just keeps getting better and better. Mabel where she belongs, Dipper on his way to me, and you." She looked directly at Ford. "I have you right where Lord Cipher wants you, Stanford Pines."
She went over to a cabinet set against the far wall; an Order member moved out of the way to accommodate her. The remaining Order members were posted around the walls of the room, creating a foreboding perimeter of cultists. It created the creepy effect they were going for, Ford had to give them that, but it was demonstrative of poor tactics. If Ford and Mabel got free, they were closer to the door than at least half of the Order members and could easily make an escape.
"Ah, here it is." Pacifica turned away from the cabinet. She clasped something in her hands, but Ford couldn't make out what it was in this infernally dim lighting. "Gideon is usually the one in charge of wiping memories," she said, "which I'm sure you were already aware of. But he's not here right now."
Mabel stiffened in Ford's arms.
Pacifica took slow, deliberate steps toward the Pines. "We've had problems with not having an amulet user before, too. Did you know the amulet stops working once the user becomes an adult? I didn't. Because my amulet was destroyed long before that time." She paused to compose herself. "Once the blue amulet became a Northwest heirloom, they wouldn't let anyone else use it. That meant that if the amulet holder grew up, and there was no other young Northwest to pass it off to, the Order would be unable to wipe memories. For years."
"Good," Mabel muttered, too low for Pacifica to hear. Ford wholeheartedly agreed.
"Luckily," Pacifica continued, "we recruited a brilliant young mechanic thirty years ago. And he created this."
Now she was close enough that Ford could make out what she was holding: a gun. It had an elongated lightbulb instead of a muzzle, and there was a dial on the side, but it was still a gun. And Ford. . . Ford had seen it before. Where had he seen it before?
A jolt of recognition surged through him.
"I — I know that gun!" he blurted before he could stop himself. Mabel sat up, startled by the sudden outburst. "I — my assistant built it — I saw it around the lab — but I never knew what it could do." He stared at Pacifica with wide eyes. "That gun erases memories?"
She smiled a triumphant smile. "Yes. And it can even get past that pesky metal plating in your head."
"How do you know that?" Ford asked. But even as he said it, his heart sank. Was. . . was this gun responsible for. . . ?
"Because it has before," Pacifica said. "Why do you think you forgot about your brother for all these years?"
No. . .
Ford felt himself slipping away into a numb depression. Fiddleford had built that gun. He'd built that gun for the Order. And. . . he'd used it on Ford? Even if he wasn't the one to pull the trigger, he was responsible for the memory gun's existence. Soupy memories floated across Ford's mind, fragments of times he'd worked with Fiddleford. He'd liked him. He'd trusted him. He'd never suspected. . .
No. You have to focus. Ford couldn't shut down right now. He was still in danger. Mabel was still in danger. Dipper — with the Journal — was still in danger. Ford had to be strong.
Hard to be strong when your plans were unraveling before your eyes.
Pacifica started turning the dial on the memory gun. "You must have been shot with some sort of prototype, if you were able to remember your brother after all these years," she remarked. "Don't worry. This gun is much more lasting." She looked up at Ford with a malevolent smile. "Once I shoot you with this, you'll go the rest of your life not even knowing that you have a brother."
Unadulterated dread coursed through Ford's veins. No. No, he couldn't forget Stan. Not again.
"No!"
Mabel suddenly shot up and put herself between Ford and the gun, the chain on her handcuffs going taut. Ford blinked. She. . . she was willing to put herself in danger. . . for him?
Both of you are already in danger, his brain reminded him.
"Move out of the way, Mabel," Pacifica said, annoyed. "You'll get your turn soon enough. I'm going to make you forget about Dipper, so you can never hurt him again."
Mabel faltered. Ford couldn't blame her: Pacifica didn't seem to be bluffing. She was really going to do it. Was this it? Was this the end of his quest to save Stan?
Pacifica moved to an angle where Mabel's handcuffs prevented her from blocking Ford. She raised the memory gun. Ford stared it down.
I'm sorry, Stanley.
The memory gun whirred as Pacifica put her finger on the trigger. The memory gun lit up as she prepared to shoot. The memory gun. . .
. . . Shattered?
Pacifica squealed and leapt back, dropping the memory gun. The bulb at the front exploded into a million tiny glass shards, but Ford found himself not caring if any of them got imbedded in Pacifica's perfect skin. He looked to see what had saved him, only to find a grappling hook retreating into the shadows as it returned to its owner.
Dipper had arrived.
He stepped through the doorway, the grappling hook in one hand and the Journal in the other. Ford was annoyed that the boy had just walked into the middle of a cult that wanted the Journal, but that irritation was quickly drowned out by a more prevalent sense of relief.
"Oh — Dipper!" Pacifica hurried over to him. "Don't touch him!" she snapped at the Order members that had moved to apprehend him. She smiled sunnily at Dipper. "I sent some Order members to bring you here, Dipper dear, where are they?"
Dipper assumed a look of innocence. "I didn't see any Order members. We must have missed each other. It's a maze out there, you know?"
Ford didn't believe that too-innocent expression for a second. Dipper must have done something to incapacitate the Order members.
Pacifica laughed as if Dipper had just said the funniest thing ever. "Oh, I know. It's fortunate you found me! And that your family was dumb enough to entrust you with the Journal. You were just waiting for a chance to bring it to me, weren't you?"
Dipper looked repulsed for an instant — that boy's emotions ran rampant over his face — but he quickly covered it up with a smile. "Uh. . . yes."
Pacifica beamed at him. Apparently she was ignoring the fact that he'd just destroyed the memory gun. Much like she ignored the fact that it was Dipper who destroyed her amulet, Ford supposed.
"Well, it's okay now, Dipper. I've got them, look!" She grabbed his wrist and pulled him over to where Ford and Mabel were chained. Dipper met Ford's eyes, looking slightly panicked. Ford gazed steadily back. Act the part, Dipper. Do what you need to in order to get us out of here.
Pacifica sighed. "It's a shame the memory gun broke. I was about to use it to make them forget about you, Dipper dear. So you'd be free from them."
Ford felt Mabel bury her head in his trench coat so that her face wasn't visible. He could feel her lungs inflating and deflating in long, slow breaths, as if she was trying to force herself to calm down. The thought of forgetting Dipper was too much for her. Ford understood.
He understood far, far too well.
"Um, yeah, sorry about that," Dipper was saying. "I, um. . . missed."
It was the lamest excuse Ford had ever heard. The Order members thought so, too; they glanced at each other with worried expressions. But none of them stepped forward or said anything. They were apparently too afraid of Pacifica to challenge her views.
"That's all right," Pacifica said, patting Dipper on the arm. "It just means we have to get creative on what we're going to do with them."
From the look that flitted across Dipper's face, he didn't want to expend any creativity on that subject.
"Oh, Dipper," Pacifica said happily, "isn't this just wonderful? You and me, together, with no one in our way."
"Yeah," Dipper said, though it took him a second. He bent down and set the Journal and the grappling hook on the floor. Ford stared hungrily at the Journal, just a few feet away from its creator. Whatever Dipper was planning, it had better be successful.
Dipper straightened. "Yeah, it is wonderful," he said. And he pulled Pacifica into a hug.
. . . Okay then. Either this was part of Dipper's plan, or he was just hugging people at inappropriate times again. Ford honestly couldn't tell. It was a good thing Mabel was still hiding her face, though, or the sight of her brother hugging her enemy might make her hyperventilate all over again.
"I've missed you," Pacifica murmured.
Dipper's hand traveled up to her neck, pressed something against the skin. "We just saw each other a couple days ago."
"Yes, but you were. . . in Mabel's clutches. . . then. . ."
Pacifica went limp in Dipper's arms.
He lowered her to the floor. "No," he said in disgust, "Mabel was in yours."
Ford realized what had happened at the same time as the Order members. They didn't know Dipper had used a knockout patch, though — they just saw their leader unconscious on the ground. With various shouts of surprise, they all started for him.
Dipper looked to his great uncle in panic. "The pack," Ford said. "There's a stun gun in Mabel's pack." He pointed to it, and Mabel lifted her head when she heard her name.
Dipper lunged for the backpack, pulling out the stun gun and aiming it at his attackers. Anxiety rose in Ford's chest — surely they'd stop him, just like they'd stopped Ford in the library. Surely they'd capture him, and then Ford would lose his Journal all over again.
But this room was far bigger than the library, and the Order members were rushing at Dipper from the edges of the cavern. See? Poor tactics. Dipper had plenty of time to pick them off one by one. He spun around, firing shot after shot. Ford was impressed by his accuracy — that firing range had really paid off, it seemed. Order member after Order member fell to the ground.
"Behind you!" Mabel yelled. Dipper whirled and sent a shot in the direction of an Order member that was closing in. Mabel huddled up next to Ford, watching her brother in heightened apprehension. But she needn't have feared — Dipper was holding his own.
With a few more shots, all the Order members were unconscious on the floor. Dipper turned back to Ford and Mabel, raised the stun gun so the muzzle was pointing upwards, and blew on it — despite there being absolutely no smoke. The gesture was purely to look cool.
Ford couldn't help it: He smiled.
Dipper crossed the room and held out the Journal to Ford. "Here," he said.
Ford took it, though he only had one spare hand. "Thank you," he said. "You really saved us."
Dipper grinned.
"Now, could you go search for a key in all their pockets? And Stan's brass knuckles. And the stun guns, too, since we don't exactly have a limitless supply of them."
"Sure," Dipper said, heading to the nearest Order member. "Why can't you just lift up the chair and slip the handcuffs off it, though?"
Ford gave him a weary look, even though Dipper wasn't looking his way. "You think I haven't tried that? This chair is bolted to the floor."
"Oh."
Ford and Mabel sat together while Dipper searched for the supplies. As he looked, Ford stared down at the Journal. This was it. He had the final Journal. It wasn't safe yet — they still had to get out of here — but he had it.
"Hey Grunkle Ford," Dipper said, rifling through the Order members' pockets, "do you think I hurt any of them? You said the stun gun gets more dangerous in close range. Are they gonna be okay?"
A part of Ford felt satisfied at the idea of a cult member having lasting injuries, but he tried to shove it away. These people probably don't know what they've gotten themselves into, he reminded himself. To Dipper, he said, "They should be. There might be some lasting effects, but you were doing what you had to defend yourself. Don't worry about it."
Dipper bit his lip, but continued searching. It wasn't too long before he returned with the supplies, having found the key around Pacifica's neck and the weapons in the pockets of various robes.
He unlocked the handcuffs, and Ford stood up. He stretched to get the kinks out of his back — he still ached a bit from his fall earlier — and bent down to help Mabel up. She swayed a bit on her feet; Ford could tell she was exhausted.
She padded over to where the memory gun lay broken on the floor. After handing Ford the brass knuckles, Dipper followed her. "What're you thinking?" he asked softly.
Mabel's eyes flicked over to Pacifica's unconscious form. "I was thinking. . . I wish. . . I wish we could use this on her. Make her forget about us."
"Yeah." Dipper put an arm around her. "I was thinking that too. But I'd rather it be broken than used on you."
Mabel hugged him.
"So, Dipper, how did you get rid of those Order members?" asked Ford.
Dipper looked sheepish. "Was I that obvious?"
"To me, yes." Ford's eyes slid down to Pacifica. "To her, evidently not. Did you use knockout patches on them, too?"
"Yeah," Dipper said. "I hung from the ceiling with the grappling hook, kicked them in the face, and then jumped down and stuck 'em with knockout patches." He grinned. "It was actually pretty awesome."
Ford patted him on the back. "You did a good job, Dipper. Now let's get out of here."
He put one stun gun in his holster and the rest in Mabel's pack. He hesitated to put the Journal in there as well, but if they did run into any more Order members, he'd need his hands free. He slid it in behind the stun guns. Mabel looked too tired to carry the backpack, so he handed it to Dipper.
In fact, Mabel looked too tired to walk at all. She was falling asleep on her feet.
"Here." Ford crouched down, his back facing Mabel. "Climb up on my back."
There was silence behind him. "R-really?" Mabel asked.
"Really. You've already been very brave coming down here with me tonight. Helping you out of here is the least I can do."
Mabel didn't get on his back, though. Not until Dipper said, "If you won't take it, Mabes, I will." Then she put her arms around Ford's shoulders and jumped onto his back. He lifted her up.
"Thanks, Grunkle Ford," she murmured as Ford stood.
"Thank you," he said. "I couldn't have done this without you."
She put her head down on his shoulder.
With the backpack on Dipper's back and Mabel on Ford's, the Pines were ready to head out. Ford looked out over the unconscious bodies, his eyes lingering on Pacifica. Even without the memory gun, he would have to keep an eye out for her. And for all these Order members.
But he could worry about that later. Right now, they had cause to celebrate. They had the first Journal.
"All right," Ford said. "Let's head home."