A/N: Hello and welcome to my very first Gravity Falls fanfic, ladies and gentlemen. I've only recently been introduced to the series and have enjoyed every bit of from beginning to end... and naturally, being extremely morbid, I had to start dreaming up a worst-case scenario. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to leave detailed reviews - not to mention critiques of those dreadful typos that creep in at 4 in the morning! Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine, folks; it remains the property of Alex Hirsch, Disney, etc, etc, etc.

Also, this story may get... quite dark. Trust me, good people, trust me.

What just happened?

Stan could only blink in confusion, trying to figure out what had just changed, but no matter how carefully he surveyed the scene, he couldn't tell what was amiss: as far as he could tell, he was still in the Fearamid, staring down Bill Cipher and gearing up for the most desperate gambit of his long and far-too-colourful career.

But as he blinked, he found himself seeing the world in – for lack of a better word – splitscreen: one half of his vision was seen through his own eyes, cataracts and all, and the other half was captured from about ten feet away from him, almost like an out-of-body experience. And in both halves, time seemed to have stopped and left the world around him frozen in a ghastly tableau, every single angle and participant visible from his third-person viewpoint.

Bill was extending a hand in anticipation of the inevitable deal, his crooked fingers ablaze with electric-blue flames, his eye agape with excitement. Stan, dressed in Ford's battered trenchoat and gloves, was reaching out to accept the bargain that would spell the end of everything – or so Bill thought. Ford knelt behind him, perfectly disguised and waiting with the memory gun at the ready, while Dipper and Mabel remained slumped on the floor where Bill had discarded them, both staring in horror.

And then, just as Stan was wondering how long this was going to last, his vision suddenly returned to normal and time started moving again… and in that moment, Bill very slowly withdrew his hand, the flames immediately extinguished. Stan wasn't exactly an expert on reading triangular faces, but he knew a suspicious expression when he saw it… and more importantly, after thirty years of successful and not-so-successful grifting, he knew that the mark of this particular con wasn't fooled.

"Gloves off, Sixer," said Bill, quietly.

Suddenly, all the mocking laughter and triumphant glee was gone from his voice; suddenly, his voice was as cold and unyielding as iron. In fact, the tone was so utterly alien to the demented yellow triangle that it actually took a moment for Stan to recognize what Bill had actually said.

"What?" he muttered, barely remembering to imitate Ford.

"You heard me: get those gloves off so we can shake hands like people, flesh to flesh."

Uh-oh.

"Is this-"

"I'm not playing around, Fordsie. Gloves off or no deal, and believe me you won't like what'll happen after that."

Stan's eyes flickered nervously around the room, instinctively scanning the surrounding area for anything he could use to his advantage – distractions, weapons, escape routes, anything. It was a habit he'd picked up from his wandering conman days before Gravity Falls, and it was completely useless now, in no small part because there was absolutely nothing of use within reach, nor were there any exits in sight. All that could be seen were basalt bricks, crimson stained-glass, and the three spectators to this little screw up: Dipper and Mabel, still watching the disaster with a mixture of horror and confusion; Ford, his face a mask of dread and despair… and judging from those ominous shapes behind the window, there were other spectators looking on, the kind that Stan really didn't feel like meeting in person.

"Now look-"

"I won't ask again, Stanford. Take the gloves off…"

Without warning, Bill was hovering right in front of him, suddenly twenty feet tall and scarlet with rage, the air around him crackling with eldritch energies, his eye a lightless void.

"NOW," he boomed.

Stan took a deep breath and played the only card he had left in the deck: reaching down to Ford's right glove – taking great pains to disguise the fact that the sixth finger was empty – he slowly began to peel it away. Then, just as he was about to remove it, he slowly and very deliberately stopped in mid-yank; for several painful seconds, he stood there, faux-struggling with the glove, before trying the other one.

"Darn," he said at last, layering his voice with all the false dismay he could muster. "They're stuck. Torturing me might not have been such a good idea, Cipher. Looks like you'll have to settle for a gloved handshake or nothing."

That'd work, wouldn't it? There was a grain of truth there, at least, the mark of all the best cons: God only knew Ford had been having trouble getting the gloves off when they'd switched places, what with all the blood that had seeped into them; they'd actually had to wash the cuts on his arms with the hip-flask so Ford's bloodstains wouldn't give them away. And thanks to all that blood, the gloves had been extremely sticky and uncomfortable, too, so maybe there'd be just enough truth for the oversized Dorito to believe them.

Bill's eye narrowed. "Nice try," he sneered.

And before Stan could react, one spindly arm shot upwards, its fingers suddenly aglow with magical power; there was an eye-scalding flash of light, and then-

Having gone to prison far too many times for his own good, Stan knew all too well what it was like to get shanked. All things considered, it was remarkably subtle unless the stabber was in a bad mood and really wanted the stabbee to feel it: he'd been careful to stay within sight of the guards during his time on the inside, forcing his attackers to make do with a quick jab to the stomach as they ran past him, so it felt more like getting punched in the guts than anything life-threatening… up until he'd tried to walk, and those first few inklings of serious pain began sinking in. Then came the blood, the "oh my god I'm gonna die," the agony, the medics, and a very long and terrifying stint in the prison infirmary.

So, as the flash burned its way across his retinas, he felt something heavy slam into him at high speed – as if someone had hit him in the chest with a brick – and Stan knew at once that he was in serious trouble. At first, he couldn't tell exactly how bad the damage was, for he seemed to be having trouble looking down all of a sudden. Then, he caught the smell of roasting meat wafting from somewhere just around sternum level, and felt the warm blood gently soaking his shirt.

"STANLEY!" Ford screamed. "Oh God! Oh God, no!"

Somewhere behind Bill, horror-stricken shouts of "Grunkle Ford!" joined the chorus.

He wanted to tell them that he was okay. He wanted to turn around and explain to Stanford that he felt fine – he couldn't feel a thing, really – but his body didn't seem in the mood to respond. At first, he thought Bill had petrified him, but that wouldn't explain the blood or the smell of cooked flesh. It wasn't until he noticed the distinct lack of sensation in his slowly buckling legs that he finally realized the truth: whatever Bill had hit him with, it had burned clean through his spine. And probably a lot of organs as well.

Slowly but surely, Stan wobbled, tottered and finally toppled like a felled tree. There was pain now, but distant and vague, echoing from what felt like a thousand miles away. Nearer were the sounds of panic from around him, muffled slightly by Bill's distinctive nasally laughter – louder and more obnoxious than ever.

Looking up, he saw Ford was already kneeling over him, frantically rifling through the pockets of the trenchcoat for medical supplies, desperately pleading with Stan to stay awake. Somewhere nearby, Mabel was crying, and judging by the sounds, so was Dipper. But everything was fading, everything was slowly drifting away – leaving Stan to watch with sleepy detachment as Ford desperately slapped him across the face, trying to keep him conscious and not having much success by the looks of things. The numbness was spreading, and the further it spread, the less real the world around him seemed – not that the world had seemed particularly real for the last few days. One thing was certain, though: he was dying. Oh yes, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't help him now.

"Stanley, look at me – don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out, please don't pass out. Please, stay with me… oh god, Stanley, I'm so sorry, it should have been me…"

Wow, Stan mused silently. It's been a long time since I heard you crying, Ford. Things must be serious. No need to worry, though… I've never felt better. It's okay… my own fault… should have guessed I'd never be able to fool him…

Meanwhile, Bill was still cackling triumphantly. "He'll be dead soon, Fordsie, and so will these kids if you don't give me that equation. Aw, why the long face? You know how powerful I am; life and death are so reversible at this point that the two terms are practically meaningless! Maybe I'll just bring him back if you're on your best behaviour from now on… or I could peel off your niece's skin and braid it into a noose for the little Shooting Star to dangle from. What do you think would kill her first? Shock? Infection? Strangulation? Or maybe-"

"Stop it!"

"Or maybe I could see how much Pine Tree likes playing the puppet again: human ligaments are just like puppet strings when you think about it, and once you've torn 'em right out of the limbs, you'd be amazed at the hours of fun you can get out of making them dance… well, assuming the puppet doesn't bleed to death first. Oops – spoiler alert!" He giggled hysterically. "Oh I'm going to have so much fun testing the limits of human agony!"

This time, Ford clearly couldn't even bring himself to speak. The expression on his face was beyond despairing: it was trapped.

"Last chance, Fordsie: let me into your mind, or you'll get to find out just how much suffering the human psyche can take before it snaps."

There was a dreadful pause, and then Stanford Pines got to his feet and began the long, slow march towards the waiting figure of Bill Cipher. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw Bill's hand once again erupt into searing blue flames, and without saying a word, Ford reached out with all the enthusiasm of a corpse and shook the offered hand.

The last thing Stan heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of Bill Cipher's unearthly, high-pitched laughter as he tore into Ford's helpless mind.

Damn, he thought sadly, as the void claimed him. I should have known I'd screw this up as well…

Half an hour after the deal was made, the barrier containing the unreality of Gravity Falls burst with an explosion loud enough to be heard in California.

Speculation immediately spiralled out of control as people tried to guess at the source of the noise, some claiming a nuclear bomb in the wrong hands, some pointing to increased volcanic activity somewhere to the north. As the minutes dragged by, the theorizing spread across the Internet, until even the official news sources began chiming in with initial reports. By the time the thirty-eighth minute had lapsed, the Department of Defence had begun its own investigation, and was already demanding answers from a series of perpetually-frazzled technicians, insisting that they locate the source of the explosion ASAP.

None of them ever got a chance.

Forty minutes after the initial blast, the first pulse of Rampant Weirdness rippled out across the world. Innocent bystanders caught in the path of the shockwave had just enough time to look up and see the tidal wave of chaotic energies flowing towards them before it passed clean through them. Commuters caught in traffic jams, people walking their dogs, children on their way to school, tourists wandering the streets, office workers returning home from work – even the soundest of sleepers found themselves awakening just in time to experience the marvel and the monstrosity: all saw, heard and felt the Weirdness Wave as it permeated their tissues and altered the world around them.

The effects were infinitely variable. In some cases, it only affected inanimate objects: cars grew fangs and tried to eat pedestrians (or their drivers); dumpsters sprouted legs and took to the streets as giant garbage-eating crustaceans; streetlights became steel tentacles as malleable as muscle, snatching up unsuspecting passers-by and crushing them to pulp; books erupted into living blizzards of razor-sharp pages at the slightest provocation; statues stepped down from their plinths and sought out local pigeons with vengeance in mind, killing or maiming anyone unfortunate enough to get in the way; brewers fled in terror as the contents of their vats walked the earth on oozing, viscous feet, demanding to be consumed immediately in deep, bubbling voices.

And in other cases, the effects were centred on people: moviegoers in theatres throughout Portland found themselves unable to leave their seats, scream for help, or locate their limbs; later investigators had difficulty locating them, until they looked closely at the seating upholstery and noticed the terrified eyes staring back at them. Elsewhere, fleeing civilians abruptly dissolved into flocks of birds in mid run, their vacant clothing slumping to the ground as their occupants flew away; other unfortunates all but exploded out of their clothes as they slowly transformed into giant slugs, their limbs fusing and merging into their bulging flanks, their bodies swelling and bloating into colossal mounds of blubber the size of trucks. Pedestrians found themselves reduced to detailed graffiti murals on walls, their spray-painted mouths opening wide in silent horror as they realized what had become of them. And some motorists, penned in on all sides by carnivorous cars and animated semi-trailers, found themselves slowly being absorbed into the engines of their own cars – to awaken minutes later as the animating force behind a whole new series of living automobiles; for some reason, this effect appeared most common in Detroit.

Less-coherent transformations followed: across the world, hundreds of people abruptly turned inside-out and somehow survived – though left blind, deaf and in indescribable pain. People handling electrical equipment simply disintegrated into writhing tongues of living lightning, doomed to seek out copper and conductivity for the rest of their lives. Unsuspecting kindergarteners aged dramatically into barely-animated husks, somehow still alive despite being over a thousand years old on average; conversely, nursing homes across the western hemisphere were suddenly populated entirely by children. As if to make sure none of the rejuvenated residents could enjoy their newfound youth, every single one of them was lumbered with a private entourage of bogeymen, things from under the bed and other childish night terrors made flesh. And from Oregon to Okinawa, anyone unlucky enough to be wearing camouflage clothes found themselves growing less and less visible, until they literally faded into the background and melded seamlessly with the surrounding environment.

And then came the weather of the new world: crimson stormclouds, hailstones of polished bone, rains of blood and other less-identifiable fluids, random gravity inversions, wandering swarms of eyesocket-infesting locusts, and the much-beloved bubbles of madness. The dimensional rift over Gravity Falls grew until it encompassed most of North America, allowing a fresh horde of monsters loyal to Bill into the withering world. Global time stopped, water flowed uphill, fire burned cold enough to freeze water, life and death became indistinguishable abstracts, and reality itself began to fray and tear.

Soon, eye-bats patrolled the blood-red skies over every major city on Earth, and monsters of one kind or another stalked the streets in search of prey. The police and military did their best to keep the abominations at bay, but they were outmanned and outgunned, all-too-easily converted into the very monsters they were trying to stop; within an hour of the barrier's collapse, armed forces throughout the world were in full retreat.

Desperate for any solution, no matter how suicidal, world leaders quickly resorted to their nuclear arsenals, hammering afflicted areas with every tactical and strategic weapon available to them – regardless of civilian casualties. After perhaps an hour spent watching entire cities vanish in the ensuing nuclear holocaust, both the President of the United States and the President of the Russian Federation gave their joint authorization for a major strike at the heart of the Rift, hoping that it would somehow be enough to end the madness before it got any worse.

Instead, the Rift simply swallowed the nukes and spewed a deluge of fallout over the already-devastated planet, burying the Pentagon in radioactive sputum and hammering Moscow with a barrage of molten steel meteorites. Moments later, the eye-bats descended on Air Force One, petrifying the flight crew and leaving 8 Ball free to peel open the plane's fuselage and devour the passengers; elsewhere, Teeth and Amorphous Shape made a beeline for the Kremlin, blithely flattening most of Southern Russia in the process.

Finally, Bill Cipher himself appeared over the Atlantic Ocean, casually swatting ICBMs out of the air like errant flies. Pausing only to casually obliterate the various fleets who'd made the mistake of opening fire on him, he grew as tall as he could possibly manage without accidentally crushing the planet, and – just as he'd promised Ford – scrawled a colossal happy face along the length of the Midwestern United States with one monolithic finger.

As if for an encore, he then took a massive bite out of the northern hemisphere, effectively erasing the entire Arctic Circle and leaving a crater deep enough to expose the molten core of the planet.

With almost a quarter of the planet suddenly missing and every single military force on Earth left impotent in the face of the reality-warping carnage, surviving world leaders offered their unconditional surrender to the entity now dominating the skies, hoping to at prevent any further casualties.

Bill ignored them.

Instead, he returned to normal size and took the Fearamid on a tour of the world's ruined cities, demanding immediate worship from every nation he visited: those who obeyed were promptly sentenced to a lifetime of torture; those who refused were killed – and then brought back to life so that they could tearfully recant and accept a life of torture under the reign of their new lord and master.

Along the way, Bill also incorporated the ruins of many a fallen capital into the Fearamid: from London to Beijing, from Washington to Moscow, the facades of hundreds upon thousands of famous buildings were assimilated into the bulk of the fortress in a tasteless mishmash of styles and cultures united under the distinctive obsidian pyramid, Buckingham Palace rubbing elbows with the Kremlin, the White House squashed into place next to the Great Hall of the People. To round out the journey, he took his newly-renovated stronghold on a joyride through Giza, disassembling the Pyramids into fresh building material and stealing the Sphinx for good measure – later using it as a doorstopper for the Fearamid's newly-forged gates.

Then, as the first pulses of Weirdness began rippling out into space, the undisputed master of Earth sat back on a throne of ossified corpses and relaxed in triumph.

Weirdmageddon had gone global, and Bill Cipher reigned supreme.

If Bill was ever to acknowledge any of his personal flaws (unlikely verging on impossible), the one negative trait he'd confess to would be this: he got bored very easily.

Once things had settled down and the planets of the solar system began dissolving into scrambled eggs and silly putty, the Henchmaniacs were forced to wait while the Weirdness Waves pulsed slowly but deftly towards the next populated star systems; with new conquests delayed and the few pockets of Earthly resistance thoroughly suppressed, Bill began looking for entertainment among the nations he'd already conquered and found it among his prisoners from Gravity Falls.

On reflection, he found that rounding up the townsfolk for another throne of petrified human torment was remarkably dull now that he had much more prestigious materials to work with – presidents, prime ministers and other world leaders, for example. Likewise, leaving the Zodiac as banners and other decorations just didn't satisfy: nobody outside Gravity Falls knew who they were, and in hindsight, Bill didn't feel like memorializing just how close they'd gotten to ending Weirdmageddon. So, he returned them to normal and scattered their unconscious bodies across the ruined Earth, keeping them permanently separated so that they would never have a chance to form the Wheel again.

Torturing them or the other resistance leaders in the usual ways just wasn't all that fun anymore, sadly: he'd glutted himself on commonplace violence and brutality in the first few days of Weirdmageddon, and his accustomed methods just didn't have the same thrill as they did back then. Making Gideon dance barefoot on a floor of bullet ants was a welcome upgrade of his earlier punishment, but after a while, his agonized screams faded into bland white noise. Watching Robbie chasing his own heart down an endless flight of stairs was funny in a rather poetic way, especially when the heart sprouted legs and wriggled out of his hands before he could put it back, but the whole thing stopped being interesting once the boy realized the wound wouldn't kill him. Baiting Toby Determined with a lifelike replica of Shandra Jiminez on the end of a fishing rod was just plain sad. And what the hell could he possibly torture Tad Strange with, anyway?

No, simple torture would not suffice: something more in-depth was called for. If these humans were to be his playthings, then he'd have to make a proper game out of them – a lot of games, perhaps, tailor-made for choice… and he'd have to wring every last drop of suffering from their psyches, nice and excruciatingly slow.

And if it didn't work out…

So?

He had an entire planet of playthings to work with – and soon, much, much more.

So, let the games begin…

A/N: Now for the first of the retconned soundtrack choices: for this chapter, the music of choice is Even For You by Alan Silvestri.

Coming up next, Dipper's Game!