SPRING 1980

Papers went flying as Ford shoved them off his desk. "Where?" he shouted to nothing in particular. "Where did you come from? How did you get here? Why are you nowhere else?"

Fidds adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked askew as he jumped in surprise. Silently, he stood up from his desk and moved to go pick up the papers.

It took a full minute before Ford finally joined him. "I'm sorry," he said. Frustration leaked through his voice. "I was out of line."

"I get it," Fidds said. "I'm frustrated too."

This wasn't a lie, though Fidds wasn't frustrated about the same things as Ford.

At the beginning of the year, Ford had declared a new project: discovering the origins of the supernatural creatures that lived in the forest. "It's been four years," he'd said, "and we have to produce something if we want more grant money. I want to find the history of these creatures."

"Couldn't we publish a paper on one creature?" suggested Fidds. "We can analyze their anatomy or their habitat or—"

"No, no." Ford had waved away the suggestion. "That's not enough. If we publish something as simple as that, then other scientists will flock here and take away the big discoveries. We need a comprehensive theory. A. . . a Unified Theory of Weirdness." He frowned. "I'll work on a better name."

Fidds thought discovering the supernatural at all was pretty big. Back in their college days, Ford had come across an obscure reference to strange activity in the Northeast of Oregon. He'd gotten so excited by the possibilities that he'd invited Fidds to come with him to Gravity Rises, where his hopes had been realized — and then some. Strange activity abounded here. For the past four years, they'd researched the area and documented their findings, hoping to pull them together into some publication that would earn them money and prestige.

But then, two years ago, Fidds had joined the Order of the Crescent Eye. And he'd learned that turning the eyes of the world onto Gravity Rises, Oregon was a very bad thing.

So while Ford stressed about his "Unified Theory of Weirdness," Fidds stressed about what he could possibly to do dissuade his research partner. Right now, the creatures of the forest were safe. Safe from human eyes, safe from being captured or exterminated. The Order made sure of that. If Ford's research brought the masses to Gravity Rises. . . what then?

Ideally, the Order would've just wiped Ford and Fidds and sent them on their way, but the two scientists were somehow immune to Gaston Northwest's amulet. Fidds thanked his lucky stars that this was the case, though at the same time he wished it wasn't. If they'd been wiped, Ford and Fidds could've gone into more practical research that didn't threaten entire species. Fidds could've built computers instead of building stun guns. He could've made his own money instead of depending on Ford's. He wouldn't have had to worry about everyone's safety — his own, that of Ford, and that of the creatures alike.

Though he also never would've met Bill Cipher. He never would've fulfilled his destiny.

Now, as he picked up papers off the floor of Ford's lab, he glanced at the content of the pages. "You're rereading your interview with the nymphs?" he asked.

"Yes," Ford said. He gathered the last of the papers and stood up. "I don't understand it! It's almost like they don't want me to know!"

Maybe because they don't want more people here, Fidds thought. But he didn't say it aloud.

A loud knock sounded from across the house. "Ah, that'll be the Valentinos," Ford said. He left the room.

The Valentinos ran a construction company; they had built this lab four years ago. Now, Ford had hired them to add a basement. Fidds had suggested it: Couldn't they use the space? The bunker was cramped and noisy with all its captive creatures; the lab was crowded with half-finished projects. Down in the basement, Fidds could build a complex computer system that would help them analyze their findings.

At least, that was the excuse Fidds had given. He couldn't tell Ford the real reason for the basement.

Fidds plopped back down into his chair with a sigh. He couldn't tell Ford a lot of things. He couldn't tell him about Bill, he couldn't tell him why the townsfolk were so ignorant to the local supernatural creatures, he couldn't even tell him where he disappeared to every week. Every time he lied, every time he made up excuses, another pang of guilt tore at his mind.

But it'd be worth it. Fidds kept telling himself that. It would all be worth it.

As Ford worked with the Valentinos in a different room, Fidds pulled out the prototype of the memory gun. It was his main project for the Order: With this gun, they'd still be able to wipe memories after Gaston turned eighteen and inevitably lost the ability to use the amulet. And, if all else failed, Fidds could use the gun on Ford, to stop him from publishing his findings.

Just thinking about it made Fidds' stomach churn. He really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

He worked on the memory gun for maybe half an hour before voices sounded in the hallway. "Thank you again!" Ford called. "I'll leave you to it!"

Fidds shoved his work back into its drawer and locked it. When Ford opened the door, he found his friend poring over notes on gnome habitats.

"They'll be making a racket," he said to Fidds. "I'm afraid it may be hard to focus."

"O-oh, that's okay," Fidds said. "I was, um, actually about to leave."

"For your knitting club?" Ford asked.

Fidds nodded. Upon joining the Order, he'd fabricated a knitting club that met at the library, to cover up his meetings with the Order. The excuse worked: Fidds liked to knit, and Ford was always too busy to go to the library and discover Fidds' deception. The man had far more pressing things to worry about than what his assistant did in his spare time.

"I'll see you later, then," Fidds said as he pulled on his tweed jacket. "Good luck with those notes."

Ford raised a hand in farewell.

Fidds grabbed some leftovers from the kitchen — the edible ones of his own making, not the disasters that Ford had created — and headed out. A light rain greeted him as he walked through the brisk spring air, and the rays of the setting sun peered through the cloud cover to light his way. He headed for the library, skirting around reluctant piles of snow that still clung on after the winter. Spring was slow to come in this town; it took weeks of rain for the last of the snow to finally flow into the muddy puddles of rainwater.

One of these puddles barred access to the door in the back of the library. Fidds frowned down at it, wondering how he was supposed to get inside soaking his shoes.

No one arrived to give Fidds a solution. Eventually, he heaved a huge sigh and walked carefully to the door. He did his best to avoid the worst of the puddle.

His shoes got soaked anyway.

He made it to the door and opened it with a key on his key ring. Every Order member had one of these keys, though Fidds found the practice cumbersome. He'd have to build some kind of automatic lock on the door.

Once he finished the memory gun, that is. And whatever other projects Bill might have for him.

Finally, his shoes squelching on the stone, Fidds made it inside the Order headquarters. He walked through the flame-lit halls, surprised to find them empty. Where was everyone? Were they already here? Was he late?

Scrabdoodle! Fidds picked up the pace, loathe to be the last person that walked into the meeting. Then everybody would stare at him; he hated that. He quickly made it to the main meeting room and opened the door. "Sorry, I'm here now—"

He stopped. The room was empty, save for one person. "Ah, Fiddleford, you startled me," Percy Pleasure said. "You're early."

Fidds checked his watch — only by five minutes. "Wh-where is everyone?" he asked.

Percy tilted his head, apparently confused by the question. "It's just you and me tonight."

Fidds blinked. "O-oh," he said. He'd spent the day mentally preparing to deal with a crowd, but that was fine; he could just instantaneously restructure his mindset for this spontaneous one-on-one meeting. Not.

"Well, now that you're here, why don't we go to my office?" Percy suggested. "Much easier to talk in there, in my opinion. This place is too big."

"S-s-sure," Fidds stammered. What else was he supposed to say to his leader?

They walked together down the Order halls. Fidds didn't see anyone else; the Order headquarters was usually pretty empty, until a memory wipe was needed or a meeting was called.

"I notice you're not wearing your robes, Fiddleford," Percy commented.

Fidds' face immediately grew hot with embarrassment. "O-oh — I totally forgot — I'm sorry—"

Percy waved away his apologies with an airy gesture. "You're fine," he said. "They're rather stuffy, if you ask me. I don't blame you for forgetting."

Fidds swallowed and nodded, not knowing what to say. He followed Percy down the flame-lit halls until they reached his office. It wasn't too far, but with Fidds' nervousness it seemed to take an eternity.

Opening the door, Percy gestured Fidds inside. The office was simple: a desk, a few chairs, a cabinet or two, lantern sconces scattered along the walls. Fidds nervously sat in the nearest chair, fixed his eyes on the nearest sconce, and watched the lantern's flame as it reflected on the stone wall.

"How is the memory gun?" asked Percy as he shut the door behind him.

"I-it's coming," Fidds said. "There should be another shipment arriving at your house soon."

Percy nodded. To throw off Ford's suspicions, Fidds ordered supplies for the memory gun to ship to Percy's home. The money was a little more tricky — Fidds had to ask Ford for more than he needed when buying supplies so that he could buy memory gun parts on the side.

"Well," Percy said as he sat down behind the desk, "I have another assignment for you. Or, Lord Cipher does."

Fidds' heartbeat sped up. "Will I use the basement for this one?"

Percy tilted his head. "Yes, this is why he ordered the basement to be built." Fidds hadn't actually known the specific reason for the basement; he'd just known that Bill had demanded it. "And there's something else," Percy continued. "Something I imagine you'll be excited to know."

"Yes?" Fidds perked up a bit.

Percy gave a small smile. "It's time," he said. "It's time for Stanford to know."

That got Fidds' attention. "It is?" he asked eagerly. "We're inducting him into the Order?"

"Not quite," Percy said. "We'll still keep the Order from him. Lord Cipher will appear to him as a muse, one who can help with his. . . what was his name for it, again?"

"The, um, the Unified Theory of Weirdness?"

"Ah, yes." The corners of Percy's mouth twitched. "Cipher will propose a solution, one that will get Stanford the information he needs while spontaneously freeing our lord. He needs your help, though."

If Fidds' heart hadn't been racing before, it certainly was now. This. . . this was it! This was his destiny! He'd known the memory gun wasn't the full thing; he'd felt that there was more! "With what?" The words spilled out of his mouth. "Help with what?"

Percy's subtle smile broadened at Fidds' enthusiasm. "What does Lord Cipher call you, Fiddleford?" he asked. "When you talk with him in your dreams?"

The question threw Fidds for a loop; he hadn't been expecting it. "Well. . . Portal-Bound. He calls me Portal-Bound. B-but I never understood why."

Percy leaned forward. "This is why," he said. "You and Stanford are going to build an interdimensional portal. Right in that basement of yours will be an entrance into Lord Cipher's homeworld."

Time seemed to stop as Fidds tried to process this. It seemed hard to breathe. "What?" he finally squeaked.

"You, Fiddleford McGucket, will provide the route to Lord Cipher's freedom," Percy said. "We have to get Stanford in on it, otherwise it'll be virtually impossible. But it's a win for him, too. Cipher will be free, we in the Order will gain our reward, and Stanford will have endless material to study."

"I-I—" Fidds swallowed hard. "I can't believe it, Master Pleasure," he said. "That I should — that Bill would trust me to — What if I fail?" He was honored, of course, but a sudden fear of failure clutched at his lungs.

"Fail?" asked Percy. "Why should you fail? You'll have Lord Cipher on your side, Fiddleford. He will ensure that you succeed."

Of. . . of course. Of course he would. Had Bill let him down before? No! Bill had led Fidds to the Order, where he felt included for once in his life, where he felt some of the same things he'd felt with Lilith Crypt. Bill had taught him amazing things, had helped him design the memory gun. A muse, indeed!

"R-right," Fidds said. "Right, I'm sorry, I just get worried. I'm. . . I'm honored."

"As you should be," Percy said with a smile. "It will be a long project, of course, and whatever time you can spare for the memory gun will be vital. The gun should be complete before the portal."

Fidds nodded. "And when should the portal be completed?"

"As quickly as possible," Percy replied, "but with enough time to be thorough. I imagine Stanford will want to spend all his time on this project."

Probably. Ford had a tendency to hyperfixate on things he got excited about, sometimes to the point of forgetting to sleep or eat. Once this project got started, Fidds could see Ford becoming more invested in it than he.

If Ford wasn't suspicious of Bill, that is. Fidds had a hard time keeping track of what triggered Ford's paranoia. But he really hoped this wouldn't. Bill's help was a good thing!

"Lord Cipher will appear to you tonight to give you more instruction," Percy said. "How you should act once Stanford knows about him, what supplies you'll need for the portal, things like that. I'll keep your supplies for the gun safe until you come pick them up, too. Anything else you can think of that we need to discuss?"

Fidds thought for a bit. "Will we need to wipe the memories of the Valentino employees?" he asked.

"They're the ones building the basement, yes?"

Fidds nodded.

Percy shrugged lightly. "It should be fine. They don't know the purpose for the construction. But if it becomes necessary, we'll handle it."

Fidds considered this. "All right," he said. "I think that's it."

"Well then." Percy stood. "Pleasure meeting with you, Fiddleford," he said, making the pun with a perfectly straight face. "This is truly an exciting time. Until our next encounter, yes?"

A thrill of excitement raced through Fidds' abdomen. "Until n-next time," he said. He got to his feet and left the room with a respectful nod.

He could hardly contain his excitement as he walked through the Order halls. He wanted to scream, or jump around, or fiddle with his Cubic's Cube until he'd solved it a million times.

Portal-Bound. Bill's nickname for him finally made sense. Fidds was bound to build a portal that Bill could use to escape — it was in his destiny. He, Fiddleford McGucket, would aid a magical being in accomplishing his goals!

He was daydreaming about what rewards he might gain from this when he suddenly found himself frozen, unable to move a muscle.

Instinctive panic welled up inside him. Then he saw the blue glow around him, as well as its perpetrator: Gaston Northwest.

Gaston's magic released its hold on Fidds. "You were about to run into me," he stated.

"O-oh," Fidds said. "S-s-sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

Gaston just nodded. The youth seemed distracted most of the time, and for a boy of eleven, his countenance was rather somber. Without saying another word, he passed by Fidds and continued down the hall — likely on his way to wipe someone's memory.

After Gaston, Fidds didn't see anyone else in the underground halls of the Order. He headed back to the lab and, after saying good night to Ford, went to his room. He wanted to go to sleep as soon as possible, so he could speak with Bill — but he was too riled up to sleep, so instead he stayed up, solving and mixing and resolving his Cubic's Cube over and over, until the colors blurred in his vision. All the while, his thoughts swirled around his head.

Finally, he was too exhausted to stay awake a moment longer. He flopped over on his pillow and closed his eyes. His mind still raced a mile a minute, but it seemed to be slowing down.

Then he succumbed to his fatigue, and his thoughts turned off like a light switch.